(Content note: This piece discusses sexual violence.)

Dear Friend,

Quick poll: who here arrived on earth via a woman’s body?

You? You, too? Oh, everyone?

Ah, right, right. Every - single - person. Alive or dead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that this week. Walking down the street, taking the tube, sitting on Zoom looking at all the little squares and all the faces, and thinking, you came out of a woman. We all share that basic fact, and yet… here we are.

Here we are.

This week, “all women” and “some men” but definitely not “all men,” are horrified and collectively shaken by CNN’s investigation into a website - not even hidden, just out there - that teaches men how to drug and r^pe their wives in the most undetectable ways possible. Sixty-two million views in one month alone.

I highly recommend watching the interview my bestie Brooke Baldwin did this week with her former CNN colleague Saskya Vandoorne, who broke the story open.

The quotations are deliberate, because the response to this story from “some men” was immediate: correction, deflection, minimization. “It wasn’t 62 million men, it was 62 million visits.”

Mmmmm. Thank you. PHEW! Glad we’re focusing on that. I was about to be RAGEFUL that there was a global network of men who use this site, who visit it regularly, who know about it and say nothing. I was about to be horrified. But since it’s just 62 million visits in February - the shortest month - (80 million visits in March) I feel so much better now.

Wait. WHAT.

And that’s how it goes, right? Diminish. Deflect. Correct.

Growing up, my brother went to an all-boys school. I went to an all-girls school. For PE at his school, the boys were all trying to get onto the volleyball or basketball teams. At mine, there was a massive waitlist to get into the “women’s self-defense class.”

What a privilege that it was offered. What a statement that it was always waitlisted. My friends and I used to say the same thing: “not sure if I’ll ever use chemistry, but I will absolutely need self-defense.” And has it come in handy? Many, many times. And counting.

Now women aren’t just covering their drinks at the club. We should be worried about covering our coffee at home? WTF.

I've been trying to get to the root of why this particular story, this particular revelation about the R^pe Academy, feels different from all the other horrors we've become numb to. Why it's landed in my body in a way that won't let go.

And then I remembered something Rev angel Kyodo williams said to me a few months ago, and suddenly the whole thing came into focus.

Rev came through London and we had dinner together. She’s my teacher, my mentor, and, what a blessing, also a friend. And she is absolutely one of the prime influences of why I’m in inter-faith seminary right now. Sitting with her is always a reminder of two things: you do the world no good if you are not ‘here,’ and you do the world no good if you forget that ‘here’ is connected to ‘there.’

Do your inner work, and apply it to outer work. It’s all one system.

That night, she said something that completely reframed the conversation about liberation for me. A true before-and-after moment, where everything I had understood up until then reorganized itself around this one idea.

Are you sitting down for this?

Dear Friend,

In the last 10 days, I might as well have gotten an astrophysics degree, pledged emotional allegiance to NASA, and offered my hand in marriage to Captain Victor Glover. Along with the rest of the globe.

The four astronauts of Artemis II, who did not exist in my personal reality two weeks ago, and their trip around the moon, which has apparently been in the works for decades, have become my full-blown obsession. (You may recall last week’s substack on… the wisdom of Guru Glover.)

And I know I’m not alone in that. It’s a dominant topic on the group chat and, thank god, it has completely reformed my algorithm, cleansing it of all its previous sins. Voices from all corners of the earth fascinated, moved, and emotional about this phenomenon of science and soul.

So at my dinner break from seminary training yesterday, I did what anyone else would do. I sat on the couch and read everything about how Artemis II splashed down back to Earth within minutes of their target and within a mile of what they predicted, completing a nearly 10-day journey that took them over 250,000 miles from home at their farthest distance.

Friend, throwing my dirty socks into the laundry basket is more of a liability.

And of COURSE, we are all so taken by the humanity of it, as it sits in the stark contrast to the unhinged greed we’re all subjected to at the moment. It feels like water in a desert. The humility. The way they speak about Earth as something shared instead of divided. The way the whole mission seems to pull people, even briefly, into a wider sense of belonging.

What I didn’t expect was that the science would hit me. That the mechanics would feel so spiritual. That the physics required to go further than any human has gone before, would become a soulful north star.

If you’ve ever felt “off-course” in work, love, or life, buckle up Buddy…

In order to understand the precision of that splashdown, we have to zoom out and look at how they navigate the entire mission:

Dear Friend,

I did not expect NASA to emotionally take me out this week, and yet here we are.

It started innocently enough. One video. Then another. Then suddenly my entire algorithm decided I was a deeply committed space enthusiast, and now I know more about the Artemis II mission than I do about several people in my own life. I have watched so many astronaut interviews that if you asked me to suit up, I would at least feel spiritually prepared.

And somewhere along the way, I started crying.

Not a full-on breakdown. We are not in public meltdown territory. But a steady, surprising welling up.

There is something about this mission that feels different.

Yes, there are the obvious things. The scale of it. The fact that human beings are once again preparing to travel farther than we have ever gone, but this time, in our generation. The fact that there are still firsts unfolding in real time. Christina Koch becoming the first woman assigned to a mission to the Moon. Victor Glover becoming the first Black astronaut to travel there. Jeremy Hansen becoming the first non-American (he’s Canadian!) on a lunar mission.

So many kids (and adults) around the world getting to see themselves reflected in who gets to go, and feeling, maybe for the first time, that this kind of future could belong to them too.

All of it important.

But what has stayed with me is something else: the way they speak.

They are asked the same questions again and again. What does it mean to be the first. What do you hope your legacy will be. What are you most excited about. And each time, the answer moves outward.

No one centers themselves. No one claims the moment as their own. They speak about the mission, about the team, about humanity. About what it means to look back at Earth and understand, in a way most of us never will, that we are all sharing the same fragile place.

There is a steadiness in them that feels almost disorienting. A kind of perspective that doesn’t shrink the moment, but holds it inside something even larger.

And perhaps that is why it is landing the way it is.

Because we are living through a time that feels completely unsteady, to say it kindly. The noise is constant. The fractures are violent. There are forces at work that overtly benefit from keeping us separate, suspicious, divided, and at war.

So to hear someone speak, without irony or defensiveness, about unity, about shared humanity, about this small pale blue planet we are all responsible for, it feels almost radical. It feels like remembering something we forgot we knew.

In particular, Victor Glover is echoing in my chest.

Last night, far too late, I was doing that thing where you tell yourself “just-one-more-video” and then suddenly it is an hour later, and I came across a clip of him speaking from the spaceship.

And baby jesus buddah allah on high, time stopped.

From here (i.e. outer-friggin-space) “You are special, in all this emptiness. This is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe. You have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist together.”

There was no performance in it, completely off the cuff and unprepared. No sense of trying to make it sound meaningful.

It was meaningful.

And then he spoke about the timing of the mission. That it would take place over a weekend that holds meaning across traditions. Easter. Passover. And Ramadan coming to a close. (I’ve included the clip at the end, do give it a watch.)

And to boot, this year, my birthday fell into the middle of all of it. Every few years, that happens, and when it does, I feel it more. A subtle awareness that something is being mirrored across different stories at once and I ought to pay deeper attention.

Passover tells the story of leaving what confines you. Of stepping out before you feel ready. Of trusting a path that has not yet revealed itself. Easter speaks to the reality that something must end before something new can begin. That transformation often looks like loss before it looks like growth. Ramadan calls for reflection. For attention. For a turning toward something beyond the self.

Different traditions. Different language. And yet they are circling the same experience.

Crossing a threshold you cannot fully prepare for.

Leaving what is familiar. Stepping into something you cannot yet see. And trusting that something will meet you there.

Which is what brought me back, again, to Captain Victor. And the five words he said that perfectly names what happens when we reach the edge of ourselves.

Dear Friend,

It was a big ole week of… drum roll please… boundaries.

And I am celebrating my Self over here, because communicating my needs without collapsing is, for me, the emotional equivalent of becoming a decorated Olympic medalist. Basically, this week I became Eileen Gu. You may call me Mz. Gu henceforth.

Now, to be clear, I am not boundary-less across the board. I can hold a line with a stranger, most colleagues, some friends, a barista who spells my name wrong for the third time.

Where things get… fluid… is with the people I deeply love and care about. Total kryptonite.

With them, if I’m not paying attention, their feelings start to feel like my responsibility. Their disappointment becomes something I need to prevent. Their discomfort becomes something I need to manage. Full-time job. No benefits.

And if you’re wondering what that looks like in unpoetic psychological terms, the clinical definition is codependency. I’m fairly certain if you open Merriam-Webster, it’s just a picture of my face.

Or at least, it was.

Because baby’s growing up.

If I trace that pattern back, it’s not exactly mysterious. Baby Nat grew up in a home where difficult emotions weren’t just uncomfortable, they were destabilizing. If my mom slipped into a certain kind of pain, there was a real risk she would use. She was painfully addicted to pain medication. So somewhere in those early, single-digit years, I learned a very clear lesson: don’t rock the boat. More specifically, I learned that it was my responsibility not to rock it, and that if it did get rocked, that was somehow on me. A heavy job description for someone who still needed help tying her shoes.

And that pattern, as you might imagine, has had a long and wildly successful career across every intimate relationship I’ve ever had. Work, friendship, romance. All of it. A real overachiever in that department.

Until now.(Shannon, I hear you.)

My friend Shannon is always reminding me to use that phrase. “That’s my pattern… until now.”

Friend, if you can relate, or you’ve been in relationship with someone like this, you’ll recognize this moment.

It could be big and dramatic. It also could be in the middle of an otherwise normal conversation, when someone I care about says something that, on the surface, could be completely reasonable. A request. A preference. A shift in plan.

And still, I feel it.

A slight tightening. A pause that flickers through before I respond. The brief awareness that what is about to come out of my mouth is not exactly what is true.

And then, almost immediately, the familiar movement begins. “I can make this work.” “It’s not a big deal.” “This time they meant it.” “They didn’t mean anything by it.”

By the time they’ve finished speaking, I am already adjusting. Moving things around in my mind. Finding a version of “yes” that keeps everything smooth, that avoids the possibility of disappointment, that lets the moment pass without friction.

And from the outside, it looks like ease. It looks like care. It looks like someone who knows how to show up well in a relationship.

Turns out, there’s a big difference between showing up and disappearing.

So this week, I said some hard things.

To three different people I love, across the overlapping worlds of work and friendship, I communicated needs that I would have historically softened, postponed, or worked around entirely in the hope that maybe, magically, they would resolve themselves without anyone ever having to feel uncomfortable.

And y’all… it went well.Like, suspiciously well.

Which tells me two things. One, I am learning. And two, I have done enough pruning in my life that the people closest to me now are capable of meeting me there.

Huzzah - I might throw my Self a party.

Because this has been so hard for me in the past, and is such a focus in the present, I’ve found myself returning to a simple three-part practice. Fair warning: it is not elegant, elevated, or especially cute. It is the down-and-dirty work of staying with discomfort, on purpose, in repetition.

But honestly? I would rather get down and dirty with discomfort inside a three-step practice than spend the next few years, or God forbid decades, in self-betrayal.

So. You ready? Welcome to:

Boundaries for the Boundary-lessA messy, effective, time-consuming, fully worth-it, 3-part practice

Dear Friend,

Last Tuesday I lay on my kitchen floor eating peanut butter straight from the jar, refreshing my bank account and doomscrolling headlines, and thought: This is fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Everything is JUST FINE!

I wasn’t fine.

I was lost. Specifically, I was lost in the ‘Land of Financial Insecurity,’ where I’ve been wandering in circles for months now, squinting at spreadsheets like they might reveal some hidden exit. I was also lost in the ‘Land of Global Citizenry’ (you know, the one where everything’s collapsing and you’re supposed to just... what, exactly?), which, let’s be honest, is less of a land and more of a sinkhole. But the Land of Friendship? That one’s warm, solid, clear visibility to the horizon. Thank God for that.

Here in March of 2026, if you’re lost, I think it’s a sign you’re paying attention.

We’re always navigating multiple lands at once. Some earth feels solid underfoot: maybe its friendship, creative work, morning coffee rituals. Others feel like quicksand: maybe its money, purpose, the state of the world. And we’re supposed to move through all of them simultaneously, like we’re fine, like we ‘woke up like this,’ like we have a map.

And the thing about being lost? It migrates. One month it’s our finances. The next it's our relationships. Then it's our work, our purpose, our body, our health. Lost doesn't stay put. It moves through our lives like weather.

But here’s what we don’t talk about: we treat “lost” like a diagnosis. Like something went wrong. Like we missed a turn somewhere and now we’re off course, and if we could just backtrack far enough, we’d find the place where we screwed up and fix it.

We lie awake replaying decisions, wondering if we should have taken that other job, said yes instead of no, stayed instead of left. We carry this low grade anxiety that we’re supposed to be further along by now, that there’s a “Correct Life” happening somewhere else to some other version of us who made better choices.

And the worst part? We think the solution is clarity. We think if we could just see the next ten steps, if we could just get some certainty, some solid ground, then we’d be okay.

Somewhere in the midst of my Financial Insecurity Spiral (trademark pending), my friend Alex texted me an old Alan Watts lecture. I almost didn’t listen. I was busy catastrophizing, running the numbers on how long I could stretch my savings if I only ate toast and gave up dignity entirely. But I hit play while doing dishes (read: the peanut butter spoon), and Maestro Watts said something that made me stop mid scrub. And it began turning this whole ship around.

Dear Friend,

Don’t get me wrong, I like going to museums. I do. Sure.

But if I’m honest, most of the time I enjoy the experience of “museum-ing” more than the art itself.

I like getting coffee at the museum café. I like dressing up a little and making a date with a friend. I like reading the artist’s biography and then wandering slowly through the galleries feeling like a very-cultured-adult.

Actual art that stops me in my tracks? Rare.

I can count them on one hand: the first time I stood in front of a Rothko, when Christo filled Central Park with The Gates, the Hilma af Klint exhibit at the Guggenheim, and Kerry James Marshall’s The Histories.

Boom. That’s it. Four. Four moments that have stuck, in my 40 years of life.

Most of the time, I’m there for the cultured-coffee and curated-wandering. So when my friend Jonathon and I planned an art outing yesterday, I assumed it would be one of those days.

Jonathon is a brilliant painter, which makes him the ideal museum companion. We met for said-flat-white, caught up on life, and walked over to see an exhibit by Chiharu Shiota.

I’ll be honest: I had never heard of her.

I discovered the show the way I discover most of London, through the highly accredited Life Curator de Instagram. A truly rigorous institution.

The caption said something like: “immersive exhibit exploring consciousness.” Sounds fun.

What it didn’t say was that the exhibit would absolutely wreck me.

The first room stopped us cold.

The entire space had been taken over by an intricate web of red thread stretching from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, with thousands of old keys suspended inside it. Later we learned there were three thousand of them, each one donated by someone who had once held it in their hand, each one once responsible for locking or unlocking some small piece of a life.

They hung there like memories caught midair.

At the center of it all stood a simple open door.

Jonathon immediately dropped to the floor so he could stare up into the tangled ceiling, tracing the web of threads with the eye of someone who understands the sheer labor of making something like this. I found myself moving slowly toward the door, feeling my body change as memories began surfacing of every key I’ve ever carried, every door I’ve walked through, every door I’ve closed behind me.

We stayed there longer than we intended, suspended in that strange quiet that only really powerful art seems able to create.

Eventually curiosity pulled us forward.

If this is the first room, what on earth could possibly be in the next room?

When we turned the corner, I audibly gasped.

The next fifteen minutes will stay with me for the rest of my life. I’m certain of it.

Dear Friend,

I’ve got vertigo.

Somehow I’ve developed a full-on, Alfred Hitchcock, world-spinning kind of vertigo. I swear it wasn’t there two weeks ago. But ever since my business partners and I went to the Apple Store to demo the Apple Vision Pro goggles (tough day at work), the room has been doing many a pirouette.

If you haven’t tried them, the goggles are quite a thing. Digital images appear floating in front of you, somehow inside the room you’re sitting in. Your eyes act as the cursor. A small pinch of your fingers selects things. Turn a dial and the physical world disappears.

Naturally we wanted to test the full cinematic range.

At one point I selected a scene from the F1 movie and suddenly there I was, sitting shotgun next to Brad Pitt as he - buckled me in - to tear around the racetrack.

Friend… there should be a warning label on that feature for women newly single in their forties.

This is not “oh look, Brad Pitt in a movie.” No. His perfectly symmetrical face is suddenly right there, unconscionably close to mine as he manhandles the wheel and whips the car around the track.

Apparently my nervous system did not receive the memo that this was fictional. And I began to medically sweat.

But Brad Pitt, it turns out, was not the real culprit.The real culprit was the final film I selected: World of Dogs.

Without warning, an extremely enthusiastic Pomeranian appeared in full 3D directly in front of my face. A perfect circle of fluff staring straight into the camera like it was preparing for Best in Show. It was so convincing that I completely forgot I was sitting in the Apple Store in Covent Garden next to my business partners, who also had goggles on, and began petting the air.

Full commitment.

I threw my head back laughing so hard that Joe and Mark had to turn the volume up on their own headsets just to drown me out.

From then on, every time I look in the extremes - all the way up or down, all the way left or right - the world spins in nauseating circles for about thirty seconds.

Naturally I consulted my GP, Dr ChatGPT MD.

Apparently the condition is called Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, or BPPV. A charming inner-ear situation where the tiny crystals that regulate balance get knocked out of place. When you move your head, they move too, and your brain (and nervous system) briefly receives the message that the world is spinning even though it isn’t.

The good news is that it usually resolves itself.

The less good news is that while those crystals are finding their way back home, the sensation is deeply disorienting.

Dr ChatGPT MD also prescribed a simple morning practice:

Before I even get out of bed, I recreate the vertigo on purpose.

I sit up, turn my head toward the ear that sets it off, and then lie back down. The room immediately begins to spin. The instruction is to stay there. Let the spinning happen. Wait until the world steadies.

Then I slowly turn my head the other direction and let the whole thing happen again. Only after the room settles do I sit up. And only after sitting still for a moment do I stand and begin the day. Apparently this is how the tiny crystals eventually find their way back where they belong.

This, strangely, feels like an appropriate diagnosis for the moment we’re living in.

This past week especially, the world has felt like that.One moment everything feels steady enough.The next, the ground tilts.

One morning I’m making my first cup of coffee in my new apartment. The next, we’ve bombed Iran.

One minute we’re setting the agenda for the next team meeting. The next minute Mark is helping me understand the China-Venezuela-Iran connections - the oil, the sanctions, and the supply chains that run the show.

One minute my girlfriends and I are on a group FaceTime. The next we’re checking the WhatsApp thread to see if Jen made it safely to a bomb shelter in Beirut.

This is the strange choreography of being alive right now.The ordinary and the unbearable sharing the same hour.

We open our phones and move from headlines about missile strikes to recipes for French onion pasta in the span of a thumb swipe.

And yet life keeps insisting on its ordinary rituals.

We still make the coffee.We still pick up the kids from school.We still admire the lopsided art projects and half-finished science experiments.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, we try to keep feeling the humanity behind the headlines.

This week in my interfaith seminary program, my study group has been preparing to lead our first worship service for our cohort. And this, not surprisingly, became the question we kept circling.

How do we live inside these disorienting extremes?

My role was to choose the sacred text for the service.

The poem I chose felt written for moments when the world tilts like this. It is both teacher and teaching. It steadies you without pretending the world is steady.

Dear Friend,

Before I share something personal, I want to acknowledge what many of us woke up to yesterday: the headline that the United States, in coordination with Israel, has bombed Iran. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I can’t just hop straight into a normal substack, so I do want to share a few things that are helping me navigate this moment before switching subjects.

For some, this is immediate and embodied. For others, like me, it arrives through a screen. Even so, the weight of it is real.

When news breaks at this scale, I feel the pull to react quickly. To have a position. To say something coherent before the algorithms decide the narrative. But I have learned that my clearest thinking comes more slowly.

So I am reading. Listening. Trying to widen the frame before narrowing it into opinion. So far, I have found depth in:

* Van Jones’s Substack, laying out arguments for and against the war side by side

* The Narges Mohammadi Foundation, offering the lens of human and women’s rights inside Iran

* Michael Wolff’s reporting on what may be happening behind closed doors in Washington

If you are reading work that expands understanding beyond easy binaries, I would be grateful if you shared it. We don’t need more heat. We need more clarity.

Friend, there is no graceful way to pivot from headlines like that to something personal. And still, I want to bring you into what is unfolding in my own life.

I am writing to you from a cafe on Sunday morning.

Today is moving day.

In 2 hours, a man with a van will arrive to transport my entire life - all 12 boxes of it - from what I have lovingly called The Nook to a new apartment.

12 boxes. That is the current architecture of me.

Inside them: clothes, of course. But also the things that probably reveal more about me than any wardrobe could. The Nespresso machine and milk frother that make a kitchen feel claimed. Stacks of notebooks thick with handwritten to-do lists and Substack drafts. The full canon of David Whyte, traveling with me like scripture.

And then the objects that always move, no matter the postcode: cards from my besties, brightly colored taper candles, the jewelry I rotate according to my inner weather. This season, a snake ring coiled around my index finger and a small gold embrace circling my thumb.

If you have joined me recently, here is the short version.

In September, I left Los Angeles for London, intending to stay a few months to help launch a new company. Two months in, my eight-year relationship ended. Four months in, the founder invited me and our other partner into co-foundership. Six months in, this chapter is closing and another is beginning.

This apartment feels like the physical echo of that arc.

The Nook, as I have called it since September, has been many things.

It was my landing pad after Heathrow Airport, when Ladbroke Grove and Westbourne Grove were still indistinguishable names on a map. It became refuge in the aftermath of heartbreak. A place to study late into the night for my inter-faith seminary training. A place to pray. A place where new and old friends came to witness and support the life I am building here, and where my business partners gathered around the dining table to sketch out the future of a company that we’ll now launch in September.

It held grief. It held ambition. It held the long, unglamorous middle of becoming.

It also taught me something about solitude. About how loneliness can be the wisest companion. About how aloneness can reveal new forms of invisible help. About how silence can carry the soundest conversation.

And when I found myself circling the question of this new apartment - it is an upgrade, and yes, a tad more expensive - I hesitated.

One of my besties, the very very wise Jaycee Gossett, said simply in a text, “The home you accept is the life and love you accept.”

I have not stopped thinking about that!Lately, I have been turning it over from another angle.

The homes we choose - literal or otherwise - reflect the season we are in.

Dear Friend,

From the emails and comments, it sounded like “The Last Week of the Wood Snake” struck something tender in many of us. That sense of a final shed. Of a skin loosening. Of a version of ourselves that has carried us through long terrain and is now, quite frankly, tired.

And alongside that shedding, I’ve felt something else flickering. A kind of electricity. A low hum building in the chest.

Enter the Fire Horse.

Instagram, our reliable cultural oracle (le sigh), tells me fire is expression, intensity, heat. Yes, thanks, got that, IG. The horse, symbolizing independence, motion, forward drive. Together they promise a new sense of self-driven momentum. Action. Giddy up.

And yes, I feel that too. Individually. Collectively. There is something restless on the horizon.

But if I am honest, that explanation feels… incomplete. A little glossy. A little testosterone-forward.

My sense is that there is something deeper in the horse, and in this moment, than just red-hot speed.

I don’t have much history with horses (read: nearly none). But last May, in Santa Fe, I had the deepest experience with horses to date.

My former partner Kevin and I were leading a retreat called Milagro. Miracle. A bold title in the middle of a polycrisis. We were asking: Are miracles possible in a climate like this? What even is a miracle? And how do we become the kind of people who can experience one - not as magic trick, but as way of being?

One afternoon we did an ‘EQUUS’ workshop, which is essentially about learning emotional intelligence from horses. The invitation was simple and slightly unnerving. Walk into the herd with a real question in your heart. Stay awake to their responses. A flick of an ear. A shift of weight. A horse stepping closer. A horse turning away.

Before we entered the arena, we were prepared by Lee Johnson, the truest of true cowboys. If you were casting a film and needed denim, dust, and a reverent drawl, Lee would get the role. He stood in that barn living room in worn boots and a real-deal cowboy hat, hands moving slowly as he spoke. Steady as he goes. The kind of man who has spent more time listening to land than talking over it.

He began by saying something that recalibrated the room:

Horses weigh between 300 and 500 kilos. They could kill you. They choose not to.

! Strong start ! My inside voice was like: Daaaaayum. Already, Friend, that felt like a thesis. They carry enormous strength in their bodies. And yet, they choose carefully where to place that power.

Then he reminded us that the evolutionary line of the horse stretches back roughly 55 million years. Fifty-five million. Oh-kay?! Their nervous systems have been shaped by ice ages, climate shifts, tectonic drama, thinning forests and expanding grasslands. As the landscape changed, they reorganized. Legs lengthened. Toes fused into hooves. Sensory systems sharpened. They adapted to survive open terrain and new predators.

They did not resist environmental change. They reorganized to meet it.

And then, as if those weren’t enough gems dropped already, he told us something that just absolutely lodged in my body.

A human heart weighs a little over half a pound. It generates an electromagnetic field of about a few feet from our bodies. A horse’s heart weighs around NINE pounds. Its electromagnetic field is measurable several METERS from the body. Meaning that when you stand near a horse, your nervous system is highly influenced by theirs, if not engulfed - if you let it.

AND THEN… here is the ultimate. Ready? Drum roll please…

Horses do not engage with incongruence.

If you are afraid and pretending not to be, they disengage. If you are afraid and honest about it, they respond. /// They mirror coherence. /// They respond to truth in the body, not to pretending or performance or posturing.

(pausing here - for us all to recollect our jaws from the floor, along with all the mics that Lee dropped)

Lee told us to go in with a real question. Feel it in your heart. Ask it in your body. Stay awake to the wisdom these horses may provide you.

So I did.

With all the attention on roses yesterday, I thought I’d tell you a story about tulips. And not just any tulips. Tulips from Tesco.

But first, let me back up.

When I first moved to London, I focused on sorting out my non-negotiables: where’s the good coffee and where are the good flowers. Without those two, my life falls apart at the seams with shocking efficiency.

So that first weekend, I got all cute in my ‘cute-clothes,’ fully prepared to become the lead in my own Notting Hill montage. Selfie-ready. Wind machine optional. And not too far from my sublet, What-in-the-Hugh-Grant! BOOM. There it was. The Notting Hill Florist. Aggressively charming.

I knew it. I just knew that one day I would live my Rom-Com dream of being “that girl” who goes to “that corner florist.” That’s who I am now. Welcome. You may now refer to me as Natalie Julia-Roberts Kuhn.

I WILL wait while the throngs of tourists take their photos in front of it and buy nothing. But of course. THEY are tourists. But ME? Well, well, well. I LIVE here. I have a VASE. That warrants such flowers. And Guru Miley-Cyrus-ji told me I can buy my own.

“I’ll take that perfectly Instagramable bouquet please.”“35 quid? Oh… really. Wow… for about 12 stems?”Pause. Pride. Swipe card.“Yes. Sure. Of course.”

Puffed up and proud, holding my ridiculously expensive bouquet, feeling oh-so-cute, I went back to my flat to arrange my first Sunday morning flowers.

By Monday night, the whole damn thing was dead.

Not fading. Not wilting gently. Dead-dead. The red roses, our main characters, had turned black. The supporting cast had dropped their necks like defeated candy canes. The fluffy extras had quit entirely. Walked off set. In a huff.

Staring at the floral carnage, I thought, “this… is not going to fit my budget.”

Thus began my hunt for a sustainable flower habit.

I tried the florist at the end of Portobello Road. The trolley near the tube station. The Whole Foods. Some barely survived Day 3. Some bouquets lasted until Day 5. Which felt promising. But still, a suspicion crept in.

Is it personal?

Are London flowers trying to send me a message?It’s me, isn’t it. I am not capable of maintaining beauty. My household is collapsing. Democracy is fragile. And apparently so are hydrangeas.

Forget it. I should move back to LA where it’s warm and sunny and at least I know how to KEEP FLOWERS ALIVE.

Dejected and in desperate need of toilet paper, I walked my existential crisis to Tesco Express.

For the uninitiated, Tesco is the VONS of the UK. Big grocery. Get what you need. No fuss. Tesco Express, however, is its feral cousin. More aligned with a 7-Eleven. You can buy dish soap and regret in the same aisle. Beware the blueberries, they are likely to have entered into a fuzzy afterlife.

Eyes cast low from weeks of floral rejection, I noticed four nearly empty bins on the floor, beneath the greeting cards for Grandma. The bottom right bin held two bundles of tulips.

Furtively, I picked one up. A bit wrinkly. Multicolored. I flipped it around.

“REDUCED PRICE TULIPS”Discounted from £6 to £2.50.

Now hang on.

WHO are you calling REDUCED?Who died and made you God, Tesco Express?

There is nothing reduced about these exhausted but still-clinging-to-hope tulips. Sure, they are drooping, suffocating in their plastic wrap. Yes, they look depressed. But what do you expect? You shoved them under Granny cards and slapped a bright orange SALE label on their chest.

How ELSE are they supposed to feel?

Nobody puts baby in a corner. And nobody tells these tulips they are reduced. Absolutely not.

And the last bouquet? Another neon public shaming!

NOT TODAY, SATAN. NOT TODAY!

Chest puffed - not from cuteness but righteous indignation - I marched my two misunderstood queens to self-checkout and paid my five pounds.

“You are worth so much more than that,” I whispered. “We are going home.”

Friend.

I placed these wrinkled, droopy McDroopersons, emotionally misunderstood tulips into two vases and delivered a full TED Talk.

You are beautiful. Nothing about you is reduced. A price tag means nothing. Tesco lacks vision! It simply wasn’t capable of seeing you for who you are. If they don’t get who it is you really are, stop trying to make them get it.

You just shine, baby. SHINE.

The very next morning, I kid you not, those tulips had staged a full Biblical resurrection.

Stems upright. Spines straightened. Color deepened. Value restored.

And these five-pound, bottom-shelf tulips have now lasted two weeks and counting.

TWO.

WEEKS.

There they stand. Upright. Slightly dramatic. Completely unbothered by Tesco’s market assessment.

And I think about how quickly I almost believed the label. How quickly I almost packed my bags for Los Angeles because some roses ghosted me.

Turns out the expensive bouquet was fragile. The discounted ones were resilient. Make of that what you will.

If a £2.50 tulip can rise from the fluorescent ashes of Tesco Express and stand tall after one night in a London flat, perhaps we too can survive being mispriced.

Perhaps the next time someone labels us incorrectly, we drink some water, get a good night’s sleep, and show up radiant out of spite.

Anyway.

If you need me, I’ll be in my kitchen hyping up a vase of tulips like a stage mom at a middle school talent show.

Friend, you are not reduced. Neither are they. And neither am I.

End of memoir.

With love, always in all ways,Natalie Julia-Roberts KuhnPatron Saint of Discount Florals

Dear Friend,

I have very little formal knowledge of the Chinese zodiac, and still, I can feel this transition from the Year of the Snake into the Year of the Fire Horse in my bones.

If you’re new to it like I am, here’s a quick Cliff’s Notes. In the Chinese zodiac, the Year of the Snake concludes on February 16 and then it’s time for the Year of the Horse. Not just a horse, y’all. It’s a goddamn fire horse. Which I’m sure we’ll get to in future posts.

But for now, one more week of shedding.

And just that image of it feels visceral and full of wisdom.

No one sheds anything fresh. What comes off is the skin you have lived in, that is now past its time. The skin that has traversed through mud and rocks, weather and terrain. The skin that carries old wounds and their scars. The skin that has done its job and reached the end of its usefulness.

Shedding happens because something has run its course.A reminder that clarity precedes change.

Before we can move on, we usually have to see clearly what no longer works. What has become ill-fitting. A way of being. A relational dynamic.

A way of living in habit instead of truth.

Those moments can arrive decisively, as they have for me this past year. The internal shift where something in us says: actually, no. This does not work for me anymore. And the old reflex to comply, smooth it over, push it down, or enter the familiar tug-of-war loses its grip.

The realization is simple: It is no longer about you. It is about me. And I will not participate in this the way I used to.

Looking back on this year, good-lord-on-high have I been shedding.

I left my home in sunny Los Angeles. Walking distance from my family. A short drive from two of my best friends. The Pacific Ocean, the shoreline that is part of my DNA. I moved 5,500 miles to the grey-skies of London for a new business we had been building through early morning Zooms and frequent transatlantic trips over the course of the year.

London was a city I knew in fragments. Short stays. A few familiar cafes. A few trusted people. My two British business partners, Joe and Mark, had become like brothers. And there were friends who took me in generously during those visits. Erin. Lisa. Martine. I did not arrive empty handed, but I arrived mid crossing.

Not long after that move, I left my eight year relationship.

It happened with a level of clarity that surprised us both, but in very different ways. The shedding of a long lived and painful relational dynamic. David Whyte once wrote that leaving his marriage felt like ‘choosing a path of immolation and difficulty, a lonely road edged with distance from others, a wager made without any guarantee of mercy.’ Indeed.

Standing here now, at the edge of this final week of the Snake, I can see that: it had to be this way. People sometimes say that as consolation, half hearted comfort. As a way to soothe the fact that it wasn’t another way.

But I mean it more literally. I needed a season of relative aloneness to hear my own voice again. Not shaped by other people’s strong energies or overlapping priorities. I needed to wake up in a far off timezone, while everyone I knew was asleep. I needed to feel the absolute dismemberment of old identities.

I needed to start again.

Dear Friend,

It’s a time of oscillation, isn’t it? One moment I feel genuinely moved by the scale of nonviolent protests happening around the country and around the world. The next, I’m stopped cold by the sheer volume of images of people repeatedly being dragged out of their cars by ICE. Brutality. Solidarity. Catastrophe. Kindness. Hopelessness. Hope. All of it arriving in quick succession.

And of course, I’m in that rapid fire whiplash, scrolling social media while walking down the street when, naturally, it starts flash raining out of nowhere. No one in London even blinks. They simply ‘keep calm and carry on.’ Meanwhile, still a woefully unprepared Los Angeleno, in the wrong shoes, with an inept jacket, I’m suddenly negotiating mud like it’s a personal affront.

I slog my way back to the apartment, sorry - the ‘flat,’ tracking damp and dirt with me, imminently needing to pee, still scrolling (#obviously), still absorbing, still letting my nervous system take hit after hit. Wet. Rushing. Clenching. Overstimulated. I get inside, grab my boots to rip them off before I drag more mud through the flat, slap the bathroom light switch, peel off wet clothes, and finally get some relief.

At long last, I pee.

Breathe. Flush.Pause.

And then I look around.

There are big wet muddy footprints from the door all through the hallway. And on the door to the living room, on the wall right by the light switch, and in the bathroom, are my own small wet muddy handprints. Transferred there in my rush. Carried in without noticing.

And that’s just it, isn’t it?

If you step into the house with muddy shoes, the floor becomes muddy too. I did not mean to make a mess. I wasn’t particularly careless or bad or failing at adulthood (this time).

It is simply that whatever is on us tends to travel with us.

The same thing happens emotionally. When our nervous systems are overloaded and we move into action, that state comes along for the ride. It shows up in the email we fire off too quickly. The conversation we start before we have landed in our body. The choice that might have been wise, but arrives sharp, rushed, or harder than it needed to be. Even the right action can land sideways when it is carried by overwhelm.

And in that moment, sitting on the toilet, looking back at my muddied flat from floor to wall(s), I thought, “My god, overwhelm can create such an overwhelming mess.”

This is what I have been noticing in myself lately. There is so much I care about deeply. So much that feels threatened, uncertain, and moving at high velocity. And at a certain point, all that care starts to blur together. It becomes harder to see clearly. Harder to prioritize. Harder to know how to act without either snapping or disappearing.

So this week, I started paying closer attention. Studying it.

What role is overwhelm playing in my own life? And what role is it playing in the wider moment we are living in?

As I watched it move through me and through the world around me, three distinct patterns began to emerge. Overwhelm being used as a TACTIC. Overwhelm spreading and catching like a VIRUS. And then a third thing that surprised me. The parts of overwhelm that are actually generative. A SIGNAL from the body that something needs tending before more action is taken.

So, Friend, I offer it to you, in case it saves a little mud along the way.

Let’s get to know overwhelm well enough that we are not flattened by it. That we can recognize it, see it for what it is and isn’t, and maybe even use it intelligently. Especially now, when so much is happening so fast, and the temptation is either to react immediately or to shut down entirely.

Let’s take this one piece at a time.Let’s figure out how to work with overwhelm before it starts working us:

Overwhelm as: TACTIC

Overwhelm changes the way we think. When there is too much information, too many emergencies, too many voices shouting now now now, something in the body flips. We stop thinking long term and stop holding context. We move into management mode: How do I get through today? How do I not fall apart? How do I just make the noise stop for a minute? What should I be doing? Saying? And how much and how quickly?

That state is understandable AND it is also incredibly useful to systems that do not want to be examined too closely. To people in power who want us unfocused and unregulated. Because…

Dear Friend,

I’m sure like you, I’ve been glued to the news coming out of Minnesota, where there have been multiple fatal shootings by federal ICE agents in Minneapolis in recent weeks, including another just yesterday.

Friday night, I was on the phone with one of my dearest friends who lives there, a legal citizen, originally from South America, married to an American, who drops her kids at school with her passport in her purse - just to feel safe. I’ve also been in touch with a friend in my seminary group who is in Minnesota with her teenage trans son, trying to decide whether to take work calls from the school parking lot - just in case.

I asked both of them the same question: So it is as bad as the news says it is?They both said some version of the same thing: the air is as tense as you couldn’t possibly imagine.

From what I’m hearing, it’s 20 below, so cold that when you step outside your glasses fog up only to discover it’s frost. The streets carry a quiet that isn’t still, exactly, but strained. And every now and then, you come up on places where neighbors are gathering around fires. For warmth, sure, but more so to be together, to work together, to stand with each other in this unbelievable-believable moment.

I’m also paying close attention to how different members of clergy from different faith traditions are responding.

I read Nadia Bolz-Weber’s substack and she shared this: “My best friend lives in the Twin Cities and told me that last week, ICE was setting up in the parking lot behind a Lutheran church, not realizing the quilters were there that day. The women confronted them, asking if they were proud of what they were doing - and suggested that, if so, they should go set themselves up in front where more people could see them.

They left.”

On my seminary thread, one of my cohorts shared words from a local Jewish Lakota leader that landed with similar clarity: “The most effective thing that we’ve seen is neighbors. It’s nobody else’s responsibility but yours to confront ICE and stop them. You don’t have to do this alone. But you are not free to leave the situation. I’m just a very ordinary person who’s in a very ordinary circumstance. When they ask, “What did you do when they were going after your neighbors?” I’m going to say: I did what I can.”

And so this Sunday, my meditation, my prayer, and my action are centered on one word. Neighbor.

During the LA fires, I once wrote about “becoming the neighbor you’ll need” and how the running joke in Los Angeles is that you never really know your neighbors until you really need them. And this moment in history IS one of those times. Whether it is military presence in American cities or the steady acceleration of climate disruption everywhere, the truth is simple. We need our neighbors.

Which immediately raises the next question. Who counts as our neighbor?

Dear Friend,

I don’t know a single person who came into this year energized and ready to dominate their goals. Everyone I know has either been taken out by a cold slash flu slash do-we-call-it-covid-anymore, hollowed out by holiday exhaustion, or stunned by the first 10 days of news that make you stare at your phone and think, my God.

If your sense of hope feels under pressure, you are not failing. You’re paying attention.

Government violence continues to escalate. People in power keep lying without consequence. Civilians keep dying. Nonprofits are scraping by. This week, I texted one of my dearest friends, who lives in Minnesota, after the fatal shooting of Renée Good. She put words to what so many of us are carrying: “they keep building fear in all of us.” And its true. Fear is doing exactly what it is designed to do, seeping into bodies and relationships and decision making.

So the timing of “New Year, New You” feels especially tone deaf. The promise that we will do more, become better, optimize ourselves into acceptability, and emerge publicly improved while the world is unraveling feels thin. Everyone is tired. It is January 11.

I am not uninterested in growth. I am uninterested in pretending that self-improvement alone is the answer to collective harm.

When the world is this broken, optimization can become a distraction. It can keep the focus on managing ourselves instead of increasing our capacity to stay human with one another.

This weekend is a seminary weekend for me. We opened with an interfaith blessing that named the damage unfolding in the world. We returned our breath to our bodies. We acknowledged one another as neighbors. Then, in the middle of a completely different teaching, Rev Jett dropped a gem (as he often does) that stopped me cold.

This month we are learning rites of passage around marriage as we train to officiate weddings through an interfaith lens. So there we are, all of us dutifully taking notes, when he said 3 simple words that cut straight through the room:

Dear Friend,

It is that old familiar season of reinvention, where our highest intentions get chiropractically adjusted back into place. Historically, this has been a ritual I’ve actually enjoyed. Sit with my journal. Look back over the year. Acknowledge the twists and turns. Then start fresh with a clean page and a well-meaning list.

Yoga three times a week. Running twice. Launch our new business, Halen, in London. Become vaguely competent with my personal finances. Graduate from interfaith seminary. Redecorate my flat. Breathwork before getting out of bed. Gratitude practice before turning out the light.

New Year’s has always been the moment I reconstruct my moral high ground and recommit to becoming the very best version of myself.

This year, though, the very thought makes my chest tighten.

Looking back, there is no version of my 2024 self who could have predicted most of what 2025 held. And that makes the usual resolution ritual feel less inspiring and even… de-moralizing. The idea of setting goals still stimulates me intellectually, but emotionally it just feels draining. Maybe you feel this too?

Something about writing down a beautiful list in January, knowing it is mostly aspirational thinking that will be quietly disproven by February 1, just makes me sad.

Still, this is not a surrender piece. I am not giving up before I have started.

Because there is one ritual that has actually held me steady over time. And this year, it is the only one I am keeping. It has just enough fuel to not burn out by February but to actually make it through to the end of the year, and it functions more like a compass than a resolution.

Dear Friend,

If you are not feeling particularly festive, you are not alone. The news cycle feels like it has been mainlining cortisol. Family dynamics are resurfacing right on cue, bringing old patterns along for the ride.

This year, my siblings are mostly opting out of the traditional togetherness and choosing a softer version that involves less hosting and more FaceTime. Heading back to LA doesn’t carry its usual Christmas sparkle. There’s an unnamed grief in the space between what we imagine the holidays could be and what is actually possible, human limits and all.

And still. I am trying to hold both.

The weight of the world and my unapologetic love of Christmas. Having a mince pie for the first time, homemade no less (thank you Lizzie!). Standing in my kitchen before the sun comes up, choosing a very specific holiday mug from my frankly excessive collection. Days of December playing on repeat, as if the right playlist could temporarily stabilize the nervous system.

It was in this slightly wobbly, mildly absurd state that I came across a Christmas blessing by Lawrence Lee that made me fully spit-take said tea. A real, scalding, cathartic mess.

Lord, we come to worship the savior you sent us...And we marvel at the manner of the sending.In the midst of political upheaval, we hoped for a king.In the midst of wars and rumors of wars, we hoped for a general.In the midst of religious tumult and controversy, we hoped for a high priest.But you send us a baby.[pause for bewildered reflection]Interesting choice, God.

-Lawrence Lee

Friend, in the Sliding Doors version of my life, I sell hats with that last line on them.

So. I challenged myself to write a blessing of my own for this holiday. One that could hold the truth of all the ‘what-the-actual-eff’ that’s going on, in the spirit of irreverent reverence. I hope it makes you laugh. I hope it makes you feel seen in all the ridiculous ways we are human. And then I hope it wraps itself around you like a cozy winter blanket. And maybe maybe maybe you might feel called to share it at some dinner table over the next week…?

Written mid-recalibration, hurtling back to Los Angeles from London for a Christmas that looks very different than I imagined it would just a few months ago, this is…

“A Holiday Blessing For The Rest of Us”:

Dear Friend,

My main question for you is this: are you listening to my Days of December playlist yet? If you are, very good. Please continue reading. If not, I will pause here while you begin holiday cheer…

So many things are happening at once. We are officially at Peak Holiday Weekend. Everyone and their mother has arrived in London to soak up the Christmas cheer this city does so well, and judging by the crowds, they have all entered and exited through Bond Street Station. Every single one of them.

Along with the holidays comes the annual spike in work pressure. Deadlines to meet, budgets to finalize, inboxes to tame just enough so you can convincingly say you will circle back in the new year. Bless. If you are anything like me, this season also brings a low hum of financial stress. Travel costs. Gifts. January rent looming politely but persistently in the background. And of course, the relational intensity that prompted Ram Dass to say, “You think you’re enlightened? Go spend a weekend with your family.” He was not wrong.

So with all of that in the air, I have sorted a few thoughts into 5 categories: something listen to, read, consider, bring you joy, and last but not least, give —> not your average gift guide.

Something To Listen To

This week’s listen is an episode of Circle This Podcast, hosted by the deeply steady and thoughtful Dre. I was a guest on the show, and fair warning, this conversation got ‘truthy.’ A term Brooke recently brought into my life and one I am now using liberally.

When we recorded, I was about 2 weeks out from my long term relationship ending and 2 days out from my very first Al Anon meeting. I felt unusually open. Unarmored. Free to speak from a place that does not always make it to the surface, even in conversations that are meant to go deep.

That level of honesty was possible because Dre knows how to hold space without steering, fixing, or polishing the moment. She creates the kind of container where truth feels like a relief. (Thank you Dre, Em, and the entire Circle This team.)

We talk about belonging and internal safety, the pressures of spiritual overload, the difference between loneliness and aloneness, and how listening, breath, sound, and embodied presence shape healing and relationship.

If you are in a season of simplifying, questioning, or gently finding your way back to yourself, THIS EPISODE might meet you right where you are. Here’s a preview:

Something To Read

Before I get to the actual reading recommendation, a brief story.

You know that friend who is generous in the way that actually counts? The one who is wildly busy but still sends a text with a precise callback like, “Did you ever go back for the pistachio croissant, or was it a one time emotional experience?” The one you also happen to work with, and will absolutely text during a serious meeting just to see if she can make you laugh.

Meet Shannon.

We have grown much closer over the last few months, and our friendship is defined by abundance, kindness, and care. I am deeply grateful for her spirit. (Hi, Shannon!)

Because Shannon is a longtime force in the impact world, she has a close relationship with Malala Yousafzai. She also knows how much of an admirer I am. So, with characteristic generosity, she organized a dinner for the three of us. And yes, I am still slightly stunned as I type this sentence. Last night, Shannon, Malala, and I had dinner together.

In the days leading up to it, my mind spun. What do you wear to casually meet the youngest Nobel Laureate? What do you ask that has not already been asked a thousand times? What could I possibly have in common with someone who has helped shift global awareness around girls’ education?

I listened to Malala’s newest book, Finding My Way, in advance. Chapter by chapter, a fuller picture emerged. Not the flattened version of Malala as a quiet, sainted activist, but a real human in the ongoing process of becoming herself. Starting college at Oxford. Navigating partying and purpose. Trying weed for the first time. Falling for the wrong guy. Discovering “chicks before dicks.” Relatable. Oh, and also, yes, attending Davos and changing the world.

By the time dinner arrived, my need to perform had softened. We met at a cozy Persian restaurant in South London and she was running late. And just as she arrived…

Dear Friend,

First off, I am so thrilled that so many of us at Make The Sun joined last week’s 7-day “What Do You Want, Really” challenge! It has been a game changer for me these past few weeks, listening once a day to Howard Thurman’s meditation on Desire. With each listen, my answer deepens. And from the comments section, it sounds like the same is true for you. If you are feeling a bit lost right now, go back and give it another listen. I will be with you in the comments.

This week, I have been thinking about another kind of observation.

There is a famous study in physics that often comes up in mindfulness circles, the double slit experiment. Light is beamed toward a barrier with two slits and a screen behind it. When no one watches which slit the light goes through, the photons behave like waves. When detectors are placed at the slits to observe what is happening, the waves collapse and the light behaves like little particles. The simple act of observing changes the outcome.

Scientists can debate the meaning, but the short version is this.

Things shift when they are seen.

In mindfulness training, this experiment gets used to explain why observing your thoughts changes the thoughts themselves. When you can witness your experience rather than drown in it, the charge softens. Awareness creates space. Even the hard thoughts lose some of their power when you are not confusing them for truth.

Ya know, I can observe my thoughts all day long. I can sit on my cushion, breathe like a responsible adult, take the mindful walk, do all the things. And truly, those practices matter. From my pov, they are essential.

AND THEN: there is the kind of observation that comes from another person.The kind that doesn’t just shift your thoughts, but shifts you.

The kind that lets you see your own life with a clarity you simply could not access alone.

Enter, Bestie Brooke…

Dear Friend,

I’ve given myself a rather strange 7-day challenge.

Having lived half my life in LA and the other in NYC, the word challenge stirs two very different coastal memories.

In Los Angeles, just before the pandemic, everyone was drinking celery juice with a quintessentially Los Angelino fervor. Not enjoying it, particularly. No. Proclaiming its virtues as if the Messiah herself had appeared in the produce aisle. Cafés ran out of celery so frequently there were handwritten signs taped to the doors announcing “NO CELERY JUICE TODAY,” which felt less like a supply issue and more like a statewide emergency. The whole thing had shades of a potato famine, if the potato famine had been caused by influencers clutching mason jars.

Meanwhile, in New York, a very dedicated subset of people were waking up at 4am for a 7-day challenge with the kind of zeal usually reserved for tax season. They weren’t just rising early. No. They were completing full triple-workout-protein-packed routines before dawn with a level of intensity that suggested a looming productivity Olympics. Entire self-care checklists were being conquered before their LinkedIn circles even stirred, presumably mid-nightmare about forgetting to optimize something.

Now, still newly in London and still attempting to find solid footing, I’ve given myself a 7-day challenge that is far less culturally enforced and far more like an act of survival. No produce, no mason jars, and no 4am wake-up calls. It’s not even the sort of challenge you can brag about at a dinner party. It’s a small, slightly odd, entirely internal experiment. A challenge of the heart, really. Something to shepherd me through this period of liminality. It might just, for you too?

It has been six weeks since my eight-year relationship with Kevin ended. It feels like a year ago and also five minutes, as these things do. Time telescopes according to the aperture of the heart. Some days everything is stretched out and far away. Other days it sits in my chest, still floored, like it just happened this morning.

Having this seismic shift happen while in a relatively new city is both painful and merciful. Painful because there are very few familiarities to fall back on. Merciful because there are also very few familiarities to be haunted by. If I were in LA, I know exactly where I would try to find comfort: the stretch of beach where I play fetch with Smooch, the fire pit in Brooke and Peter’s front yard, the easy dog walk down the Bluffs with Jaycee, the margaritas with my dad and Kathleen. My body would walk itself there without asking.

But here, none of that exists in my peripheral vision. And just as importantly, neither do the places that would remind me of our life together. I don’t turn a corner and stumble into that part of the Bluffs where we once picnicked or pass McCalls Market where we would buy steaks to celebrate a particular moment.

There is no familiar story to lean on or rehearse. Floating in this embryonic form of adulthood, blinking my way through a life that is being rewritten in real time. And part of rewriting is this quiet, brutal truth I wish were not true: sometimes, to move from the old version of yourself to the one that can hold the new conversation,

you have to be willing to break your own heart.

It ain’t punishment. It’s for permission. To create a clean departure from the story that can no longer hold you.

And so this 7-day challenge is my way of making sure I am walking toward the life I actually want, not the one my old stories keep trying to pull me back into.

In the midst of deep transformation, the old compulsions don’t get weaker, first they get stronger. You can move halfway across the world and somehow the psyche packs itself in your carry-on.

Without the ole walks, or the ole happy hours that do well to temper the ole miseries, there is always… Instagram. The world’s most efficient numbing agent. In those first ten days after we broke up, I found myself refreshing the app like it was a manual override for my nervous system. Hours disappeared. What was I looking for? Anything. Distraction. Familiarity. A signal. Something that felt like the past even as the present refused to look like it.

The algorithm, naturally, began feeding me breakup content as if it had been eavesdropping on me and my girlfriends. (It had.) And after confessing to Jaycee that my grief was manifesting into compulsive screen consumption, she simply said six words.

Six words strung together, that interrupted the compulsion and put me back on the path of transformation:

Dear Friend,

Friday night, I went to my new friend Lizzie’s birthday party. First of all, three cheers for making new friends as an adult, am I right? I so clearly remember my brother telling me when I started college, “make as many friends as you can this year because it’s the most you’ll ever have.” As an incoming Freshman, I thought he was being dramatic, but now I realize he was absolutely accurate! As we get older, our friend group distills until you’ve got a few single-malt besties, if you’re lucky. So it’s really a joy of all joys to make a new one at 40.

Getting ready for bubbles and cake at Lizzie’s made me feel like I was getting ready for a date. New friend’s friends! What would they be like? What is everyone wearing? Are they gonna like me? What’s the “right thing” to bring over as a host gift?

I stood in front of my closet for longer than I care to admit, then swapped my London sneakers for a heeled boot and walked the fifteen minutes to her house. When I stepped inside, it felt like walking into B-roll from The Holiday. Warm lighting, lovely British couples making smart jokes and cutting each other with kind jabs, and passing the ‘crisps.’ Bubbles being refilled by Lizzie’s three awesome kids and her and her husband Robin taking great care to introduce me to everyone in the room. It was just what the doctor ordered. (Ps. Lizzie’s substack is a must read for those who love food and particularly for parents!)

Toward the end of the evening, Lizzie introduced me to her bestie, Alex, and just as good top-shelf friends do, we cut straight past the small talk and into the goods. She’s five years into studying psychology and somehow we found ourselves digging into which corner of “The Drama Triangle” we find ourselves. (I mean, who wants to talk about the weather when you can peel back the onion of interpersonal patters, am I right?)

So check this out. The Drama Triangle was created by psychiatrist Stephen Karpman in 1968. Apparently he was a lover of the arts and at one point even a SAG member, which makes sense because the whole thing feels like theater when you think about it. It is a way of naming the unhealthy roles we slip into when we try to resolve conflict.

Lizzie and I, rapt with attention, asked, “wait… what are the roles?”

Alex smiled and said, “The Persecutor, The Victim, and The Rescuer.”

Lizzie immediately said, “I know mine.”

I said, “Am I allowed to be all three?” as if we were auditioning for the same part.

Alex explained that we can shift between them depending on the person and the situation. But mostly we fall into one. And because of those early-year influences we never fully escape, the role we unconsciously identify with tends to click into place with other people’s patterns the way two magnets snap toward each other from across the table.

Essentially, we typecast ourselves. Dolly Parton will always be Dolly Parton whether she is in 9 to 5 or Steel Magnolias.

So let us take a look at each one:

What motivates them. How they behave when conflict rises. And most importantly, how to step out of the role you are too dynamic to keep playing:

Dear Friend,

One of my favorite parables crosses traditions. Versions of it appear in Buddhism, Christianity, and in the various rooms of Recovery. It begins with a woman hiking a steep mountain trail when she slips and catches herself on the side of a cliff. She is hanging by her fingertips, feet swinging above the void.

“Help! Is anybody out there?” she calls.

A calm voice answers. “Yes. It’s me, God.”

“Oh thank God,” she says. “I’m hanging off a cliff. What should I do?”

The voice replies, “Let go.”

The woman stares into the abyss, blinks twice, and yells back,

“Is anyone else out there?”

Ha. But also, oof.

Whether it’s accepting a new reality or staring into our final disappearance, letting go is rarely graceful. As the amazing writer Anne Lamott reminds us, “everything we let go of has claw marks on it.” True words.

I’ve been learning that one firsthand. A month ago, my eight-year relationship with Kevin ended. The sentence still catches in my throat when I say it, Friend. Since then, the floor and I have become well acquainted. Some days I lower myself down gently. Other days my legs give out without warning. Either way, I end up there. And I don’t try to stop it anymore.

Dear Friend,

Last Tuesday night, I almost turned back around ten times before I even reached the corner. As I left my apartment, the reasons came rushing in, every argument for why I didn’t really need to go, want to go, or should go to ‘the room behind the church.’

“I’ve already been to an Al Anon meeting,” I told myself. “Sure, it was virtual, but that counts.”

Bundled up against the London chill, I crossed the street (“look right”) and heard the next excuse form in my head. “You already have the tools. You just need to use them more consistently, do the work - but better.”

Then came the loophole argument. “Technically, this meeting isn’t really for you. Your mom’s thing wasn’t alcohol, so you probably don’t even qualify.”

I was early, which is always uncomfortable, so I ducked into a café for a cup of tea. Not because I wanted one, but because at least my hands would have something warm to hold. As I waited, the resistance got louder, this time disguised as judgment. “It’s just going to be a bunch of people telling sob stories.”

Somehow, I made it the four blocks that felt like a lifetime from my flat to the church. According to the website, the meeting was in “the room behind the church.” What kind of directions are those, anyway?

In true European fashion, the church was enormous. What even counts as “behind” when there are five different entrances, each with its own medieval-sized door? “Forget it,” I muttered. “It’s too hard to find.”

And yet, something kept nudging me forward.

Maybe this is it? There were people gathered at what seemed to be a kitchen in a large room marked Montessori School. Huh, they look nice. And, they’re laughing. And, it looks like… are they unpacking… baked goods?

Okay: find the entrance.

I tried one door. Locked. Of course. It was the other behind the church.

Grumbling, I circled the entire block, muttering under my breath. “At least there will be cinnamon rolls.”

Why was I so resistant? This is the kind of work I’ve dedicated my life to. I even studied recovery programs in seminary last year. So why, now, did I feel this sudden urge to escape?

Because this time, I wasn’t there to observe a meeting. I wasn’t there to study it.

This time, I needed it.

Dear Friend,

As a gal living alone in a new city, I like to leave one small salt lamp glowing near the door so when I come home at night there is a little bit of light waiting for me. Last night, when I opened the door, it was dark. For the first time since moving to London, the apartment was completely black.

I tried a few switches, this lamp and that one. Nothing. The heavy rain must have cut the power. No matter. It was late (read: 10pm). Surely it’ll be back by morning.

It wasn’t.

My phone hadn’t charged. No lights. No heat. No wifi. I texted the friend whose place I am subletting from, but she is on the West Coast so I knew it would be hours before she responded. I bundled up, took my laptop to a café, and set up for this weekend’s Seminary class. That worked for a few hours until they politely asked me to pack up, saying “Laptops aren’t allowed on Saturday evenings.” Respect.

Later, my friend sent a voice note guiding me to the fuse box. Flashlight in hand, digging through her closet, I found it. One switch was tripped.

Click-click.Lights! Heat! And then… nothing. It all shut down again.

I did what I suspect what many of us might do these days, I consulted expert handyman, ChatGPT.

“Unplug as many devices as you can. Then reset the switch.”Alright. Toaster. Heater. Kettle. Unplugged.

Click-click.15 seconds of lights. Heat. And then… nothing.

“Unplug everything. Try again. Then plug them back in one by one.”The circuit breaker trips again.

“Go outside and check if other apartments have power.”They did.

“Alright, leave everything off. Avoid resetting it again. Each trip cuts power for safety. Forcing it could cause further damage. This needs an electrician.”

Funny. On Instagram, under “Make The Sun,” my listed profession is “electrician.” And, here I am. Completely in the dark. In my own kind of hard reset.

With no wifi and barely any signal, a text from my sister somehow comes through:

Indeed.

I write to you from here, Friend. Sitting in these shadows. A few candles flickering. A glass of red wine poured.

“The old system lost power.”Ain’t that the truth…

I’m going through something tender right now. It needs more time, space, and care than I have words for yet. Perhaps I’ll share more at some point. For now, I want to offer you something I wrote months ago, on the morning of my fortieth birthday, something I’ve been reworking and editing this week. It’s a love letter to Chosen Family.

There are all kinds of friends. Work friends. Old friends. New friends. Fair-weather friends and childhood ones. But Chosen Family belongs to a category all its own.

They’re the kind of friends who see you clearly, sometimes more clearly than you see yourself, and still stay close when you’re messy, moody, or mid-meltdown. They are the ones who hold your proverbial hair back when life gets gnarly, who don’t flinch when you cry about the same thing for the tenth, fiftieth, or thousandth time.

They’re the mirror, the net, and the default call who listen, nod, reflect, and let you arrive at your own truth in your own time. And they won’t rush your knowing because they trust you’ll see it when you’re meant to.

It’s easy to identify this kind of friendship, because of its consistency. They are your Chosen Family when your heart feels fed and your nervous system feels safe in their presence, all the time, every time.

So for all the friends who hold you through your messy becoming, and all the ones you hold in return - this blessing is for you:

To my own chosen family, thank you.

And to yours, maybe send this their way. Let it be that little reminder of how seen, loved, and necessary they are.

However you are today and wherever you are today, I love you. Thank you for reading this, thank you for being on this journey with me, thank you for showing up every Sunday. It means the world to me.

Love always and in all ways,Nat

Dear Friend,

Four weeks into living in London and I’ve gathered a few critical insights about this marvelous city. I’ll be adding to this list every week:

1: Just because you’re on the subway platform the map told you to be on, does not mean the train pulling in is your train. I’ve tested this theory. Repeatedly.

2: Milk is a different thing here. It is so freaggin’ fresh and golden it makes you realize that whatever we call milk in the States probably needs quotation marks.

3: When a Brit asks, “You alright?” they are not checking in on your emotional stability; they’re just saying hi, stoically.

As I learn this city, I’m learning just as much about myself. The key teacher? My aloneness. When I’m not working with my business partners and growing team, I’m with me. I walk alone, see theater alone, eat alone, often. For this self-diagnosed extrovert, this is new.

At first, the quiet felt endless. There were waves of stillness so deep I could almost disappear into them. The kind of quiet where the world hums on around you and you feel like you’ve stepped slightly outside of it. But something is changing. The ballast is shifting. The stillness that once felt like weight is beginning to feel like steadiness.

More often now, I’m surprised by how much I love the freedom that aloneness brings. It feels like a clean mirror. I’m getting this rare gift of finding out what I like, what I don’t, and what I truly love, without anyone else’s opinions, needs, or wants in the room. For a recovering people pleaser, that’s no small thing.

And yet, even with this newfound steadiness, there is one part of the day that still tests me: dinner. Breakfast alone? No problem. Lunch alone? Easy. But dinner is something else. There’s something about walking into a restaurant where every table seems full of couples or friends that makes the quiet around my own table sound louder.

I think we actively don’t do it because we’ve been taught that Dinner, of all meals, is a social event and to eat alone is to turns up the volume on the ego’s thought that WE think OTHERS are thinking “Oh, poor thing’s alone.” And THAT brings up and mirrors our own absolute allergy to and discomfort with actually having to be with ourselves.

But that mirror is the perfect and most necessary teacher, because learning to be with ourselves in a good way is the skill we need to in order to walk into every and any room and situation in a good way.

Because the relationship you have with yourself sets the tone for literally every other relationship in your life - work, family, and stranger.

Because it decouples the unconscious belief that alone means lonely, loser, or sad, when in fact, it IS connection itself: to the most profound relationship you’ll ever have - you with you, to how you really are when not bombarded by the horrors and heaviness of life, and to a larger conversation beyond you with whatever invisible help might be there for you if you showed up for it.

So I’ve started to study it. To experiment. To make myself a student of this meal. What makes dinner alone feel alive instead of empty? What turns it from awkward to interesting? How can I make this most social of meals a space where I feel empowered, even joyful?

And, moment of celebration, I’m getting pretty good at it if I do say so myself! As I’ve started taking myself out on Date Nights, I’m learning a few things along the way. So, in the spirit of both research and romance, I offer you:

The Guide to Eating Alone and Feeling Great About It

1: Dress Like You Haven’t Given Up on Yourself

No leggings. Not even if you live in LA, mmmkay? (I say this as someone who lived 24/7 in leggings, proudly, for years.) If you were going on a hot date at that new restaurant everyone’s talking about, you’d pull that frock out from behind the blazers. If it were a cozy locals-only neighborhood spot, you’d reach for the good jeans and that I-woke-up-like-this boot. If you’re gonna wear sneakers, make it that fun pair (not the ones you run in!). What you wouldn’t do is roll into that fine establishment like you just rolled out of a nap.

If you’d get dolled up for them, why wouldn’t you for you?

Spend a little energy getting ready for the hottest date of all: the one with you, HUNey. Do that thing with your hair that makes you feel like a million bucks. Wear the earrings, the bold lip, or the sexy underwear that gives you a secret smile. Whatever is you doing you. That extra energy is what carries you from awkward to magnetic, from self-conscious to self-possessed.

2: Choose Your Table, Choose Your Vibe

If you leave it up to the maître d’, odds are they’ll try to tuck you away at the unsexy table near the waiter’s station. No. Absolutely not. Nobody puts Solo-Date-Night in the corner.

Be proactive. Be vocal. Choose where you sit. You can make a reservation ahead of time (as I’m learning is non-negotiable in London) or simply point to the spot that feels best when you walk in. If you want to chat with a stranger or strike up conversation with the bartender, sit where that’s possible. If you’ve got a hot date with a Miranda July’s “All Fours,” claim that cozy booth. The whole booth! Take over the whole damn booth. You’re not being high-maintenance; you’re setting the vibe.

Okay SO… #3 is definitely 100% the hardest one, BUT it does get easier the more you do it and the pay off is truly life changing:

Back in August, right before I moved to London, I had the gift of sitting down with my new friend Paige Nolan for her podcast I’ll Meet You There. It was one of those rare conversations that bends time - easy, familiar, like speaking with an old friend you’ve only just met.

We spoke about so much: the making of Make the Sun, the practice of presence, the discipline of joy, and the personal mantra of “the weather is the weather, but you make the sun.” We talked about how I came to this work, how the body has always been my entry point into spirit, and how creative expression has been a form of prayer long before I ever felt called to call it that.

Paige and I also spent time on the topic of burnout, that seductive pull toward over-care, and the myth that you have to burn out to show you care. We explored what it means to stay open in a world that keeps inviting us to close. How to keep finding color when everything starts to turn gray.

There’s a story in here about my mom, about addiction, about learning to feel again. Another about leadership and grief, and about how sometimes what looks like an ending is actually the beginning of a different kind of prayer.

That got us into faith but not what was passed down to you from any kind of system - the kind you cultivate. The kind that grows in you as you fall, study, get back up, fail, rebuild, and begin again. I share a practice I learned from my interfaith seminary called the Five Element Prayer, that has become an anchor for me.

This episode touches so many parts: art, theology, movement, and the ongoing work of staying human in the midst of it all. I hope something in this conversation serves you. I hope it offers even one small reminder that you have the power to meet your circumstances with light, even when things feel heavy.

Thank you, Paige, for such an open-hearted exchange, for meeting me in the field, and for the gift of deep listening.

The audio above is the podcast episode itself. You can also watch the full video conversation on YouTube just below.

May it be useful. May it be kind. May it bring a little more sunlight to wherever you are.

With love,Natalie

Dear Friend,

It is fitting that on this plane ride back to London, after a week-long retreat asking ourselves “how do we become the peace we wish to see in the world,” a small child is enthusiastically drumming the back of my seat and my seatmate is playing an alarmingly violent video game at full volume. I Heart Vueling.

These are, in the scheme of things, ‘child’s play’ next to the suffering that headlines announce every hour. And yet how we react in these tiny, intrusive moments tells us a great deal about how we respond in far more consequential ones. They are micro-practices. So let’s give it a shot.

Pop Quiz: which should I do first?

Turn around to the kid behind me in 23F, reach over them to the back of their chair, and shake it vigorously for a good two minutes straight, then look them in the eyes and say “how’s that for ya, punk?”

OR

Should I turn to the guy next to me, rip his impressively loud iphone-turned-game-boy out of his hands, throw it into the aisle for it to be crushed by the oncoming attendant’s drink cart, and say “aren’t we a little old to be playing video games Mister Man?”

I am absolutely playing both scenes in 8K cinematic quality in my head, curious which would soothe my insatiable appetite for peace.

The thing about practice is that it doesn’t mean the impulse, thought, or emotion never happen again. It means we get better at catching them, and we return quicker. The name of the game is: more awake, more of the time. That’s it.

This past week, the practice of the retreat gave the retreat its name: OLIVA. Not only for the olive groves that surround the hacienda outside Sevilla, but as a living metaphor - an instruction - on how we become the proverbial olive branch. One thing we noticed: you won’t see a baby olive tree for three years. All the growth is happening underground. To experience that growth, you have to drop beneath the surface.

And so it is with us human types. The surface will always hold the chaos- the roles we live in, the identities we clutch: mother, boss, wounded, perfect, American, Catholic, Lakers fan. If you’ve been with me a while, you’ve heard me trace identification to the Latin idem facare - to make one. When I am one with ‘mother’ or ‘champion,’ a critique of the role reads like a critique of me.

Don’t mess with who I believe myself to be. And if you do, there might just be hell to pay.

That is what I call The False House, the structure we build out of our roles and identities and then mistake for home. It can feel safe and familiar, even beautiful, but it cannot hold the soul. The real home, as David Whyte writes in The House of Belonging, is the one beneath all that scaffolding, the ‘bright home’ we return to when we drop below the surface.

Now, do not get me wrong…

If you are thinking about, in the middle of, or are just on the other side of making a big change, this post is for you. Included in it is an exercise I often do with myself to help me take stock of all that’s brought me to this moment and the courage to step into what’s next. And at the end, a few solid questions to journal on. Without further ado…

Dear Friend,

On Thursday my friend Christina sent me a voice note to share that she, too, is about to take a big leap: moving to a new city and starting a new chapter. Christina was the Assistant Studio Manager of The Class LA and also a phenomenal teacher. For those new to Make the Sun, I used to teach and work for The Class for many years, and Christina was one of the people who made our LA community so special.

She told me that after I left, she took over the Friday 11:30am class I used to teach. And now, she would be teaching her last class on the very same day I had taught mine - one year ago.

Her message brought me to tears. After sending her a long voice note back (because honestly, are there ever short ones?), I leaned back into my chair. Wow. One year. I knew that anniversary was coming, but here it is.

I remember exactly how I felt getting ready to teach that last class. I was up at 4am prepping to teach the 11:30am, writing and rewriting the five minute dharma talk I wanted to give before class. I wanted so badly to properly thank every single person who had been part of that chapter of my life. I felt almost desperate to do it right, because I knew it was not just my last class. It was the end of something that had shaped me, and I wanted to do it justice.

And then, sixty minutes later, it was over. My work email shut off. I logged out of Slack and Asana. Just like that, it was done.

The identity that had shaped me - “I’m Natalie from The Class” - was suddenly out of date. And the next chapter was completely unwritten. No company to join in two weeks. No shiny title waiting for me. Nothing but a big independent contractor health insurance bill staring at me from a blank new Make the Sun inbox.

It feels poetic that I am writing this from 30,000 feet in the sky. My plane from the States to Europe is hurdling over a thick quilt of stitched white clouds with no topography in sight. That is exactly how it felt to leave the studio that day.

What in the world would happen next.

Big changes often feel like the doppler effect. Like the sound of a train far off in the distance, getting louder as it approaches, and then just as quickly as the crescendo climaxes, it begins to fade.

I spent at least a year contemplating leaving The Class. And then I did it in stages, first my corporate job and then my teaching job. At first, all I heard was the anxiety talking. “How do expect to make enough money and have health insurance? Who are you if you’re not ‘Natalie from The Class’? But you still love some of the things that have kept you going all these years - the community! What will you do without the community! Stay with what you know, even if you’re unhappy; at the very least its familiar and familiar feels safe.” “What if it doesn’t work out?”

My friend Cristina (different Cristina, no “h” but just as bright of a light) recently sent me a voicenote (yes, this is the basis of all my friendships) and said “I know I need to call myself to the table.” I think that’s such a good way of putting it. There’s a voice that’s constantly tapping us on the shoulder, “Nat! Nat! Hey Nat!” And the other part that says “Not now. Not yet.” This, I think, is what we really mean by anxiety. Some part of us needs to be heard, and another part is not ready to hear it.

Because when we actually sit down to have that conversation, we will be accountable to what we hear.

At first it is just a moment at the table, then another, until one day we are ready to make a pot of tea. And any tea drinker knows, if the pot is poured, you are in for a real chat.

Slowly that anxious voice was joined by another one.

“How do you expect to make enough money and have health insurance?Well, hun, you’re a smart cookie who is gonna just figure it out.”

“Who are you if you’re not ‘Natalie from The Class’?Have you ever considered that you get to be… Natalie? Just Natalie?” (Holds up “just jack” hands)

“But you still love some of the things that have kept you going all these years - the community!You get to always love the parts that you loved. Do you hear me? You get to always love the parts that you loved. And those that want to take this next ride with you, will. And those that don’t, that’s their business. Mind your own.”

“Stay with what you know, even if you’re unhappy; at the very least its familiar and familiar feels safe.Honey, were you given a divine soul in your unique body for this particular time on earth by the grace of God to settle? Check yourself and report back when you have an answer fit for the divinity you were gifted.”

“What if it doesn’t work out?Give up on nonsense. What if it does?”

We spend so much time giving our precious energy, attention, and devotion to the thoughts that keep us in a perpetual state of worry. So. Much.

We begin to trust our worries more than our dreams.

That is, until we give that other voice a little more time on the mic.

What if it doesn’t work out… what if it does? What if it DOES? WHAT IF IT DOES?

How would things change if we gave that voice more energy, attention, and devotion? What if we even just pretended to believe in ourselves, until we actually do? What if we started to trust the smallest voice more than the loudest one?

Over time I realized this is not even about which voice we listen to. I think it’s about whether we give our energy to ego, or give ourselves to God (divine, spirit, oneness). All those worries? My ego: fears about relevance, security, loss. All that encouragement? Spirit: trust in surrender, in faith, in that which is known by many names but is nameless.

As the volume on this conversation got louder and louder and the crescendo of taking the big leap reached its apex, and it was just the open road ahead, there was a kind of decrescendo. And Friend - ha - as it turns out, it was all true. I just couldn’t have planned for what ended up happening:

Cue the party hats, the balloons, and an entire marching band because today is the one year anniversary of Make the Sun Substack - TODAY! On September 21 last year, I hit publish on the very first post, and fifty posts later, here we are, all three thousand and three of us. My heart is exploding with gratitude and joy.

Thank you for coming along on this ride. Together we have weathered career pivots, relationship ups and downs, heart and soul palpitations, and most recently my leap across the pond to London. Every single week, I have looked forward to sitting down, stretching my writing muscles, and sharing something with you.

Here is my confession: your comments, your emails, even just knowing you are on the other side of the screen reading, has been the brightest confetti in my life. When you share how a post lands with you, it feels like fireworks going off in my brain. And to know that sometimes you share these posts with a loved one? It’s the honor of all honors.

As a thank you for being with me along this ride, this post is free for all and includes a playlist I created just for you. A playlist to buoy your spirits whenever they feel dampened, as you have for me by joining me here at Make the Sun.

How The Week Started

This week was a wild ride here in London, full of unexpected turns. It started with a startle and ended with inspiration. One of the joys of moving to a new city is constantly being surprised by strangeness and beauty.

Last Saturday, my friend Shannon (Hi hun!) took me to Gordon’s, the oldest wine bar in London. We went underground, deep into a cave with a sign that read Renovated in 1661. Oh-kay!? Wow. I pressed my hands against the cold stone wall, imagining the hundreds of years of planning, scheming, hiding, celebrating, reuniting, and mischief that must have taken place here. I joked, “Imagine all the protests and insurrections that have been planned here!” I still can’t believe those words came out of my mouth, because…

Little did we know, we were about to walk into one.

When we came back up to the street, it was filled with people, mostly men draped in Union Jacks like capes. And at first, we think “Has a football match just let out?” Flags waving, voices loud, energy spilling into the roads. But as we followed the crowd back on to the main road that over looks Trafalgar Square, we realized this tributary was joining a much larger river. That’s when Shannon spotted the signs: “Stop the Boats.”

We had walked straight into: Tommy Robinson’s “Unite the Kingdom” protest, which would later be reported at 150,000 people strong.

The mood was complicated. Some people were chanting and smiling, others shouting slogans with real force, some just drifting with the crowd. There were beer cans in hand, flags in every direction, conversations overheard about immigration, jobs, and national pride. It wasn’t just anger, though that was there. It wasn’t just pride either. It was a mix: defiance, frustration, camaraderie, fear.

And then there were the police. Long lines of officers in riot gear stood anchored across the streets. What struck me most was what I didn’t see: no guns. Having been part of Black Lives Matter protests in Brooklyn, the Women’s Marches in Los Angeles, even just the police presence in American airports, it made me realize how normalized I’ve become to seeing police with semi-automatic rifles at the ready. Here, in a crowd this size, the absence was startling.

I found myself asking more questions than I could answer. What would it take for us to shape cultures where conflict generates creativity instead of division? How might the energy of so many people gathered together be directed toward bridge building? Could belonging be practiced as a superpower of inclusion, something that expands us rather than threatens our sense of identity? What practices could help us stay open to one another, even when we disagree? How might we design spaces where more people feel safe enough to bring their full selves? And if all of this is possible, how do we begin?

How The Week Ended

By the end of the week, the pendulum swung in such a different direction.

My London family, my business partner Joe who is my brother from another mother, and his wife Jodie (Hi Jodez!), a sister from another mister, invited me to see Jodie walk in London Fashion Week! I had never been to a fashion show before, and to my surprise I felt nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. The movies make it look so glamorous and intimidating! For most of my life, anything related to fashion felt like a room I did not have the key to, a place where I simply did not belong. And yet here was this generous, open-palmed invitation to step inside, offered by people I love and trust, people who have always made me feel welcome. What a privilege and what a gift.

Backstage was not what I expected. Instead of noise and chaos, it was silent. You could cut the tension with a knife. Models sat in chairs while makeup artists leaned in close. Helpers buckled shoes. Designers whispered. I wanted to gather everyone and say “Alright everyone, deep breath IN, and deep breath OUT!” - shake loose the intensity. Jodie, grounded, centered, and awake as she always is, felt it and guided us into a calmer room, where there was a little more laughter, a little more space to exhale.

One of the things I love the most about Joe and Jodie is that they are who they are in every context - whether talking to a stranger on the street, a head of industry, or a fashion designer. I have had, as I’m sure you have too, so many experiences where people shift depending on who is in the room, where power dynamics suddenly change the air between you. It is painful, because you see how fragile connection can be. Being with Joe and Jodie is healing that part of me. They are themselves, always, and that constancy of kindness and presence feels like a gift, a lesson, and a teacher for me.

Eventually Joe and I took our seats. The guests filed in: clusters of editors, journalists, influencers, each group with its own style and language. I was half expecting Cinna, Katniss’s stylist from The Hunger Games, to step out with a clipboard and start assigning looks.

And then Jodie walked.

She opened and closed the show, a sign that the producers understood her power. Each time she came out, she lit the room on fire, and we knew we were in the presence of greatness. The clothes became secondary. What mattered was the way she carried herself, the magnetism of her presence, the electricity running through her spine. Some models looked beautiful, but the weight of their self-consciousness shifted the frequency of the room. Jodie seemed lit from within, joyful, confident, luminous. As an audience member, I could relax, enjoy, and feel inspired not by the clothes, but by the grace of bearing witness to someone sharing the fullness of their presence. She filled the room with light, and that light made space for the rest of us to breathe.

I wondered, if I had not been invited in by the generosity of Joe and Jodie, how would this experience have felt different? Can we possibly quantify how seismic is it to be welcomed into someone else’s world? Their invitation gave me a sense of belonging in a space where there once was a kind of exile. Have we minimized how profound it is when someone embodies their light and how much it can change a room? If we each spent more time cultivating and sharing our own light, what kinds of invitations might we extend to others? How might our generosity of spirit shift the feeling of who belongs and who does not?

So much of this week was about belonging. In one moment I was swept into a crowd wrestling with who counts as part of a nation. In another I was sitting in a room filled with light because friends chose to share a part of their world with me.

The questions are still echoing: How do we create circles that welcome rather than exclude? How do we meet conflict in ways that build rather than break? What light do we each carry, and how might we offer it to one another?

As I sit with those questions, I also hear a more personal one: how am I living my life in a way that welcomes instead of separates? How can I become an open invitation, especially in places and spaces where people have not historically felt that they belonged? What would it look like if my presence itself could be a signal of safety and generosity, the kind that lets others breathe a little easier?

As Make the Sun turns one, I am struck by how this space has already begun to teach me those things. Each week I write something down and send it out. Each week you meet me here, with your reflections, your own stories, your willingness to listen and respond. Together we are shaping a small circle of belonging, one that stretches across cities and oceans, one that feels porous and alive.

I do not know where year two will take us, but I know I want to keep asking these questions with you. I want to keep practicing welcome. I want to keep learning how to embody light in a way that changes the temperature of the room.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for your generosity. Thank you for making this first year such a gift. Here is to another year of questions, reflections, and shared light.

Playlist below, with love,Nat

Dear Friend,

What an incredibly painful week, one full of shock, rage, blame, and overwhelm. It felt like this week had two distinct parts: the actual horrific violence of the Colorado shooting and the fatal shooting of Charlie Kirk, and then… the response.

What struck me most, and I suspect it struck you too, was the relentless undercurrent of dehumanization. The muted coverage of yet another school shooting carried out by a teenager. The assassination of Charlie Kirk, whose rhetoric for years stripped dignity from anyone who was not white, male, straight, and Christian. The assassin himself, who reduced Kirk to nothing more than a target. And then, finally, the response: a tidal wave of commentary that was less about mourning or reflection than about performance, partisanship, and rage. From my viewpoint, it was a week when the internet showed us, in unvarnished clarity, the ugliest version of itself.

Now the question becomes, where do we go from here. For me, the only direction that makes sense is the opposite one, and we need to run there, as quickly as we possibly can.

We need to move straight into: radical humanization.

Let’s just sit with those two words for a second.

Radical, comes from the Latin word that means root. Humanization, to make human.

We gotta return to the root of what it means to be human and make others more human. Consciously, consistently, powerfully, and we need to begin yesterday. As far as I can tell, the phrase itself is not widely coined, but the practice is hardly new. The idea of affirming humanity in the face of erasure runs deep in social justice traditions, theological writings, and educational thought.

To say it plainly: we need to practice seeing the humanity in us, and also beyond us. And that get’s tricky, right!? That means noticing when we reduce someone to an enemy, a caricature, or a headline. It means slowing down enough to imagine what fear or pain might feel like from the ‘other side’ of the screen, or the ‘other side’ of the political divide, or whatever we are saying “the other side” might be. It means daring to grant dignity even when we disagree, even when we cannot condone the words or the actions.

If dehumanization is the slow erosion of empathy, then radical humanization is the deliberate work of restoring it.

And - goodness - because the universe works in such divinely orchestrated ways, I was given the chance to practice this my-damn-self! I s**t you not, as I was writing about radical humanization and wondering what it truly means in my own life, practically… a message landed in my DMs. And boom - it immediately sparked a sense of protection.

Good Morning, Friend,

I’m writing to you from Notting Hill, London, where I landed Tuesday morning and will be for the next six months. My business partner (and brother from another mother), Joe, generously picked me up at the airport and drove me straight to my new flat (still not used to calling it that). From that moment on, it’s been off to the races.

The past few days have been a whiplash of emotions. The high highs: reuniting with my two business partners, finally having consistent in-person meetings, belly laughing at their razor-sharp humor, learning from their big brains, feeling our plans click into place. (I’ll introduce you to them soon; there’s no better way to describe them than to say: they are excellent men.) Add to that the privilege of being in a stage of life where I can pick up and move cities. I’ve got a partner cheering me on (hi hun!), no kids to uproot, and I’m here for work I believe in. Pinch me.

And then…the low lows, often triggered by the most ridiculous things: opening the cupboard to find mugs that -obviously- aren’t mine (cue the tears), fumbling with the shower controls (cue the tears), walking out to grab coffee only to realize I need Google Maps (cue the tears).

If you’ve been following these SUNday posts, you might ask, “But Nat, haven’t you been in London off and on all year?” True. But there’s a vast difference between visiting and moving. Work Trip Mode versus New Life Mode. My dear friend Katie Zion, wrapping up her own London chapter as I arrived, helped me name this over dinner: When you’re visiting, you don’t need to belong, you’re a joyful guest. When you move, belonging becomes the point.

That’s why I suddenly notice belonging everywhere: a car slipping into the staff spot at the local church, a baby being changed in a corner-flat window, the barista who knows the regular’s order in front of me. Ordinary moments that announce: these people live here.

And whether I welcome or resent those moments depends on something almost embarrassingly simple, like: Am I tired?

Take these three real-life, just-happened, examples:

1. Nearly concussed by a double-decker bus

* Tired: Good LORD, so this is how I’m going to meet The Creator? Get on the “right side” of the road, Mister! A plague upon you!

* Rested: Wow, it’s so magnificent how their bus system is so powerful and efficient! How do they navigate the narrow roads with such an impressive piece of machinery?

2. Lost on my way to dinner

* Tired: Forget it! Call the whole thing off! This was a dumb idea and everyone is staring at my dumb shoes that are totally wrong for this dumb weather that can’t seem to make a singular choice minute to minute - is it sunny? Is it rainy? Make up your goddamn MIND, SKY!

* Rested: Amazing how the light changes the mood and texture of these absolutely charming hanging flowers cascading from this sweet little pub; I’m going to ‘drop a pin’ on it and return here later. And, oh my gosh, you’ve got to be kidding, am I stumbling upon the… is that… the blue door from Notting Hill the movie???

3. Waking up on GMT

* Tired: Everyone I know is asleep and completely unreachable - let me innumerate all my loved ones and how none of them are here, one by one by one by one - LETS BEGIN: Kevin is asleep, Dad is asleep, Brooke is asleep, Jaycee is asleep, Jill is asleep, Smooch is definitely asleep…

* Rested: Wow, look at all these glorious texts from all my loved ones who wanted to make sure I woke up with a little note from them. I’ll make a cuppa in my friend’s fabulously cute mugs and listen to them like a meditation from Love Itself. Gosh, aren’t I lucky? Isn’t life just THE BEST?

Friend, it’s night and mutha-effin day. A testament to how naughty the mind can be and how necessary it is to disinvest from its tantrums. As soon as I realize I’m in a tantrum, I go through a very very ridiculously simple checklist I call “The ABCs” (which I’ll share in just a bit) and it helps me get back to the most essential practice. The practice we always need, and the one that’s easiest to forget:

It’s rare that we truly perceive beginnings or endings, unless they arrive stark and undeniable, like a birth or a death. Most of the time we live in the murky middle, moving from one moment to the next without really noticing the edges. Only when we choose to consciously mark time, by stepping away from it, do those thresholds reveal themselves. To do that, we have to pull back from the constant busyness and the endless transacting of hours: “not enough” of them here, and “too far off” from now. You know the drill.

The marking of time is one of the hallmarks of good friendship. True friends help you see how far you’ve come since then, how every day has led you to today, and remind you that you’re capable of tomorrow.

The testament of real friendship is that you are remembered and reimagined at the same time.

That is what Thursday was for me. Up on a rooftop in Santa Monica, two of my best friends and I sat together for four hours, weaving in and out of the nuances of each other’s lives. We named things in the way only ‘besties’ can, as if by naming them, we were both noting their significance and imbuing them with meaning.

This gathering was a celebration of many life moments, and in particular a chance to be together one last time before I leave for London on Monday, where I’ll spend the next six months, aside from a brief holiday return.

As we turned over each stone, a theme began to surface. All of us are stepping into a Fall that feels like a season of second chances. We are returning to a similar terrain, but with a different invitation. The ground might be familiar, but it is asking of us a new courage, a new way to meet it.

And isn’t this the work of a human life? To walk again into places we thought we knew, and find them speaking to us as if for the first time. The same relationship with a parent, but now through the lens of aging. The same promise of marriage, but spoken as a new vow with a new partner. Or the same long-term union, but inhabited with new curiosity. For me, the same craft, but taken up with clearer eyes. How do we make the most of this ‘Familiar Unknown’?

My dad and I are book clubbing a book together. A first for us. He is usually buried in history, while I am usually tucked into poetry or consciousness stuff. So I was surprised when, after I mentioned the book I had just started, he wanted to join me.

In perfect chefs-kiss Dad Joke form, this newly retired pulmonologist was intrigued almost entirely by the title: “‘Breathing Under Water,’ eh? I’d like to see how he does that!”

When Dad said he wanted to read this one with me, I was cautiously optimistic. The book had come highly recommended by a new friend (hi Liz!) after she learned I was in interfaith seminary training. It is by Richard Rohr, a well known Franciscan priest who often challenged conventional theology, critiqued the “who’s in, who’s out” mentality of Western Christianity, and championed a radically inclusive approach to faith. Breathing Under Water explores the parallels between the Gospel and the 12 Step Recovery Program.

Given our family history, the choice felt especially charged. Dad’s father was an Irish bar owner, and in Ireland there is no such thing as an alcoholic, they are simply Irish, and my mom, his wife, struggled with drug addiction. Which made it all the more striking that Dad not only agreed to read it but wanted to dive in with me.

Yesterday my dad said, “So I finished Chapter 2…”

I asked, “What do you think?”

He said, “You know, there were three times in my life when I could have drunk myself into real trouble.”

Me: “What was one of them?”

Dad: “When I finally got the ICU job I’d wanted. I just kept thinking, ‘I’m gonna lose this.’ Which seems odd, I know. I had just landed the job I wanted, but the fear of losing it made me want to drink more.”

Me: “How did you pull the emergency brake?”

Dad: “In the ICU I saw patient after patient come in suffering from addiction. I saw with my own eyes how much there was to lose. Not just the job in the ICU, but the hospital itself, or worse. And with you three kids still so young, yeah, that was it.”

What struck me most was how quickly a single thought, “I am going to lose this,” grew into a whole world. Once we are living inside a thought like that, our choices begin to follow its logic.

Fear insists that it is the only truth, and then we start acting as if it is.

This, of course, is not unique to my dad. This is all of us.

For me, the story often begins with the fear that I am not smart enough. That fear quickly becomes the thought that “I need to prove my worth in any room I enter so no one will discover what I lack.” And once that story takes the driver’s seat, I start performing, over-preparing, overextending. It is a highway track to burnout, exhaustion, and the most expensive of all: disconnection from myself. The very thing I am afraid of becomes more likely to happen, because in trying to prove my worth I lose the ease and presence that make real connection possible.

In that same conversation, when I told my dad that one of my most persistent thoughts is “I am not smart enough,” he gave a small laugh of recognition and with a weary acknowledgment said, “Huh. I have that one too.” Like it is a disease. “I have it too.” I contracted it. And of course he does. And of course it is.

Fears are not always solely personal. They can be inherited. The same fear can ripple through a family, handed down like an heirloom we never asked for. I can only bet that his father carried the same fear. What begins as one person’s inner doubt becomes the atmosphere a whole household breathes, shaping the stories we tell about who we are and what is possible for us.

The same thing happens at the level of culture. Shared insecurities harden into shared stories, and those stories have deep costs, violent consequences. Fear of losing power creates a story that power belongs to some and not to others. That story is at the root of systems like, you name it, patriarchy and racism and economic exclusion. And now we hear the echoes of that same fear in the rhetoric of our own political leadership. The fear that fuels authoritarian tendencies tends to be fear of insignificance, of losing control, of not being recognized. In our political discourse that fear sometimes becomes the story that certain people deserve to dominate and others to be excluded. That story, left unexamined, fractures communities, strips people of dignity, and deepens division.

A thought by itself is not the problem. Thoughts come and go all day. Their danger grows when they anchor into those unexamined needs or fears. Then they can harden into what feels like the absolute truth. If we do not go deeper, we accept thoughts like “I am going to fail” (guess what happens) or “They do not value me” (guess what happens) as if they describe reality itself. And when that happens, our lives begin to reflect those thoughts. Our actions follow their logic. We live inside their script.

But here’s the turning point. We may logically understand “ah right that’s just a story; I should change that script.” But transformation is hard work. It requires something of us. But there is a particular hinge. It’s an absolute mission critical piece, and we’re much more likely to step into the dirty work of transformation, of interrupting these fears that create these stories that create these actions, if we understand this one piece:

Dear Friend,

The last two weeks of summer always carry a peculiar weight. The air itself feels suspended, heavy with the scent of grass, sweat, and smoke, as if the season is both lingering and already gone. When nothing more really needs to be done, though we are so good at convincing ourselves otherwise. Which is why even an email sent now feels like a triumph of productivity, though anyone sensible has already forgotten what an inbox is until September.

It’s right about now that we glance both ways: back at the travels that, if we’re lucky, have shaped us & forward at the projects that, if we’re lucky, are just beginning to take shape. It’s the pause between two distinctly different rhythms, a gathering up the gifts of barefoot, humid nights when a cold drink sweats in your hand, just before we lace up our shoes and take to fall’s running track.

This particular end of summer feels uniquely stark. It’s my last few weeks here in Los Angeles, writing from the crook of our L-shaped couch with Smooch’s paws pressed against said bare feet as he exhales deeper into his nap. Kevin sits in the green chair across from me, sipping infamously famous Kevin Courtney Coffee and chipping away at his long-in-the-making book.

On September 1, just at the stroke of summer’s end, I’ll roll two suitcases onto a flight bound for Heathrow, where I’ll be for the rest of the year. Those back-and-forth trips to London every few weeks? It’s time for that new business to materialize. Literal hard hats go on the very day I land, as we make our way toward a January 2026 opening.

I’ll be subletting a sweet apartment from an old friend in none other than Notting Hill, and plan on living my best blue-door, spilled-orange-juice, just-a-girl kind of life. There is so much I am looking forward to. I love the team I am co-creating with, the mission we are on, the world we are building together. I cannot wait to log off those early morning Zooms with my British counterparts, their day ending as mine is only beginning, and then finally walk through the same daylight side by side. I cannot wait to learn a new city, to be stopped in my tracks on the way home by the glow of a pub that insists I come in. I cannot wait for a week’s worth of good work to spill me, happily spent, into a last-minute theater seat in the West End, letting the fatigue dissolve into darkness just as the curtain rises.

But that is all just about to happen…

Recently my friend Shannon shared a mantra she has repeated for the last fifteen years, one she first saw on a hand-painted sign in Maui: you don’t have to push the river.

And yet there I was, waist-deep in the current, shoving it in every exhausting and fruitless direction.

That river being: social media.

In recent weeks I had joined my voice to the swelling outcry online, speaking more pointedly than I have in the past. I was responding to the horrors that continue to pound Gaza, posting my dissent against the systematic starvation of its people and sharing links to several humanitarian aid groups. Some responded with quiet gestures of agreement, the kind you send with a single tap. Others vehemently disagreed. Thousands unfollowed, some quietly, some crudely. And for weeks, my DMs became a strange kind of riverbank, with occasional invitations for conversation drifting in, often carrying links of their own.

For weeks, I responded to each DM. And that was… a lengthy, not always worthy practice.

As you can imagine, some conversations turned out to be far less fruitful than I’d hoped, mostly because they weren’t really conversations at all. Often it was someone, emboldened by anonymity, looking for an outlet more than an exchange, a place to deposit frustration without any shared commitment to listening or mutual respect. A reminder that:

Social media is no place for the slow work of understanding.

And then there was one exchange that absolutely magnetized me. A woman I didn’t know sent me three links that were meant to dismantle, or, more honestly, to eviscerate my point of view. Part of me thought, engaging here might be like tobogganing straight into a black hole. But still another felt called to understand how and why we might be coming not just from opposing views, but from opposing sides of the planet.

With each link she sent, I diligently traced it back to its source, mapping out who the writer was and whether their work was grounded in verifiable data and transparent reporting.

In each case, the answer was clear. There was an agenda, and she was committed to it. From what I could gather, the sources showed consistent bias, lacked credibility, and leaned heavily in one direction without meaningful fact-checking.

I will admit that my ego wanted to prove to her that she was getting bad information, that I was right, and that she should change her view. Another part of me, a more compassionate one, really truly wanted to understand why and how she felt this reporting was honest and why she trusted it.

And y’all: she - felt - the - exact - same - way. We practically used the same words. She discredited the sources I shared and she couldn’t believe that I had been “duped” by my journalistic preferences.

Somewhere deep into our days of exchanging DMs, we both landed on the same point: most people choose their media outlets to confirm their own bias, not to find alternative viewpoints. That is a direct quote from her. And of course she was using it to point out something in me and yet, I felt that it was pointing out something in her. But, for the first time, we did … agreed.

Yes, some people try to read from multiple sources to get as many perspectives as possible before making an informed decision or viewpoint, but for the most part, most people don’t.

Most people want to be corroborated in their existing beliefs, and the algorithms of social media and AI are happy to play the accomplice.

This moment of agreement was a turning point. I asked her flat out, Why do you believe what you believe? And in a pause, in a cessation, from proving and defending, she stepped out from behind her argument.

She told me about several difficult and disturbing deaths in her family, and the conversation became deeply personal, rooted in trauma and the very human need to make meaning from loss.

From that standpoint, I could see why she believed what she believed and why she sourced her truth from the places she did. Understanding her reasons did not mean agreeing with her conclusions, nor excusing information that could cause harm. But it did mean I could see the person behind the position.

And what it brought me back to was a question that all contemplative traditions as of any sincere seeker:

From where do you source your truth?

Simply put: I just want to tell you that I love you. I could probably leave this Substack post at that, because it’s the surest form of communication I can find. There’s so much language that gets misinterpreted and miscommunicated, because it’s nearly impossible to fit heartbreak-at-scale into form.

And right now, as humanitarian aid is being blocked, as famine deepens, as hostages remain in captivity, as entire families are lost to airstrikes and entire communities are stripped of their humanity by the narratives surrounding them, words feel especially fragile. There is so much grief, so much vilifying, and so little space to notice how our own unprocessed pain is shaping the way we respond to the collective one. And of course, social media is where that kind of depth dissolves on contact.

I don’t know much

about geopolitics, though I read and research and listen and ask. I may never fully comprehend the systemic game of chess that is being played out with peoples as pawns. My mind keeps scrambling for a why, something to make sense of the violent, relentless devastation unfolding before our eyes. My heart is tattered to think the ones carrying it out may no longer even know their own.

But I do know that your heart is breaking with mine.

I know you want peace, not as a platitude, but as protection, as dignity, as the right to live. I know you want children, all children, to be given the chance to grow, to be safe, to be nourished in body and spirit. I know you want families to stay whole, to come home, to rebuild under safe skies. I know you want every person held in captivity, unjustly, violently, invisibly, to be freed. And I know it breaks something in you, too, to see how even these longings are being torn apart, politicized, or made to compete.

We may disagree on

how we talk about it, who we donate to, or how we move our grief into action. We may disagree on whether our pain is seen, met, or understood, or whether it’s been dismissed, distorted, or denied. We may disagree on what justice looks like in this moment, or how to make a difference in the long shadow of the thousands of years that brought us here. We may disagree on which levers might bring about a ceasefire, and who must be pushed to pull them.

But ultimately,

I believe we are bound by something deeper than our disagreements: a longing for the world to be made whole. A belief that every life is precious, and that no one should live in fear, under fire, or without a future. I believe compassion is not just a sentiment but a discipline, one we must practice in our homes, on our screens, in our streets, and demand through our policies. In a time when cruelty is loud and quick to multiply, we need to strengthen the quieter muscle of mercy. Not as a way to bypass grief or justice, but as the only path sturdy enough to carry them.

To feel what’s here without turning away

is as difficult as it is a requirement. I’ve been paying close attention to how my own pain moves through me, how it shapes the way I listen or don’t and shapes the way I act. I don’t believe that tending to pain is enough on its own. But I do believe that it’s foundational. For the sake of how I relate to yours. For the possibility of something less cruel than what we’re living through. For our capacity to transmute our pain into action, and ultimately into justice. These words came out of that effort:

How are you, Friend? (Breathe before you respond.) I wonder what your own relationship to pain looks like right now - personal, ancestral, collective. How do you meet it? Avoid it? Moralize it? So much harm in the world begins in unacknowledged pain - in pain that gets distorted into righteousness, silence, or rage. But what if tending to that pain, yours, mine, ours, could be part of how we build a world less governed by it?

If we can learn

to tend to our pain, not to justify it, or center it, or weaponize it, but to actually meet it, maybe we can begin to transform it. And not just individually, but together. Our collective pain holds the possibility of becoming collective action. Not reaction. Not vengeance. But a slow, steady insistence on justice. On life. On the dignity of all people. What if we let this pain move us not just to feel more deeply, but to act more courageously, with the kind of care that refuses to be reduced to sides?

I find it helpful to channel my heartbreak into something tangible.

If that’s helpful for you too, take what you need from what’s here. Leave what isn’t. Let it be one small reminder that pain doesn’t have to harden us. It can move us toward each other.

CALL: You can call your elected officials and ask for an immediate and sustained ceasefire, full access to humanitarian aid, the release of all hostages, and an end to collective punishment. Here’s a script you can say: “I’m a constituent urging you to support all efforts for an immediate ceasefire, the release of hostages, and the protection of civilian lives.” In the U.S., you can call the Capitol switchboard at (202) 224-3121 and be connected directly to your representatives.

DONATE: You can donate to organizations like the United Nations World Food Programme, which provides emergency food aid to people facing catastrophic hunger in conflict zones, including Gaza.

WRITE: You can write to the editors of your local or national news outlets to call for clear, compassionate coverage of the crisis — including civilian deaths, humanitarian conditions, and the ongoing captivity of hostages. Media narratives shape public understanding and policy decisions. A simple message might be: “I’m asking your newsroom to provide context-rich reporting on Gaza and Israel, including the human cost on all sides, the urgent need for a ceasefire, the release of hostages, and the protection of civilians.” Letters to the editor are usually 150–200 words and can be submitted directly through the websites of most publications.

None of this may feel like enough.

But I believe that even small actions, when rooted in compassion and repeated with care, begin to shape the moral atmosphere around us. They remind us that we’re not powerless. That our grief can be a bridge, not a wall. That we don’t have to agree on everything to act on behalf of human dignity. May we keep choosing to feel, to listen, to move, not away from the pain, but toward one another, and toward a world where every life is treated as sacred.

My highest hope is this tender, personal post is helpful, is useful, is of service. My hand is on your heart. This kind of inquiry is what we’ll get into in my Spain retreat called OLIVA. Not just the olive trees around us, but becoming the proverbial olive branch so we may meet this world in the best way we can.

This week, amid democracy feeling like it’s being slow-cooked in a crockpot of chaos, I got David Byrne’s newsletter in my inbox: “Reasons To Be Cheerful.” I looked at it. I looked at the headlines. And I thought to myself, “Ohhhhkay… do I dive into ‘The Epstein List’ or… goodness?” Hmmm…. tough one.

For those of you who don’t know, Reasons to Be Cheerful is a project David started during the pandemic. It’s an online magazine focused on real-world solutions. Not just good vibes, but actual evidence-based things that are working. Systems. Stories. Stuff that makes you go, huh, maybe we aren’t failing entirely as a species.

Some of you know this, but I had the outrageous luck of being one of three backup dancers for David Byrne’s “Everything That Happens Will Happen Today” tour in 2009 and 2010. That year changed my life. There are a million things I could say about what made it unforgettable, but if I had to choose one, it would be this: seeing the world through David’s eyes. We all rode Dahon folding bikes on tour, and every morning he would invite the band to meet in the lobby and go explore. But these weren’t casual sightseeing tourist rides. Once we biked for hours to find a small church said to have ‘sacred dirt.’ It was always something like that. A little weird. A little wonderful. Always off the path you’d expect. (For those interested, there was a ‘rockumentary’ made of it called Rise Ride Roar.)

And that’s what Reasons to Be Cheerful feels like too. A collection of curious things. Small and powerful lights that remind you the world still has a pulse worth listening to.

So today, inspired by David, I decided to make a list of my own. Here are five real and recent reasons to keep your chin up:

This week, I threw a party.

For what? For whom? You might ask.

For… a strawberry tart.

That’s right. I threw a party for a strawberry tart. It felt like the only way. And because I have the best friends in the whole world, it became a whole vibe. Let me tell you the story.

In these last few weeks, as Israel and Iran were trading missiles, suddenly, the acronym MOP (Massive Ordnance Penetrator) entered the public lexicon. (I can hear you thinking, “where is she going with this?” stay with me) Not long after, we all were reading articles not about peace negotiations, but about how deeply a bomb could burrow into a mountain. There were graphics showing blast radii and charts explaining bunker depth. Analysts calmly debated how many civilian casualties would be considered "acceptable" in a preemptive strike. We learned, without wanting to, how long a B-52 can stay in the air, how midair refueling works, how many minutes it takes for a missile to cross a border.

There was a cold fluency to it all, a normalization of violence disguised as information. I found myself absorbing it like weather - another condition to track, to brace for. The language of war had slipped seamlessly into everyday life, and what was once unthinkable felt suddenly procedural. The public wasn’t being shielded from brutality, we were being briefed.

And having read the latest email from the Times, I hit “next” and in very 2025 fashion, the screen flipped from war to recipe. It was Chef Amy Chaplin’s latest substack. Subject line: Strawberry Tart.

You guys… I don’t really know what happened. But, I just went straight into single point of focus. Lazer-like.

This was it. I was going to make this tart. This tart, is what I was going to make.

But if I make this tart, I’m going to want to have people over to eat it. If people are coming over, shouldn’t we just… turn it into a party?

Me: Strawberry Tart Party at our apartment on Wednesday?Brooke: IN!!!!Jaycee: Why is Wednesday so far away?Me: Dress code: strawberry.Brooke and Jaycee: Pinterest board —> started.

Please note: at no point did anyone say - Nat, what even IS a strawberry tart party? What does that even mean?

No. It was just: Where, when, and what are we wearing?

This to me, is of course, a very high form of friendship. Real friends take your completely absurd, left-field ideas, and they ELEVATE them. Real friends don’t question your bizarreness, they fan those flames.

And as Sunday became Monday, Monday became Tuesday, and Tuesday became Wednesday, what became clear was that somehow, in this completely surreal week, we all kind of… needed this tart party?

As I unpacked strawberry plates, napkins, cups, and yes - even strawberry dog bandanas, I started to replay scenes from Waiting For Godot in my head. Do you guys remember that play? Samuel Beckett, written in 1948, a French existentialist response to WW2. A search for meaning in a seemingly meaning-stripped time.

In Waiting for Godot, the characters wait, talk, perform, struggle, and wait some more, for no apparent point or utilitarian purpose. They wait for salvation, they wait for direction, they wait for anything to give shape to their time. And in the meantime, they do absurd things: wear ill-fitting hats, invent pointless games, talk in circles. Not to escape the world’s meaninglessness, but to insist on remaining within it. It’s bleak, yes, but also laced with a strange kind of hope, or at least a quiet defiance.

There was something about throwing this strawberry tart party in the shadow of these apocalyptic headlines that felt like a similar absurd kind of hope. Except in this play, it tilts toward joy instead of Vladimir and Estragon’s despair.

There I was, standing in line to buy a tart pan, because no, I’ve never made anything that justified owning a tart pan, when a line from Godot floated back to me, uninvited, like a ghost from my college thesis:

ESTRAGON: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?

That was it.

Very simply, having this tart party on the books and in the calendar for Wednesday gave me, and I think all of us, some thing to look forward to. Some thing to get excited about. No one here thinks that throwing a tart party was changing the world. Not by a long shot. But it was a way of affirming life, even in the face of its absurdity. Of saying yes to beauty. Of finding joy not after the bleakness, but inside it.

And honestly, it was exactly the kind of simple joy, sweet absurdity, and low-stakes existentialism we all seemed to need. Everyone showed up with full hearts and zero irony, ready to make this utterly pointless, completely perfect thing happen. Kev’s got the picnic blanket, you’ve got the bag of tableware that looks like Strawberry Shortcake went on a bender, and of course I’ve got the tart. We were committed.

I mean, just look at how seriously we showed up, for a party of four, for something delicious and ephemeral, gone in a blink. And please, a moment to appreciate Kevin’s lewk? And yes, that is a strawberry apron + leopard jacket. Who knew?

If you look at the shape of a good myth - or really any good story worth its salt - you’ll find a rhythm that echoes across time and culture. The Descent. The Ordeal. The Return. The Gift. It’s the arc of transformation, and we’ve seen it everywhere: from Homer to Hollywood, from ancient epic to personal breakdown. And this is what we investigated this past week on my MYTHOS retreat in Greece (thanks to Fykiada Retreats!), an ancestral home of Western mythology.

*(I recommend the audio track for this post, because in it, the poem included here is teased apart in ways that it can’t be over text, if that’s of interest to you.)

And if we are honest about where we are right now, as a culture, as a species, as individuals living in this moment, it’s clear we are not at the triumphant ending. We are not at the resolution where the protagonist ascends from the underworld bringing with her gifts from beyond. No. We are in Stage 1: The Descent. Not as metaphor, but as lived experience. The headlines alone tell us: systems are collapsing, wars are accelerating, meaning is fracturing, and the old maps no longer match the terrain.

But what I find merciful about looking at our times in the context of the arcs that have come long before us, the descent doesn’t mean that all is lost. In every myth, the descent begins when the known world collapses, when something breaks, and there’s no going back. What immediately follows is not clarity, but complete disorientation. A plunge into grief, into chaos, into the parts of self or society that can no longer be upheld.

So the question is not “Are we in the descent?” We are. The real question is: “How will we meet it?”

Well, first of all, there is no part of any worthy myth where the protagonist “scrolls past” the descent. But unbelievable, that’s a possibility for us in these times. It’s one of the many impulses and coping mechanisms available to us, along with overwhelm, numbing out, and fracturing. And it makes sense - because…

Our nervous systems weren’t designed to toggle between images of missile strikes and skincare tips.

(Read that again!) We’re being asked to absorb impossible amounts of devastation through a screen built for distraction. It’s not weakness to feel frayed. It’s a very human response to that which is completely inhumane, being consumed at an inhuman pace.

But the danger isn’t just exposure. It’s dismemberment. The soul isn’t meant to take in this much, this fast, with no space or place to process, no ceremony to metabolize it, no relational ground to re-member what matters. The scroll not only toxically normalizes today’s horror but it also serves as a portal that leads us away from descent. And yet, going through with the descent is the only way real change has a chance to begin.

To stay in the descent, to face the disorientation without collapsing or escaping it, requires practice. Courage. Ground. And presence. The kind that doesn’t flinch from the pain, but doesn’t become it either. The kind that can hold paradox without turning it into performance. This is why the old myths matter. They weren’t written to entertain. They were designed to guide people through moments just like this—when the ground falls away, when this body (individual and collective) is deep in its shake,

when the world begins to crack and you don’t yet know what might fall through - or grow - in the space between.

Author Bayo Akomolafe writes, “(this) is descent. It is staying with the broken, composting the unbearable, and letting grief ferment into forms of knowing the rationalities and modern logics of agency cannot hold.” I had to read that one a few times… In my own words, true transformation doesn’t come from fixing or fleeing brokenness, but from staying with it, staying in the conversation long enough to be changed by it. Logic-based approach to solving problems can’t contain or explain this kind of deep knowing. Grief, spirit, suffering, transformation - these are felt truths, not solved equations. They exist beyond the reach of what we call “rational” or “productive.”

Bayo (my new favorite) goes on to say: “To call (this) a spiritual bypass is to mishear its frequency. This is not bypass. This is by-ground. This is spirit so entangled with matter that it weeps in the soil, sings through scar tissue, and dances in the ruin: not to transcend the pain, but to in-form it, to become-with the rot and bloom that the dominant gaze refuses to see. We are not climbing out of the world. We are going deeper into it, through its fractures, through its moist thresholds. That is not bypass. That is spiritual composting.”

Spiritual Composting.

(Pausing to let those words be the word & let the word work on us)

On retreat, we worked with a poem by Marie Howe called Prayer. Though she wrote it in 2008, it feels eerily attuned to now. In a time when war footage plays next to trending dance videos, and the sound of the garbage truck cuts through our private grieving, Howe doesn’t judge that fragmentation. She just names it. I really do wonder, is this poem the exact practice we need for these exact times of live-streaming atrocity?

Or is that belief what’s required for our times?

Last week, Kevin and I led a retreat in the high desert outside of Santa Fe. We called it Milagro - Spanish for miracle, named after a robust hike on the land. And I’ll be honest: that word felt like a risk.

Because if you’ve spent any time scanning the headlines lately - or just paying attention to your body, your workplace, your conversations with friends - then you know: we’re in a state of collective suffering. Wars are burning. Institutions are unraveling. The language of crisis is in every room. People are scared. People are exhausted. So to use a word like miracle in this moment can sound, at best, naive, and at worst, totally disconnected.

And yet… maybe not believing in miracles may be what’s actually disconnected. Maybe choosing not to engage with beauty, wonder, or mystery is a kind of numbness we’ve come to accept as normal. Maybe the real risk is forgetting that another way is possible.

So we gathered 19 people from across North America to join us in Santa Fe - to ask ourselves: Are miracles possible in a climate like this? What even is a miracle? And how do we become the kind of people who can see them - not as magic tricks, but as a way of life?

From the start, we were clear that this retreat wasn’t about escaping the world. It was about rediscovering our rightful place in it. And the idea of a miracle wasn’t something we defined as a divine intervention handed down in a moment of desperation. It isn’t about being saved. It is about awakening to the extraordinary in the very ordinary, and learning to practice that way of seeing. Because, from my point of view, miracles are not one-time events. They’re an ongoing, relational unfolding - and we can actually get better at noticing them.

Over the course of five days, through meditation, dharma, time in nature, time with horses, time with the ‘conscious cowboy’ Lee who led us both in hikes and in song (think: John Prine, love you Lee!) - and time in silence, we explored what it takes to become receptive to the miraculous. Miraculous. Mira-culous. “Mira” meaning: ‘to look.’ To look with reverence.

We worked with poetry as our sacred text - Rumi, Mary Oliver, John O’Donohue, David Whyte, and more. We talked about prayer—not in any one tradition, but across many—and found something striking: there are steps. Different languages, yes. But the same shape.

And we kept returning to three core movements. Three steps, you could say. Not in a linear way, but in a kind of rhythm you return to over and over again.

Step 1 : tend to your nervous system

If your body is clenched in fear or braced in exhaustion, a miracle could be right in front of you, but you won’t see it. You can’t. The body, in survival mode, isn’t scanning for beauty or messages from beyond your Self - it’s scanning for threat. Perception narrows when we’re dysregulated. Your pupils literally dilate when you’re in fight or flight, but your attention shrinks. You’re lit up, but less available. And it’s not because you’re broken. It’s because you’re built to survive. But survival mode is not the state in which wonder or messages or answers emerge.

So its essential to begin there - slowing the breath, grounding the body, softening the jaw, noticing your surroundings. (Friend, maybe you start that - right now as you read.) Because if your eyes are shut tight, the sunrise will still come - but you won’t see it. If your hands are balled into fists, you can’t receive a gift. Tending to the nervous system isn’t just “self-care” in the ways that the ‘industry of well’ tries to sell it to us. It is in fact, spiritual groundwork.

Step 2 : make an offering

Not as a transaction. Not because you’re deficient or need to earn favor. But because the sacred is relational.

This is where it begins to reeeeeeeeally shift. Where the practice becomes less about soothing yourself and more about entering into relationship—with Spirit, with the land, with the parts of yourself you’ve forgotten.

What does it mean to make an offering in a world that rewards control?And what might you offer that’s not performative, but real?

Keep walking with me here, because this is where we explore the more personal teachings - what it means to give, to what, and why.

When I was little, it was simple. It meant trying to wake up before my mom, an impossible task most days, so we could surprise her with breakfast in bed. We’d stumble haphazardly around the kitchen, cracking eggs with questionable aim, over-toasting the toast, squeezing oranges that yielded barely a sip - then giving up and pouring the Tropicana. It was clumsy and love wrapped in good intentions and precarious tray-carrying. I’d make a card with predictably pink construction paper and glue sticks, lumpy hearts and a stick-figure family, and she’d act like it was a masterpiece.

We knew her favorites: bath salts (‘bath bombs’ were a big thing then), floral stationery, and most successfully, Chanel No. 5 — her signature. If you knew her, you remember that scent. She was the kind of woman who entered a room twice: once with her laughter, and once with that unmistakable perfume. Both announced her arrival before you even turned around. She was magnetic, generous, radiant in a way that pulled people in. Everyone loved her. You would have, too.

And then — she was gone.

There was no warning. No slow fade, no time to brace, no long goodbye. Just here, and then not. And from that moment on, Mother’s Day became something entirely different. It turned from celebration to countdown - a slow, aching approach toward a day I dreaded. The commercials, the cards, the brunch menus, the bright-pink everything. The world seemed to scream mother, mother, mother, and I wanted to scream back: And mine is gone!

I felt like an outsider in my own life. While others posted photos of Sunday mimosas with their moms, I sat swallowed by grief and rageful envy. The resentment felt ugly and raw. Did they even know what they had?

For years, I white-knuckled my way through the day. Avoided social media. Avoided people, honestly. I didn’t know how to be in a world that celebrated what I had lost.

But grief is a strange creature. It never really leaves you, but over time, it shifts. It reshapes itself. It stretches into new forms. Eventually, I began to notice a kind of softening - not a diminishing of love or sadness, but a change in texture. I found ways to stay in connection with her, even without her physically here.

And along the way, I also came to understand something I didn’t fully grasp when I was younger: that I was lucky. I had a good mom - not a perfect one, but a loving, steady presence. That’s not everyone’s story. For many, the word mother carries complexity, distance, hurt, or absence. And so even as I grieved, I tried to hold that awareness, too - that this day can be hard for so many different reasons, not just loss. Not everyone is mourning a mother they adored. Some are mourning the mother they never had, or the relationship they wished was possible.

For me, in missing her, I looked for ways to stay close. And one of those ways came from her. When I was five and she lost her mother, she invited me into a ritual - one I’d later return to when it was my turn to grieve. We’d write letters to her mom, tuck them into red balloons, and send them skyward. I was certain then that God was a postman, faithfully delivering Balloon Mail to everyone in heaven.

After she passed, I held a Balloon Ceremony of my own. Friends came over, each writing a letter to someone they’d lost, and we released them together over the Hudson River. And on many Mother’s Days, you’d find me with a pen in hand, sitting beside a Party City helium tank.

Now, she visits me in the form of a red balloon. I’ll be walking along, mid-thought, mid-heartache, and there it is — a single red balloon in the sky, or caught in a tree, or drifting through a park where no child seems to have lost it. And I know: that’s her. That’s how she says hi.

As I move deeper into adulthood, Mother’s Day continues to take on new shapes. It reflects the tender, complicated questions moving through my circle: Do I want to be a mother? Can I be?

I watch people I love navigate fertility treatments and heartbreak, hope and hesitation, hard-won clarity and lingering uncertainty. Some say yes—with joy, with mess, with open arms. Some say no, and that no is full, not empty. It's rooted, chosen, powerful.

Others are in the in-between: freezing eggs, freezing time, carving out space in a world that rushes decisions. And some become mothers without planning to, while others step in with intention—single mothers by choice, building families on their own terms.

It’s not always about deciding. Sometimes it’s about becoming, or accepting. Sometimes the answer doesn’t come, or doesn’t come true.

These days, I find myself in a different place still. I am not a mother in the traditional sense. I’m not raising a child. But I am, most definitely, mothering. I have a dog - the furry extension of my aorta - and he has taught me more about care and presence and unconditional love than I ever expected. He is not a substitute for a child. He is not less-than. He is his own kind of soul, and my partner Kevin and I are his people. I mother him — fiercely, fully, and totally absurdly.

His face is on a hat, on multiple mugs, and embroidered onto pajamas (thank you, Jaycee!). Every time I put my hand in a pocket, there’s at least one piece of kibble. I know exactly which square foot of floor he’ll settle on when the sun begins to set. I talk to him in nauseatingly high-pitched voices and shape my days around our rituals. And when the world feels sharp and unkind, he climbs into my lap or onto my chest and reminds me that love doesn’t always come in the package we imagined—but it comes, if we let it.

So this Mother’s Day, I hold space for all of it. For the child I was, waking early with a handmade card. For the woman I am, sending letters to the sky - still. For the friends becoming, deciding, grieving, transforming. For the mothers of humans. For the ones who wanted to be. For the ones who chose not to be. And yes — for the dog moms, too.

Because care is care. Devotion is devotion. Love is love.

In that spirit, I wrote this.

A Blessing for the Dog Mom

She wakes each day to breath upon her face,A pup that claims her bed, her time, her space.No need for clocks — the day begins with paws,Announcing life with licks and noble cause.

She’s watched him grow from trembling, clumsy start,From wee pad mess to knowing when to part.She swore he’d sleep in crates, all neat and penned,But Night One came — and rules met their soft end.

There’s kibble crumbling in her coat’s deep seams,Her car is lined with fur and squeaky dreams.She keeps some treats in every purse she owns,And talks in high pitched, dog-conversing tones.

She’s washed the bowls and fetched the brand-new toy,She knows which bark means panic, which means joy.She’s Googled “is this normal?” every week,And cleaned up things she’d rather not critique.

Still, none of it feels wasted or too much,When he lies down and quiets her with touch.This weighted blanket’s better, she insists,Than couches, sessions, or prescribed assists.

A canceled night? A quiet, secret win -Just her and him, and takeout, curled within.The night is theirs - no show, no social pace,Just simple love stretched out in shared, small space.

So let this day belong to her as well,The one whose love no language needs to tell.She mothers — wholly, fiercely, heart and bone,That furry child she proudly calls her own.

So wherever this day finds you — in celebration, in sorrow, in contemplation, or in something unnameable — I hope you can be easy with you in it.

Mother's Day carries so many layers, and it rarely fits neatly into the pastel-colored boxes we see in store windows. Maybe you're missing someone today. Maybe you're holding the quiet grief of a relationship that never felt whole. Maybe you're navigating the uncertainty of whether motherhood is meant for you, or sitting with the ache of wanting it and not having it. Maybe you're a mother in the most traditional sense, exhausted and adored. Maybe you’re mothering in a way the world doesn’t always recognize — as a teacher, an aunt, a friend, a caregiver, a dog mom, someone who shows up and tends to life in all its forms.

However it looks, whatever your story is, I see you, Friend. I honor the complexity of what it means to care, to nurture, to love from that deep place. You don't need a title or a holiday to validate that. But if this day brings up anything at all - joy, grief, resistance, longing - I hope you’ll let it. You’re not alone in it. And if you feel like sharing, I’d be honored to hear how your relationship to this day has shifted or grown or surprised you over time. I’ll be reading, with an open heart.

With love always and in all ways,Nat

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One sentence goes sideways, emotions spike, and suddenly you’re arguing. Pop quiz: what do you do?

We’ve all been there, right?

At work, when you’re sharing an idea in a meeting and someone talks over you—or worse, repeats what you said as if it were theirs.

In an argument with your partner when you say how you feel and they jump in to defend themselves before you’ve even finished the sentence.

Trying to explain your needs to a parent, and getting met with advice, dismissal, or a story about when they went through something "worse."

This is the exact moment where relationships are made or broken—not by who's right, but by what happens next.

And if you handle that next moment well, if you practice this one tool, then - chances are you’re going to create connection. And if you don’t - good luck, buddy. Doesn’t matter if you’re single or married-for-forever, building something at a kitchen table with friends or navigating hierarchy inside a corporation. We all navigate relationships—romantic, professional, familial, chosen. And in every one of those dynamics, this tool is either deepening or quietly eroding the health of them.

It’s called ‘Active Listening.’

Either this is new to you and you’re asking “wait… so just like… listen harder?” or you’ve heard this phrase tossed around as often as “hold space” and its blending into the spiritual self-help wallpaper.

Either way, let me be clear:

It. Is. So. Much. Harder. Than. It. Sounds.But the pay off is exponential.

Hear me out (see what I did there?).

“Listening” can be passive. It often means simply hearing the words someone is saying. You might be quiet, you might even be paying attention—but there’s no guarantee you’re present.

Active Listening, on the other hand, is intentional.

It’s not about waiting for your turn to speak.It’s not about formulating the perfect response.It’s about creating space for the other person’s truth to exist—without interruption, defense, or redirection.

And OH LORD… you KNOW when you’re NOT getting it. Much easier to spot.

When you’re sharing something that matters—and the other person cuts in with advice. When you’re trying to explain how you feel—and they correct your experience. When you can feel them waiting for you to finish just so they can talk. When the space doesn’t feel safe enough to say the deeper thing.

It doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s subtle. But no matter what, you leave the conversation feeling a little more alone. A little more frustrated. A little less seen. (Maybe a lot.)We crave it—so deeply.That moment when someone really hears us. When their eyes soften and they stop trying to fix, or advise, or relate it back to themselves. When they just stay with us. When we don’t have to work to be understood—we simply are.

That longing is sacred. That longing points to something holy at the center of what it means to be human: the need to be received. Fully. Gently. Without judgment. And also—the quiet, sacred responsibility to receive others in that same way.

There’s a softening that happens in the body, a kind of nervous system exhale, when we’re truly listened to. It’s like something primal in us settles. The guard dog can finally rest. We feel safe. We feel real. We feel met.

So when we don’t receive it—when we’re spilling our truth and it gets misinterpreted, minimized, redirected—it doesn’t just sting. It can feel quietly devastating.And the hardest part?Sometimes we’re the ones doing that. Yikes. It’s a lot more difficult to spot that one.

When the pressure’s on—when we’re in conflict, when we feel misunderstood, when our nervous system is on fire—we might double down. Or interrupt. Or defend.Or repeat ourselves, hoping to finally be heard. But the conversation keeps unraveling, and something tender starts to slip away.

I am consistently reminded that this kind of listening—isn’t passive at all. (see: first word of phrase) It’s active in the truest sense: it engages your entire self. Your body. Your breath. Your awareness. Your restraint. Your capacity to stay. And sometimes it engages your deepest discomfort.

I’ve found this most painfully true in moments of conflict. It’s easy to nod and make soft eye contact when someone’s telling you about a hard day. But when someone’s upset with you—when your ego is activated, when you’re feeling misunderstood or mischaracterized—listening feels almost impossible.

And that’s where the real work begins.

So what is active listening, really? How do we understand it—through the brain, the body, the soul? And most importantly, how do we practice it, especially when it's hardest?

Let’s dive in.

Listening Is More Than Hearing

Let’s begin simply: active listening is the practice of truly receiving another person. Not just hearing their words, but meeting their world.

That might sound poetic, but it’s radical when you really do it.

To actively listen means to suspend your own perspective long enough to honor someone else’s. It’s about coming to a conversation not with the hunger to be understood, but with the humility to understand. It’s about unclenching the fist of your own certainty.

And that is no small thing.

In a world addicted to quick takes, certainty, and identity performance, active listening invites you to do something different: to soften, to be curious, to not know.

It asks:Can you be changed by what you hear?Can you let your ego rest long enough to let someone else take up space in your awareness?

This kind of listening is not about control. It’s about reverence. And it’s a relief, too—when you really step into it. You realize you don’t have to solve everything. You don’t have to defend yourself or teach anyone a lesson. You can just... be with someone. As they are. You get to… relax, actually.

The Neuroscience of Listening

From a brain perspective, active listening draws on our most evolved capacities—empathy, emotional regulation, and social intuition.

But here’s the kicker: when we’re in conflict, these capacities shut down.

When our nervous system is activated—when we're angry, defensive, hurt, or afraid—the amygdala takes over. The body enters fight-or-flight. And suddenly, listening becomes nearly impossible. The ego flares up: I need to be right. I need to win. I need to be heard.

This is why active listening isn’t just a communication tool—it’s a regulation practice. You can’t actively listen if you’re dysregulated.

You can’t receive someone else when your own inner child is screaming. Learning to listen means learning to self-soothe.

To notice when you’re tightening and make the choice to soften. To notice when you’re spinning into defense and come back to ground.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do in a tense moment is not speak—but breathe.

The Soul of Listening

Here’s where the soul comes in:

To truly listen, especially in moments of rupture, we must go deeper than the mind. We must access the part of us that is not trying to control the outcome. The part of us that is okay not being right. The part of us that can sit in discomfort without needing to escape or explain it away.

John O’Donohue reminds us that the soul doesn’t want to be advised or fixed—it wants to be witnessed. That’s true of the people we love. And it’s true of us, too.

To listen with the soul is to become a sanctuary. Not a judge, not a rescuer. A quiet space of presence.

In conflict, this often means choosing not to speak. Not because we’re suppressing, but because we’re tending. Tending to the seven-year-old inside who feels dismissed, rejected, or not good enough. Tending to our unmet needs so we don’t place them in someone else’s lap.

In other words, it’s less about being silent and more about becoming still.

Still enough to hear.Still enough to choose love over ego.Still enough to remember the relationship matters more than the need to win.

Some Guiding Questions

In the beginning, these questions are like training wheels—they help us stay upright when everything feels wobbly. But with practice, something shifts. We start to move with more steadiness, more trust in ourselves. One day, we look up—and we’re riding on two wheels, navigating hard moments with more grace than you realized you had.

* Am I closer to my soul or my ego right now?

* Can I make enough space in myself to actually receive this person?

* What parts of me are reacting? What do they need?

* Can I soothe those parts enough to stay open?

* What does Love require of me right now?

These are not easy questions. But they are the ones that create real connection.

Practical Ways to Practice Active Listening

It’s one thing to understand active listening in theory—it’s another to actually do it when you’re tired, triggered, or tangled up in your own emotions. These aren’t magic tricks, but they are game changing ways to stay connected when it would be easier to shut down.

Here are some grounded, tangible ways to bring active listening into your life:

There is something endlessly seductive about the idea that somewhere out there, someone has the answer.

Not an answer. The answer.

The one that tells you who to be, what to do, when to turn left and when to let go. A sacred instruction manual, with all the worrying replaced with clarity:

Page 17: “Say yes to the job; the first year will be tough but then you’ll hit your stride.”

Page 42: “He’s the one. Don’t sabotage this!”

Page 81: “Stop stressing about whether or not you’ll have kids. You’re gonna be a Dog Mom to exactly 9 dogs and you’re gonna love it.”

I sometimes imagine it arriving in the mail, wrapped in heavy paper, a letter addressed only to me. Inside, the pages would be worn at the edges but crisp in their certainty. I would follow it religiously. I would be obedient to its wisdom. I would finally get it right.

The longing for that kind of certainty feels almost biological — a tug from somewhere deeper than language. A tug toward something clean, something conclusive, something that would absolve me from the vulnerability of not effing knowing.

And yet, if such a manual existed, it wouldn’t take long for it to become - woof - debilitatingly, unbearably BORING. Am I right? If every step were already decided, what room would be left for wonder? For surprise? For the serendipity of a life that unfolds rather than executes?

The very thing that would save us from uncertainty would also save us from aliveness.And something in us, even in our most desperate moments, knows: we are not here for efficiency.

We are here for intimacy.

Still, some part of me just wants to put the whole mystery-thing down and grab the lapels of God and yell,

“Oh just TELL me already!”

This past week, I found myself asking the question again — how should I live my life? — not in despair, but in the midst of something surprisingly bright.

There’s a particular kind of ache that tends to arrive just before we do something that matters. It’s quiet at first. A pause. A wobble. An itch that seems harmless, even reasonable:

You’re not ready. Someone else would do this better. Are you sure you belong here?

We’ve come to call it imposter syndrome, but that phrase feels too clean, too clinical for what it actually is. Because this isn’t just a passing moment of doubt. It’s a sensation that moves through the body, that rearranges breath, that tells you to stay quiet when you’re meant to speak.

It can show up anywhere, any time.

For me, it showed up this past week—again and again—as I moved through unfamiliar spaces abroad. I’m writing this now from somewhere in the sky, leaving the UK and heading back to the States, carrying not just my suitcase but the residue of seven days spent in stretching rooms: new people, new ideas, new offices, a new culture. And at almost every turn, there it was—that ache. That old invitation to hide, to downplay, to back away from the risk of being wrong, or powerful, or - well - seen.

It didn’t arrive once. It arrived several times a day. It showed up in conversations, in moments of silence, in subtle micro-decisions: Do I speak? Do I ask? Do I share the thought or is it dumb?

Each time, it offered me the familiar escape route: Tuck yourself back in. Stay small. Don’t risk it. Being seen. Being dumb. Being hurt.Don’t let them see the parts of you that don’t yet feel fully formed.

And so what IS that? Is it just our meanness coming to mess with us?Or is there something perhaps more merciful afoot?My sense is that we step into the new idea, the new room, the new version of ourselves physically—but some part of us is still tethered to the old pattern, the old identity, the old story. The soul, wise and unhurried, hasn’t quite caught up. And so we feel friction—not because we’re imposters, but because we’re not yet fully inhabiting where we are.

Instead of kicking ourselves for the feelings that rise, or shaming the stories that resurface, maybe what’s needed is a moment of recognition: something is shifting. I am not where I was. And I don’t need to rush into who I’m becoming.

I can take a moment to bless this threshold.

Our outer lives so often move faster than our inner lives can integrate. And when we don’t give the soul time to arrive, we feel foreign inside our own becoming.

The remedy is not performance or perfection, but presence.To pause. To gather.To remember that we were never meant to arrive fully formed.We were meant to grow into it—in its time.

To feel like an imposter, then, is not to be in the wrong place. It is often to be in the right place, but without yet having rooted deeply enough to remember your belonging there.

I like thinking about it like that.

It’s not imposter syndrome.It’s a moment of soul-dislocation.

Doesn’t that feel more merciful? You are not an imposter. You are simply in transit—between the story you’ve outgrown and the one that is still being written through you.

Stay. Let your soul catch up.

3 Ways to Help Yourself Help Your Self

Because this whole phenomenon is so deeply rooted, I find I need tools that work from multiple angles: on, around, and in. From the very mundane and practical (tool #1) to a full-blown spiritual chiropractic adjustment (tool #3)—here we go:

1. ON.

If this soul-dislocation is something that works on us from the Inside-Out then lets meet it first, from the Outside-In. Now this may seem superficial, but I see it more as “directional.” When I step into a new room, a new role, or a space where old voices tend to rise, I’ve started dressing for the version of me I want to meet. Not to impress. Not to perform. But to align.

Growing up, every time my dad would put on his white lab coat to go to the hospital, he’d look at me and say, “Vestis virum facit.” Then he’d pause, waiting for me to translate the line with him and we’d say together: “Clothes make the (wo)man.”

To be honest, it was a total “Daaaaaad” moment at the time. But like all good Dad-isms, I think it’s been quietly working on me ever since.

Which is funny, because I’ve never even been someone who “likes clothes.” I don’t like to shop, don’t love spending money on outfits, and I definitely don’t have that gene that can whip up a lewk.

But with the help of a few key girlfriends (thank you Brooke & Jaycee), I’m starting to see—it’s not about the clothes. It’s about the feeling. The energy. The intention. It’s about dressing in the direction of your evolution.

Colors that make you feel powerful. Textures that make you feel quality. Even a hidden totem in your pocket or a secret necklace no one else sees - something that reminds you: I are here on purpose. And I’m here making choices.

Its not about how they react to how you present, its about how you feel walking into a room. And sometimes, the act of getting dressed is the beginning of crossing the threshold—from the old into the new. Might seem obvious or simple to some, but for me its part of the practice of inhabiting, working from the outside-in.

2. AROUND.

The first tool was about putting something on.This one is about what you put around you—surrounding yourself with the energy that’s pulling you forward.

For me? That’s music.

When the rhythm of old inner voices starts to become hypnotic, interrupt it. Literally. Put on a different beat.

I’ve got a playlist (which I’ll be sharing for paid subscribers here) full of songs that break the rhythm of smallness and say, “Not today, honey.” Songs that remind me who I am when I’m not wrapped up in protecting myself. Songs that stir something awake in my chest. Songs that help me walk into rooms with just a little more fire.

Give yourself a new beat to work with: when you’re getting ready, when you’re commuting, or duck into a bathroom stall and reset your vibe before you walk into the new moment.

It’s called “GET AFTER IT” - save it, download it, keep it close. Let it remind you, you already belong, you’re just catching up to what you already know:

Globally. Professionally. Personally. This week reminded me that trust isn’t optional — it’s foundational.

It showed up everywhere:In the headlines.In the Zoom room.In the quiet, internal tug-of-war between fear and self-belief.

And while the contexts were different, the message was the same:Trust is what makes things work. Or not. And when it breaks — we feel it. Fast.

So here’s what happened: three very different moments, one shared theme.

GLOBALLY, what we saw this week was a rupture in trust — playing out in real time across the markets. The fluctuations weren’t subtle. They were sharp, sudden, and driven by fear.

This time, it was tariffs that sparked it — a policy shift that sent shockwaves through investor confidence. Not just because of what was announced, but because of what it signaled: instability, unpredictability, and a potential unraveling of global trade norms.

Because the truth is, markets don’t just respond to numbers. They respond to trust. And when that trust cracks — in institutions, in leadership, in long-term strategy — reactions aren’t cautious. They’re big. They’re sweeping.

Because markets aren’t just economic systems.They’re emotional ecosystems.And when fear takes the wheel, it drives everything down — fast.

This week’s swings were driven by a hundred little questions that all trace back to the same core doubt:

* Can we trust what we’re being told?

* Can we trust what’s coming next?

* Can we trust that anyone’s steering this ship?

When trust erodes, fear fills the vacuum. And when fear’s in charge, everything becomes more expensive — not just financially, but emotionally. Because volatility isn’t just a market story. It’s a human one.

WITH WORK, I led a virtual workshop for a big tech company — and honestly, their story isn’t unique anymore. The ask? Help the team rebuild trust. They’re in the thick of what so many companies are facing right now: change fatigue. It’s hard to keep merging teams. Hard to keep losing colleagues. Hard to stay motivated when the budget shifts, the strategy reshuffles, and then reshuffles again.

And underneath it all? Trust is fraying.

Trust in leadership.Trust in the future.Trust in each other.Sometimes even trust in ourselves.

Because when everything feels like it’s constantly moving — when the ground won’t stop shifting — people start to brace. They disengage. They protect. Not because they don’t care… but because they’re tired. Unclear. Uncertain.

People can’t do their best work when they’re in survival mode.

PERSONALLY… whew. I’m gearing up for another multi-week trip — diving deep into some big work projects — and every time I step into that kind of offering, something familiar happens.

I fall into doubt.

Every. Single. Time.

Right before I share my work, I start to question everything - whether it will be enough, whether I know enough — whether I am enough.

It’s an old loop. One I know well.That part of me that still ties worth to the response. That waits for validation before trusting what I already know. I will say, something new is starting to happen. A sneaky new feeling as I enter my 40s where there’s a percolating sense of trust. Just there on the horizon. For the first time, I’m starting to feel that trust before the feedback comes.

And let me tell you — that is a massive shift.It’s quiet, but it’s seismic.

It doesn’t mean I don’t wobble. I do.It just means I catch it sooner.It means I’m no longer outsourcing my knowing quite so fast.

But it’s work.Staying awake is work.Staying aware is work.Staying in practice — especially when doubt shows up — is work.

But that’s the practice, right?

So as I’m watching all of this unfold — the market volatility, the emotional volatility inside teams, and my own inner tug-of-war between doubt and trust — I offered a new workshop this past Wednesday called The Trust Factor.

At first, it was designed for this company in the thick of restructuring. On paper, it was about how to rebuild trust in the workplace during yet another round of change. But as I led it, something clicked.

This isn’t just about companies.It’s not just about roles or reorgs or who owns what on the team.

No — this is all of us.

Trust at work isn’t separate from trust in our systems.And it’s not separate from the trust we’re trying to build in ourselves.Or the trust we’re reaching for in something bigger — in timing, in truth, in whatever you call the thing that steadies you when nothing else does.

It’s all connected.

And right now, across every layer of life — global, organizational, personal, spiritual — trust feels like the thing we’re all being asked to consider and rebuild.

Not because it’s broken beyond repair.But because it’s ready to be rebuilt on something deeper than before.

We tend to think of trust as this big, abstract thing that’s often misunderstood. Like it’s either there or it’s not. People think if you say ‘trust me,’ the trust will follow. But that’s not how it works. Just like saying ‘This is a safe space’ doesn’t make it one—trust doesn’t exist just because someone says it should.

Trust isn’t declared. It’s earned. And not all at once—but gradually, over time.

And I think another thing we misunderstand is that it only flows top-down. If we don’t have the “right” leader, or the right structure, or the perfect circumstances, we’re just stuck. But that’s not true.

Would it be helpful? Sure. But is that reality? No.

So instead of thinking that we’re at a loss, we have the opportunity to re-empower ourselves, when we realize that trust can be built sideways and outward.

Trust is not something handed down, it’s a pattern built within that radiates out.

Not overnight, but gradually. Look, going to the gym once for 9 hours isn’t going to get you fit. But going to the gym consistently, over time, will. Trust is the same way.

And there are 3 key areas in which trust is either eroded or promoted.

They are:

* in how we communicate

* in how we handle mistakes

* in how collaborate

Let’s jump in:

COMMUNICATION

Trust in communication starts with clarity and consistency.

And whether we’re talking about work, family, friendship, or even your inner dialogue — you can feel when communication is off.

We’ve all been there.Someone withholds information. A promise is made and broken. A tone shuts the conversation down. Maybe you’re talked over, ignored, or left out of a decision entirely.

It doesn’t take much to start shrinking back. To stop sharing. To start editing yourself for safety.

But when people are looped in, when expectations are clear, when follow-through actually happens — trust starts to take root.

Not because everything is perfect.But because people feel like they matter.

And I want to pause here, because this is where a lot of us — myself included — can slip into the old story:

“Yeah, but I’m not the one creating confusion. I’m the one being left out.”

And you know what? That might be true.

But here’s the trap:If we stop there — if we say, “Well, they’re not doing it right, so I can’t either” — we give all our power away.

So here’s the shift I want to offer:What if trust is something you build in your tone, in your texts and Slacks, in your eye contact, in the way you hold space for another person’s truth — even when it’s messy?

You may not be able to shift the entire dynamic overnight. You may not be able to change the system. But you can shape your corner of it. And that energy? It spreads.

Fear is contagious.But so is safety.

And in those moments when communication feels murky or disappointing, you always have a choice and this choice IS the practice:

Do I mirror the problem?Or do I model the solution?

And if you’re not sure where to begin, start here — with some of the small, everyday habits that either chip away at trust or help build it back.

Here are 5 common things we say or do that quietly erode trust in communication:

* “I meant to tell you…” (after the fact)

* Passive-aggressive language — sarcasm, guilt-tripping, the silent treatment

* Saying yes when we mean no (and quietly resenting it later)

* Withholding feedback or information until it becomes a problem

* Talking about people instead of to them

5 simple ways we can promote trust instead:

* Loop people in before decisions are made — not after

* Set clear expectations — and follow through

* Use direct but kind language (“Here’s what I need,” “Here’s what I see”)

* Invite other voices in (“What do you think?” “Did I miss anything?”)

* Own your own part — early and honestly (“I could’ve communicated that better.”)

It’s not about perfection. It’s about presence.

The more intentional we are with how we communicate — the more honest, clear, and generous we become — the more trust becomes a natural byproduct.

And again, this isn’t just for teams.This is how we build trust in our families, in our friendships, and even within ourselves.

Let’s go deeper. Into the world of MISTAKES. Because how we handle them says everything.

MISTAKES

Quick personal story: I once worked with a leader who absolutely eviscerated people when they messed up. Sometimes it was loud and public — I’ll never forget her turning to a teammate and saying, “You clearly can’t handle it. Next time, I’ll find someone who can.”Other times, it was quiet but equally brutal: subtle exclusion from meetings, that unmistakable cold shoulder, or the slow fade of trust you could feel but no one would name.

You know what happened - and what happens - in that environment?

People either lie, hide, or fake. Not because they’re irresponsible, but because they’re afraid.

This is a tell tale sign that trust has disappeared.

Then years later I worked with a leader who had a completely different take on mistakes, and it honestly changed everything for me, not just in work but in life. Serious life lesson…

“What have my first 40 years taught me?”and“What do I want to learn from my next 40+?”

As I journaled, long paragraphs of memory slowly began to distill. Truths got simpler. Words got sharper. What remained were the essentials—lessons that have been lived, not just learned. Some earned the hard way. Others arrived more gently. All of them, now, feel like touchstones I want to carry into whatever’s next.

With a wink to all the “40 Under 40” lists out there, I created my own version.

Not a résumé. Not an achievement list. Just a living, breathing collection of poetic invitations I’ve picked up along the way—some cracked open through heartbreak, some whispered in moments of stillness, some offered by people who loved me enough to be honest.

I don’t claim these lessons as universal, but they’ve been true enough for me, often enough, to feel worth naming. They’re not fixed in stone—they’re alive, shifting, evolving as I do. But right now, as I stand on the threshold of 40, they feel like solid ground. A kind of inner scaffolding for what comes next.

So, whether you're 20, 40, 60, 80 or somewhere entirely off that timeline, maybe one of these lessons meets you where you are. Maybe they remind you of your own hard-won wisdom. Maybe they invite you to pause and ask your own questions or make your own list!

Here’s what I’m calling: ‘20 at 40’

20 at 40

Twenty Invitations for the Threshold of Forty(aka: the lessons I’ll be clinging to, laughing with, and most certainly, learning from all over again)

🌀 I. Self-Awareness & Inner Grounding

These are the lessons that found me in stillness—in the quiet undoing of who I thought I was, and the slow remembering of who I’ve always been.

* Biggest life shift?Doing —> Growing

* Most of us know exactly what we don’t want.Few of us know exactly what we do want.And that makes all the difference.

* Hope isn’t just a feeling—It’s a habit.

* You cannot metabolize an emotion if you refuse to confront it.

* I thought I was going to lose myselfBut I found an undiscovered part instead.

🛡️ II. Boundaries, Power & Protection

Offered here are truths I’ve learned at the edges—where saying no was an act of love, and walking away became its own kind of prayer.

* Boundaries made from wound are flaccid.Boundaries made from love are solid.

* They can only keep you smallif you participate in their theater.

* If they play mind games,Don’t be the ref or the opponent.Stop the game. Don’t engage.

* People pay you what you believe you’re worth.

* Manage your values, not their emotions.

🔥 III. Identity, Expression & Voice

Turning 40, I am beginning to unmask— self-expression is becoming less about proving and more about revealing. I am continually catching myself: interrupt performance and practice returning.

* My adornment is no longer my atonement.How I present is not an apology.

* Careful how you talk about yourself—Your cells are listening.

* Never am I more litThan when I fan my own flame.

* If I’m not replying,it’s because I’m doing important dog-parent things.Like staring contests.;)

💡 IV. Relationships, Ego & Communication

These came through conflict and repair, silence and speaking up—each one a tender teacher in what it means to meet others without losing myself.

* I’d rather be right than consistent.Pride doesn’t solve problems—clarity does.

* Temporary discomfortis the price of a permanent blessing.

* Love between those who agree is comfort.Love between those who disagree is peace.

🌍 V. Spiritual & Collective Wisdom

And here, the path widens. These are the lessons that remind me I’m not alone—that healing is a shared act, and love, when practiced fiercely, can be world-making.

* “You have to put legs on prayer.”– My dear Seminary friend, Kopano Maroga

* “We have to wage loveas much as others would wage war.”– Rev Melissa Stewart

* “Hard times require furious dancing.”– Alice Walker

Of course, none of these lessons are finished. They’re not boxes checked or wisdom mastered. They’re more like trails I’ve walked enough to recognize the terrain—but I still trip, still pause, still ask for directions. Some days I live them with ease. Other days, I forget them completely. That’s the nature of growth—it spirals back, again and again, asking the same questions with a new voice.

If anything, this list is a compass. Not a map, not a rulebook—but a gentle set of directions pointing me back to myself when I wander. And I will wander. We all do. That’s part of the deal.

As I step into this next decade, I’m less interested in performing wisdom and more committed to practicing it—in community, in conflict, in laughter, in uncertainty. I want to stay teachable. I want to stay awake. I want to keep letting love be the most radical thing I risk.

If anything here resonated with you, feel free to bring it inward and pass it on. Maybe even write your own list—your own lived truths. Because every time we name what we’ve learned or are learning, we make space for someone else to remember what they already know.

And thank you, Friend, for being part of my threshold crossing from my 30s into my 40s. I’m deeply grateful for your listening ear and attentive eye here on Substack.

I will be having a kind of “Communal Birth Day Party” in the form of the next SUN SERVICE. So mark your calendars for May 4.

Sun Service has been described as "church-ish," in that its a gathering designed to help us all connect more deeply—to ourselves, to each other, and to spirit—through music, practice, and teachings. Unlike traditional religious services, Sun Service is not rooted in a single faith, text, or doctrine but instead draws inspiration from interfaith and inter-spiritual traditions, offering what I hope will feel like a modern, inclusive approach to Sunday mornings.

May 4, I’ll yet again have the great honor of having Venika Morrissette bringing music and song through our bones in only the way she can. We so hope you can join us:

Just after Sun Service on May 4, my main man Kevin Courtney and I will be heading to the sacred lands of Santa Fe to lead a 5-day retreat. We’ve named it MILAGRO for a reason. While we often hear the term translated to “miracle,” we prefer the alternative definition: “awaken to the extraordinary.”

We’ll begin our mornings in practice—meditation, yoga, and dharma—to drop beneath the noise and root into something deeper. Then we’ll take that grounded energy out into the day: hiking the Arroyo Ridge, spending time with horses to soak in their quiet medicine, and closing the night under open skies, bathing in live music and starlight on a platform far from city lights, where the stars reveal themselves fully.We’d love to have you with us:

And if not there, perhaps in Greece (June) or Spain (October) or a Sun Service in due time. No matter what or where, sending you love. Ever grateful for your presence here. With love,Nat

I don’t know a single person right now who isn’t grappling with change. Not subtle shifts — massive ones.

Industry-wide layoffs. Leadership shake-ups. Budgets slashed. Entire ways of working, relating, and living… flipped on their heads.

And while the details differ — job loss, political policy, routine upheaval, shifting roles — the emotional undercurrent is the same:

Things feel unstable (to say the least).

And when that happens, our nervous systems kick into high alert. Cue: unconscious reactions.

Over the past few months, I’ve been leading virtual workshops for teams across industries — tech, real estate, venture capital — offering tools to help people meet change in a healthier way.

And I’ve seen the same pattern emerge, again and again:

When you work against change, you suffer.When you work with change, you suffer less — or sometimes, not at all.

It’s really that simple.Not easy.Simple.

What's Really at Risk When Change Hits?

At first glance, it looks like logistical disruption:

* A different role

* A tighter budget

* A new commute

* A change in leadership

But y’all, underneath all of that, is the real-real. There’s something deeper at stake: your quality of life.

When change knocks, it doesn’t just ask you to adapt your schedule — it challenges your sense of safety, belonging, clarity, and control. Cue: old, often destructive, patterns.

This past week, I met with a team at a very large tech company that’s endured multiple rounds of layoffs. Their structure had changed. Budgets had shrunk. Leaders had turned over. All, several times over. Morale was low low low. Tension was high high high.

The team lead told me:

“Everyone’s burned out. No one feels secure. And any new change — even positive ones — are met with a ton of resistance. It’s tough for everyone.”

Of course it is.Because when people are constantly reeling from disruption, even growth can feel like a threat.

Change is hard. BUT, here’s the shift:We don’t have to pile more difficulty onto difficulty.We can learn to get good at change.

That doesn’t mean we love it.It means we build the capacity to stay with ourselves in it.To ride the wave, instead of getting pulled under.

⬇️ If You're in the Middle of Change, Start Here

Let’s break it down:

Change is hard because our brains are wired to protect us.They prefer the familiar — even when it’s unhealthy — because known = safe.

So when something new shows up?The brain often registers it as danger. It fills in the blanks with fear-based stories. We move into autopilot. We brace. We resist. We react.

But we don’t have to stay there.

If we can slow the process down, get curious, and recognize what’s really happening underneath the surface — we can respond differently.

And that’s where this workshop comes in, to help individuals and organizations, navigate this volatility more skillfully. As I walk folks through it on zoom and sometimes in-person, I start to see their eyes light up, the look of curiosity at first, and by the end: relief.

So, y’all, let’s try it.

🔹 The 6-Step Reset for Navigating Change

This is a reflection practice you can use any time any change feels overwhelming, frustrating, or unclear. You can journal with it. Run through it in your mind during a meeting or on a walk. Use it to guide a conversation.

What matters most is your attention — and your willingness to be honest with yourself.

Step 1: Name the Disruption

Ask: What did this change shake up for me?

This is the starting point. Identify what sense of familiarity got thrown off balance — was it your role, your rhythm, your sense of control?

Examples: “This disrupted my routine.” “It disrupted my sense of belonging.” “It disrupted my clarity.”

Step 2: Notice the Story

Ask: What story did I start telling myself about that disruption?

This is the meaning your brain made up in response. It’s not good or bad — just information.

Examples: “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” “I’m being left behind.” “This is going to fall apart.”

Step 3: Get Curious About What’s Underneath

Ask: What fear or need might be driving that story?

This is the tender part. The emotional truth behind the mental loop.

Examples: “I’m afraid of failing.” “I need to feel safe.” “I want to be seen.” “I’m scared I don’t matter.”

Step 4: Consider the Cost

Ask: If I hold onto this story as the only truth, what does it cost me?

This step helps you recognize how staying in the story might be holding you back and gives you motivation to do the next two steps; essentially: to do the work.

Examples: “I shut down.” “I disconnect from others.” “I burn out.” “I miss out on what’s possible.”

🔁 Shift from Reaction to Response

The first four steps build awareness.Now, we pivot — from insight to empowerment. From default to choice.

It’s the last two steps that build the bridge from awareness to action, and they are mission critical.

The above four steps can shift so much: just slowing down, noticing the story, and getting curious about what’s underneath. The next two are what get you to the other side.

Harmless on the surface, but quietly corrosive underneath.

But first, friends, let me back up. It’s been a big beautiful crazy wild ride of a month. My travels have resumed and that brings me so much joy. I get to experience new places, meet new people, find a new ‘local’ coffee spot even if I’m only there for a few days, and my favorite: learn, learn, learn.

This chapter of my life, post an 11-year career growing and evolving with one company, is all about diversification. Stretching into new expressions of work, deepening my spiritual practice, and showing up in new rooms, with new voices, in new ways. As most of you know, I travel for speaking gigs and to lead retreats, I’m also in inter-faith seminary studying to become an Inter-Faith Reverend, and I am also a strategic advisor for a very small and interesting group of companies.

This past month, one of them took a big leap forward. Once we’ve got a few more things in place, I’ll spill all the beans, but for now—I’ll say that I love the team I get to work alongside, I’m holistically inspired by the project, and it’s what will be bringing me to and from London quite a bit for the rest of the year. (Send me your London recs!)

One of the unique things about developing this new company is that I’m currently the only woman on the team. (That won’t be the case for long, but for now…) At my last job, we were about 90% women, 10% men. It’s a striking difference. And so far, it’s been all very positive. The guys I get to work with are incredibly smart, kind, honest, and respectful. Still, the dynamic shift has invited me into a deeper awareness of how I’m showing up—what I say, how I say it, what I unconsciously shrink or soften.

On the plane ride home from a busy, productive, and inspired week in London, I was reviewing a complex financial document, going slow, combing through, and writing my feedback email. I got stuck on this one note. Essentially what I was trying to say was, “ummm… I don’t understand why this number is this number.”

And instead of, you know, just saying that… I went on a full-blown Space-Mountain-Disneyland-Style mental-and-emotional rollercoaster ride, working through a number of drafts, watching as different insecurities moved through me like big billowing clouds:

A wave of feeling out of practice with financial models… “How to say it professionally…”A wave of my imposter syndrome… “By saying something, you’re going to reveal your inadequacy…”A wave of needing to prove myself as the ‘only woman’… “How to say it without giving away your power…”A wave of people pleasing…"How to say it without making anyone defensive…”A wave of my inner critic eclipsing everything… “You should already know this. (yells at self) WHY DON’T YOU ALREADY KNOW THIS?”

All, of course, this is all happening in my head. Agonizing over this one small piece of feedback. But that’s the microcosm, right?

That’s the practice.Notice the old patterns, let them move like weather patterns.Get still, get centered, get strong.

“Come on, Nat,” I said to myself."Stand in your power, not in your pattern.”

New team. New project. New empowered self.Practice.

I settled on… “I just want to clarify how these figures connect…”

Sent.

The next night, I went to a Women in Leadership dinner hosted by one of my absolute favorite people in the whole wide world, Christine Choi. Not only is she a badass Partner at M13, but she is an author, an artist, a curator, and… a sister-friend.

She always pulls together groups of people from diverse backgrounds and industries for nights of thought-provoking conversation that range from whether or not kindness and leadership can coexist, to the future of space travel, to all things White Lotus Season 3.

At that dinner, I was sharing that I’m helping to develop a new company, working with primarily men. Across from me, my new friend Melody Hahm turned to me and said, “To really be effective, there’s one word you should strike from your vocabulary right now.”

I said: “Is it ‘sorry’? Women especially so often reflexively use it… it’s ‘sorry,’ right?”

Nope.

Someone else at the table said, “Little? As in ‘I have a little feedback to share…’”

Nope.

Another said, “I’ve been striking the word ‘maybe,’ as in ‘maybe we could…’”

All great guesses, but no. It’s even more covert.

“Tell us!”

The one word is:

This is the question I’m attempting to answer in today’s Sun Service, my now monthly event series. (If you’d like to tune in at 10am PST, join here.) Described as "church-ish," this gathering is designed to explore connection—to ourselves, to each other, and to spirit—through music, practice, and philosophy. Today’s post is an excerpt from this exploration: ON COURAGE.

I think its actually some kind of cosmic joke that I’ve chosen the theme of courage for this Sun Service because I couldn’t feel as far away from courage myself.

I procrastinated quite a bit in writing this talk thinking, well, maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and feel courageous.

And the next morning came, and still no.

Procrastinating on courage. (Could that be the tagline of 2025?)

I mean, I do think it’s understandable. Because what we’re facing right now - I don’t have to tell you - but its a lot. Everyone is in some kind of massive transition. I am in my career. Even my dad just retired after 50 years. We are as a country. I don’t know a single person who feels like they have job security. And many folks, including me, aren’t sure if they have ‘human rights security.’ It’s an INSECURE time.

So it actually feels courageous to even CONSIDER courage.

Especially if we are stuck in this old and deeply patterned, deeply conditioned image of superhuman courage. Wonder Woman, Batman, Thor, Beyonce. Muscular. Masterful. Powerful. Perfect Hair.

Of course we put it off with magical thinking, “tomorrow I’ll ‘wake up like this.’ ”

Or this unattainable saintly courage which is a First Names Only Crew - Gandi, Malala, Mandela… Beyonce. These images that are baked into our minds of people standing up, fists in the air, speaking in complete sentences, saying what needs to be said.

Nope, still didn’t wake up as Frida.Go to the mirror… confirmed, still no.

What version of courage are you hoping to miraculously wake up as?And what would the arena be that you would apply your saintly muscularity to?

There is this aspirational quality to courage that many of us seem to constantly fall short of. So how DO we step up - to seemingly insurmountable circumstances - with a sense of profound inadequacy?

(asking for a friend)

I’d like to work with a blessing now, a “Blessing for Courage” by John O’Donohue, who I used to say is my teacher that didn’t know he had me as a student but, as he’s in the spirit realm, I’ve actually started to say my invisible friend John, because he accompanies me many a day.

Blessing for Courage by John O’Donohue

When the light around lessensAnd your thoughts darken untilYour body feels fear turnCold as a stone inside,

When you find yourself bereftOf any belief in yourselfAnd all you unknowinglyLeaned on has fallen,

When one voice commandsYour whole heart,And it is raven dark,

Steady yourself and seeThat it is your own thinkingThat darkens your world.

Search and you will findA diamond-thought of light,

Know that you are not alone,And that this darkness has purpose;Gradually it will school your eyes,To find the one gift your life requiresHidden within this night-corner.

Invoke the learningOf every sufferingYou have suffered.

Close your eyes.Gather all the kindlingAbout your heartTo create one sparkThat is all you needTo nourish the flameThat will cleanse the darkOf its weight of festered fear.

A new confidence will come aliveTo urge you towards higher groundWhere your imaginationwill learn to engage difficultyAs its most rewarding threshold!

What I love about this is that it suggests that courage arises as a result of “all you unknowingly leaned on” GIVING WAY.

When you find yourself bereftOf any belief in yourselfAnd all you unknowinglyLeaned on has fallen,

Going IN to the darkness where your eyes adjust and you actually call ON your suffering not in a masochistic way, but to say, tell me of my failings, it is fodder - it is kindling.

And here’s the merciful part, we don’t need a roaring fire. We need one spark.

And that one spark might just be generated from the kindling of everything we’ve learned from our suffering. Our suffering has meaning. Our suffering was not for naught. What we learned FROM our suffering is what ignites something in us.

But first, it’s a real letting go.Of what? Of the surface personality that’s holding up the old voices.

Gather all the kindlingAbout your heartTo create one spark

When we release those voices, we clear space—not just for a bolder version of ourselves, but for a deeper, quieter courage. This isn’t the superhero strength that comes with flawless muscle and flawless hair. It’s not the booming declaration of fearless defiance.

A new confidence will come aliveTo urge you towards higher ground

It’s really just a gentle push in the direction of courage.

Rather, it is the humble, transformative power of surrender: the courage to acknowledge our suffering, to learn from it, and to let it melt away the outdated narratives that have long confined us.

Courage, as this blessing reminds us, isn’t an all-or-nothing mantle worn only by the celebrated few. It’s a subtle, singular spark—born from every hard lesson, every wound, every moment of hesitation—that ignites even the faintest ember of possibility within us. It’s the gentle, sometimes quiet, but resolute decision to step into the darkness, knowing that our own inner light can—and will—illuminate the way forward.

In this journey, every act of letting go becomes a small rebellion against the idea that we must be superhuman or super saintly to be brave. When we dare to face our vulnerabilities, to call upon every scrap of pain and transform it into wisdom, we realize that courage is not the absence of fear. It’s the willingness to persist despite it—a daily act of resilience and rebirth.

So, I’m sitting with these questions, that I’d love to invite you into:

What if the very insecurities that weigh us down are also the source of our most authentic strength? What if that new confidence we all seek isn’t an arrival, but a dawning? What if one-who-is-courageous, is actually someone who has trained their imagination to meet difficulty with a particular attitude, not through miracle, but through practice?

In those quiet moments when we dare to confront our own darkness, we may just find that single spark waiting to illuminate our world with renewed possibility.

Sending you love, Community. If you’re interested in hearing the rest, I hope you’ll tune in to today’s (2/23/25) Sun Service at 10am PST.

Either way, may this excerpt On Courage help ignite a gentle, determined step toward becoming exactly who you are meant to be.

After today’s SUN SERVICE, the next one will be March 23 . I’d love to have you there, either live or via our livestream. Sign up for updates about future ones!

I also wanted to share an event hosted by my teacher and friend, Rev. angel Kyodo williams, in Montgomery, Alabama this March. She is presenting a multi-day body of work that seeks to answer the question, “Can we heal race?” Through immersive workshops and exercises set within the evocative Legacy Museum, she and Resmaa Menakem will guide each guest toward personal transformation—inviting us all to extend that change into the world.

And last but not least, we have just a few spots left for our Make The Sun retreat in Santa Fe this May, called MILAGRO: waking to the extraordinary. I’ll be joined by Kevin Courtney, who will be leading deeply spirit-full and expansive yoga classes each morning. Afternoons will be a mix of adventure and restoration—hiking, equine therapy, campfire gathering, and more hiking.

And we’ve got two spots left for my Greece retreat in June, called MYTHOS: becoming a larger story. We’ll practice a blend of breathwork and HIIT training in the morning, setting the stage for days filled with hiking, snorkeling in the Aegean, and immersive cooking classes.

Would you join us? What a dream that would be. ✨

Make the Sun is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Usually, when you hear about habits, the conversation centers around either breaking them or creating them.

And quite frankly, it’s getting old. We all know we should break the habit of doom-scrolling before bed and replace it with something more nourishing—like putting our legs up the wall or reading a book. Or, on a more personal level, I know I should stop the habit of playing small just to make others comfortable and instead develop the habit of remembering that how other people feel is not my business—caring for my wholeness is.

We think we know how habits work. Break the bad ones, build the good ones, stack them onto each other, reward yourself, stay consistent. We’ve read the books, the articles, the studies. By now, most of us could recite the principles of habit formation in our sleep: small, incremental changes lead to big shifts over time. (Atomic Habits, The Power of Habit—take your pick. We’ve all at least read the back cover at an airport at some point.)

But at a certain point, the conversation itself starts to feel… habitual. Repetitive. Even numbingly predictable.

Which is exactly how I felt—until last week.

I read a passage from The Buddhist Path to Simplicity by Christina Feldman that stopped me in my habitual tracks:

“Habit is a pattern of dismissiveness—we deem whatever we do habitually to be unworthy of our attention.”

Wait. Whoa. Come again?

(Re-reads.)

“Habit… is a pattern of dismissiveness.”

That single sentence hit me like a gong in an empty room.

In a moment where trust in institutions is essentially non-existent, disinformation is running rampant, funds and policies are changing quickly, and families are splintering over political divides, you might ask—why are we talking about friendship?

Because friendship, the real kind, might just be one of the few forces left that can cut through the noise and even possibly, save us.

We’re being pushed—daily—to pick a side, to unfollow, to cancel. We’re told that safety lies in certainty, in surrounding ourselves with people who think like us, vote like us, believe like us. But what if the real revolution is something else entirely?

Not just friendship that comes easily—the kind built on shared interests, aligned beliefs, and an unspoken agreement to affirm each other’s worldview.

But the kind that stretches you. Unsettles you. Makes you question yourself in ways that feel disorienting. The kind that requires something more than warmth and shared laughter. The kind that asks you to see someone fully, even when parts of them go against everything you believe.

I’m asking myself, in a society so defined by division, does friendship have a role in politics? In a new world? What is its role in real, meaningful change?

We often think of transformation as something that happens through force—through protest, through policy, through the clashing of ideas. And sometimes it does. But this week, the stories that kept coming up in conversation weren’t about winning debates. They weren’t about the loudest voice in the room.

They were stories of something quieter. Something harder.

Stories where friendship—not agreement, not even understanding at first, but friendship itself—became the container for a deeper reckoning.

Here are three of the stories that were at the heart of three separate conversations that came up this week; the theme seems to be a voice loud enough to listen to.

Shabbat Dinner

You might remember the story of Derek Black and Matthew Stevenson that made headlines back in 2018. Derek Black was supposed to be the next leader of the white nationalist movement. Raised in a world where racial supremacy was a fact, where multiculturalism was a threat, and where Jewish people were the architects of societal decline, he believed these things with absolute certainty. His father was the founder of Stormfront, the first major white nationalist website. His godfather was David Duke. By the time he was a teenager, he was designing propaganda and leading radio shows on white nationalist ideology.

And then he went to college.

At first, he kept his views quiet, made friends, built relationships. Then someone found out who he was and posted about him on a student forum. Overnight, the easy friendships vanished. He became a campus pariah.

But one person, Matthew Stevenson, did something unexpected. He invited Derek to his weekly Shabbat dinner.

Matthew, one of the only Orthodox Jews on campus, saw an opportunity: Derek had likely never spent real time with Jewish people. And so, without making it a debate or an intervention, he extended an invitation. And Derek, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps because he had nowhere else to go, said yes.

For two years, Derek attended these dinners. They didn’t talk about white nationalism. They talked about just about anything but, actually. And from those small things, they built trust. And slowly, something began to shift. Derek found himself in deep friendships with people he had been raised to believe were his enemies.

At one point, he found himself asking: how could he be friends with Jewish students and still believe they should be removed from the country?

That contradiction unraveled him.

It wasn’t immediate. He didn’t walk into a dinner one night and walk out a changed man. It took years. But eventually, the quiet presence of these friendships made it impossible for him to maintain his ideology. And ultimately culminated in an open letter, publicly denounced white nationalism. Their story has since helped so many others examine their inherited beliefs about people and about the world.

It also should be said that it wasn’t all polite niceties. Both his new Jewish friends and he himself expressed outrage at different moments, but the reason transformation was still able to happen is that the outrage had the container of friendship, of being able to see each other’s humanity.

The On Being interview with both of them is worth a listen because they share openly how nuanced it all was and still continues to be for them.

What I’m really sitting with is—would *I* have invited Derek to dinner?

And in looking at myself, I ask us all: how often do we choose to stay in the room with someone, not to agree, not to enable, but to bear witness? And who are we willing to welcome to our dinner tables?

Blues Music

Daryl Davis was used to all kinds of crowds. A blues pianist who had played alongside legends, he knew the power of music to bring people together. But he wasn’t expecting this conversation.

He had just finished a set at a bar when a white man approached him.

"I really enjoy you all’s music," the man said, shaking his hand.

Davis thanked him. But then the man added, almost as if it was an afterthought, "You know, this is the first time I’ve ever had a drink with a Black man."

Davis blinked. The first time?

He had spent his life moving through mixed spaces—playing music, meeting people, sitting at tables with strangers of all backgrounds. But here was a man, at least 15 years older than him, who had somehow never done the same.

"Why is that?" Davis asked.

The man hesitated. Then his friend, nudging him, said, "Tell him. Tell him."

And so he did. "I’m a member of the Ku Klux Klan."

Davis laughed, thinking it was a joke. Then the man pulled out his Klan membership card. This was real.

If January felt like it lasted ten years, you're not alone. 2025 is shaping up to be a marathon, not a sprint—which means staying engaged without burning out is critical. The world is asking a lot of us, and while tuning out completely might feel tempting, we know that disengagement isn’t the answer either. The real challenge is learning how to stay informed and involved without losing yourself in the process.

Alright friends, here are tested-tried-and-vetted 5 actionable ways to maintain your sanity while staying present in the world’s unfolding chaos.

1. Protect Your Mornings

If you leave your mornings up to chance, you leave your nervous system up to chance. (read that again) I’ve learned this the hard way. Too many mornings have started with a reflexive grab for my phone, only to find myself spiraling through social media’s abyss, sinking into the latest wave of devastating headlines, or already answering ever “pressing” Slack messages.

I used to think I was just “staying informed,” but in reality, I was starting my day in a state of stress and reactivity. I don’t let myself do that anymore.

Here’s my personal way of protecting my mornings and of course, I encourage you to take what inspires you, leave the rest. When my alarm goes off, I get up immediately and drink a big-ass glass of water. After I brush my teeth and long before coffee, I move my body—whether it’s a structured workout or simply walking my dog for 10 to 30 minutes. Only then do I make my coffee. Only then do I touch technology.

The key here is simple: when you finally open a screen, you want to be grounded enough to handle whatever it throws at you. Start your day on your own terms before the world tries to hijack it.

2. Find a Purpose-Driven Community

What does that even mean? It means that if you need to be with people who share your values, seek that out. If you need people who share your interests, find them. The point is: when the world feels overwhelming, being part of a community with real intention can provide much-needed stability.

Find a space that connects you—to your interests, your neighborhood, or your deeper sense of meaning. It could be about activism, spirituality, or creative expression, or it could be something as simple as a cooking club, a hiking group, or a weekly gathering with friends. What matters is that it grounds you and reminds you that you’re not navigating everything alone.

For those following my journey, you know I’m currently in interfaith seminary training. As part of my studies, I joined a group focused on the interfaith approach to politics, giving me a weekly space to process my questions, curiosities, and concerns—knowing I’m surrounded by people who value open-hearted dialogue and working toward understanding.

You don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. Community, in whatever form you need it, is there to hold you.

3. Disrupt Your Echo Chamber

Between curated social media feeds and news sources that reinforce what we already believe, it’s easy to exist in a constant loop of affirmation.

With all the maps to The Old Way burned, I wonder if this moment is actually as Bayo Akomolafe suggests. Could we actually be taking flight, without the tyranny of having to be and do and behave as The Old Way did?

The New Way is calling and it brings with it the big heavy questions:

* What does home mean?

* What does safety look like?

* What or who is God and would God let these things happen?

* Will my loved ones be okay?

* Will I be okay?

(… If you’re waiting for me to answer, you might be waiting for a long time.)

The real deal is, this chapter of life for all of us seems to be about one ultimate question: how do we live with the unanswerable?

And this, my friends, IS the path of Spirit.

Not to fix the unfixable, figure out the unfigure-out-able, but to live with the unknowable in a good way.

And this is where the path splits.

Some will try to escape the discomfort of the unanswerable by going outward - blaming, pointing fingers, calling names, weaponizing their pain.

Others will take the discomfort underground - harboring resentment, burying their feelings until they erupt in unexpected ways, often at the most inopportune moments.

But the path of Spirit offers a third way:IN.

Not because we’ll stay there. But because IN each of us is an Inner Sanctuary, where we have never been hurt, and therefore never protected, and therefore never divided.

And its there that we resource ourselves, in order to: come back out and meet the world in all of its hurt and protection and division.

There’s a name for that place, and its called: free.

Sweet DarknessDavid Whyte

When your eyes are tiredthe world is tired also.

When your vision has gone,no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the darkwhere the night has eyesto recognize its own.

There you can be sureyou are not beyond love.

The dark will be your hometonight.

The night will give you a horizonfurther than you can see.

You must learn one thing.The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worldsexcept the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweetconfinement of your aloneness

to learn

anything or anyonethat does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

It’s time for us to go into the darkness, into our aloneness, not to stay there, but to learn of our aliveness, to adopt the litmus test of The New Way: ‘anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.’

And then… to come back out and share the good word of aliveness.Share the good word of expansiveness.Share the good word of the freedom we have come to touch on so that we might remember that the world was meant to be free in. For all of us.

In our relationships.In our pursuit of vocation.In our creation of loving community. In our reformulation of intimate, collective, and global community.

We are being called to The New Way.There are no easy answers. There is no map. But that sense of where-do-we-go-now, what-do-we-do-now, might just be the required freefall into the dark where night has eyes to recognize its own.

Where we are no longer beholden to outdated coordinates.

Where we suddenly realize, we’re not actually falling.

We’re flying into The New World.

Dear Friends, thank you for being part of this Make The Sun world. We’re going to be continuing to explore the unknowable in some pretty epic ways, in some pretty epic places this Spring and Summer. And I so hope you’ll join me.

In May, I’ll be leading a retreat with my partner Kevin Courtney in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where we will meditate, practice yoga, hike up to a sacred site known as The Milagro, take part in equine therapy, make s’mores around a fire, and spend time under the stars. As the name of the retreat, MILAGRO, suggests - its a time to open into the miracles within us and around us.

In June, I’ll be taking a small group to the Greek island of Antiparos, where we’ll start the day with “Body and Breath,” a mixture of dynamic stretching, body strengthening, and breathwork, before we head out for a day in the Aegean Sea, a day hiking the island, and a day exploring the sweet local town. As that name suggests, MYTHOS, will be about leaving your biography behind, as you create your new life’s myth.

Both retreats are just over half way full, so if you have a calling or an inspiration, I suggest joining us soon. It would be an honor and a delight to have you there.

As always, I’m grateful for your attentive eye and listening ear. If you do get some goodness from these posts, the highest complement would be if you could share Make The Sun with those you love.

With love, always,Nat

The Buddha, with his infinite compassion, said, “I know of such a medicine. But to make it, I need a specific ingredient.”

Relieved, she replied, “Anything. Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”

“Bring me a handful of mustard seeds,” the Buddha said, “but each must come from a villager that has never known loss. Then I can help you.”

Kisa set out, visiting everyone in the village. She would ask the shopkeeper, “Have you known loss? Can you give me a mustard seed?” Next the farmer…

But at every meeting, instead of a mustard seed, she heard a story of great and profound loss - of children, siblings, partners, friends, pets, and homes.

She stayed to listen, sharing in their pain and offering comfort. Over time, her heart began to soften in a new way. Slowly, she came to understand: loss is not hers alone to bear but is shared by all.

Eventually, Kisa returned to Buddha and said, “I could not find a single villager that has not known loss. But I have learned that grief is part of what it is to be human. I am not alone in my pain.”

Buddha gentle replied, “You have begun to heal, for you have turned your great loss into great compassion.”

I’m not usually one to generalize, but:All of LA is in grief. All of LA is in compassion.

My friend Katie Zion sent me a message recently to ask, “Is it crazy to be coming to LA in a week?” as if to ask, “Should I postpone my trip?” I said, “It’s actually a beautiful time to be here. LA has never been kinder.”

The losses are unimaginable. For those less familiar with LA, the fires have burned an area three times the size of Manhattan or about 20 percent of Greater London. By now you’ve seen the images, you’ve somehow been touched by it, you know people who have lost everything, you might also be that person.

And, amidst it, the city has been transformed by an outpouring of compassion. And I’m not romanticizing. It’s tangible and palpable. People are talking to each other in line for a coffee, with real presence and earnestness. Neighbors are baking, cooking, and donating to the fearless firefighters who are still at work. Reporters have shared stories of strangers texting them—friends of friends of friends—asking if they can help find lost pets. And sometimes, miraculously, they do.

And YOU - this beautiful Make The Sun community - donated a whopping $8,800 to my Venmo, which I then converted into gift cards, and have a daily practice of dropping them off at different donation centers, serving different communities. Thank YOU.

People are helping people.

And… alongside this wave of kindness, there’s been another wave—one of anger and blame. I see it everywhere: finger-pointing at leaders, institutions, initiatives, politicians, even at one another.

While accountability is important and investigations into what happened are undoubtedly necessary, what I’m talking about is not the kind of dynamic that seeks to listen, understand, or rebuild. Its reactive, impulsive, and often plays into the dangerous dynamics of “us versus them,” binary thinking, and even conspiracy.

And here we are now, teetering between the weeks of the fire behind us and the week of inauguration before us.

This is always when I look to the teachers and the teachings. The parables and the mantras. The spiritual practices that guide through division. And the practice that jumps out is from Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön frames it this way:

“At every moment, am I going to practice peace or am I going to practice war?”

Across the world, the bottom has fallen out. And collectively, we are struggling to find anything to grasp. The natural human experience of that is: profound suffering. This is where tenderness is an absolute requirement.

Pema goes on: “When things are shaky and nothing is working, we might realize that we are on the verge of something. We might realize that this is a very vulnerable and tender place, and that tenderness can go either way. We can shut down and feel resentful or we can touch in on that throbbing quality. There is definitely something tender and throbbing about groundlessness.”

The highest compliment would be if you would sharing this post with others.

In our groundlessness, we must call upon our tenderness.Our tenderness can go either way.May our tenderness tip us toward peace.

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing,” Pema reminds us. “We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. They come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”I offer myself, I offer you, I offer the source of infinite presence—however we name it or know it—this as a prayer, a hope, an invitation:

May we hold this moment with open hearts, embracing the truth that grief and compassion are inseparable. In the face of unimaginable loss, may we find the courage to choose connection over division, tenderness over anger, and healing over despair.

May we listen with presence, comfort with kindness, and rebuild with love, discovering together that our shared humanity is a wellspring of strength.

May we lean into this tenderness, letting it guide us toward peace. Let it inspire us to check in on a neighbor, to offer sustenance to someone in need, or simply to pause and truly hear another’s story.

May these small acts of care be a beacon, reminding us that even in our own pain, we carry the capacity to be a light for others.

May we come to know: I am not alone in my pain. And neither are you.Together, may we begin to heal, allowing our great loss to transform into great compassion.

As we close in my seminary training: Amen, Amein, Ashe, Aho - may it be so.

My friends, thank you again for your loving words, for checking in on all of us out here in LA, on myself, Kevin, and Smooch, for your donations and for your care. I am now turning my relief efforts toward bringing the community together and I’d like to invite you into it.

Next Sunday, January 26, I’ll be hosting a 90min “SUN Service,” a gathering to share in song with Venika Morrissette, in breathwork with Millana Snow, and in philosophy and teachings that have helped humanity get through, time and time again.

And when we’re TOGETHER, we will start to notice those places where hope and beauty can bloom again.

IF YOU ARE IN LA:

* those affected by fires, message me: it’s free

* tickets: 20% goes to LAFD

IF YOU ARE OUTSIDE OF LA:

* I will be livestreaming it! In all honesty, I’m still figuring out the tech piece. BUT - stay tuned because I’ll be sending out a link for it in the coming days.

Let’s meet each other where we are.Let’s lift each other up.See you next week for SUN Service.

As you can tell, I’m all about being together. I do so hope I’ll have the pleasure of your company on a Make The Sun retreat in 2025. We’re about half way full for Santa Fe and Greece, so do consider booking sooner rather than later:

Make the Sun is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Born, raised, and living in LA, what’s happening in my city is as personal as personal gets.

Never could I have imagined getting multiple amber alerts in succession, like we did on Tuesday night. Never did I think we’d be packing a “go” bag. Never in my wildest nightmares could the Palisades and Altadena be up in uncontrollable flames. Wildfires, yes, they are common in LA. But in all my life? Never, nothing, not even close to this.

Countless sleepovers on Alma Real Drive. All the cul-de-sac for all the bike rides. My first communion and weekly CCD classes at Corpus Christi. Sparky’s Yogurt shop for ‘after school snack.’ The Haagen Dazs that the Miller’s dog, Haagen, was named after. The dentist office I got my braces on - and off - at. Brit’s parents house where I had my first kiss at a post-dance party. The Noah’s Bagels Melissa and I retreated to on 9/11. These are all places that are - g o n e .

Everyone in LA is touched by this. Everyone has a story about this week. You either were evacuated like we were, or thought you might be. You either left for work that day without a chance to go back like Harvey, or had only a few minutes to grab and go like Melanie. You’ve either watched the news from your home or a friends house or a hotel or an airbnb. You either shut off your phone or texted everyone you’ve ever known or received those texts. And my God, the horrible truth is, you either lost your home, its completely uninhabitable, or you’ve never been so grateful for the home you were lucky enough to come back to.

There is one shared experience: you needed your neighbor and they needed you. Like never before.

For Kevin and I, we live in a rent stabilized apartment right at the very edge of Santa Monica, just before you head down the hill in Rustic Canyon. We moved here a year and a half ago when Kevin was diagnosed with cancer. I found this apartment because this is my neighborhood, I knew exactly what I was looking for. A 15min drive to Cedars Sinai. A 20min walk from my dad’s house, where I grew up. And a 2min drive from Pacific Coast Highway.

The backdoor of our apartment faces the backdoor of our neighbor Sam’s apartment, she’s the unofficial mayor of our complex. She’s helped connect us to a few folks who live in the building, we’d exchange waves while walking the dog and the passing ‘how ya doing, good to see you.’ And of course the occasional passive aggressive, ‘hey I moved your laundry, it’d been a while.’

But on Tuesday, all that changed.

Kevin and I decided to ring in the New Year with a staycation at a hotel just 30 minutes away in Downtown LA. Our only plan for New Year’s Day was simple: start at The Broad Museum and just… see what happens.

THE BROAD

First, let’s just take a moment to appreciate that The Broad is free. All you need to do is reserve tickets online. The Broad family, self-made billionaires, loved the arts so much that they wanted to make them accessible to everyone. What a beautiful thing to see families from all backgrounds snapping selfies next to Jeff Koons sculptures and Basquiat paintings.

As you walk through the museum, you turn a corner and come across an unremarkable table and chairs, one that could be mistaken for a prefabricated IKEA construction, except for one small detail: it’s massive.

It’s so big that you immediately feel as if you’ve slipped down the rabbit hole and dusted off your white apron to realize you’re Alice. You’re quite literally standing Under The Table, the aptly named piece of Robert Therrien’s.

As I looked up at the underside of the table, I remember being five and blinking my eyes open to those very wooden beams, hearing my mother’s relieved voice exclaim, “There you are!” I had fallen asleep under the table one evening while my parents were hosting friends. After a frantic search around the house, they found me curled up in a tiny ball, tucked just beneath the tablecloth they had been chatting over only an hour earlier.

Underneath that oversized table, everyone seemed to be having their own childhood renaissance. Shared collective memory and collective wonder.

I pulled up to a corner of the room and watched people turn that corner for about 10 straight minutes. Their eyes light up. Their memory kick in. Their inner child pop. The cool kids wanted pictures next to it. The young kids wanted to see if they could climb it. Even the serious art folks wanted to touch it.

Nothing else mattered for anyone as they turned that corner. Not a care in the world. Just like when we were kids. There was only one thing to do: walk under the table. That was it. And boom: pure, unadulterated JOY.

Just… walk under the table.

JOSUE

Right across the street from The Broad is the Walt Disney Music Center, Frank Gehry’s architectural masterpiece of sweeping stainless steel. Surely the next right move was to just… cross the street. We oooh-ed and ahhh-ed at the exterior, looking over what was on for January, dreaming up a night we might actually experience the interior.

And by then, the sun was setting and we were after a cocktail. I had a vague recollection of being with my family for a nice dinner at the hotel just… across the street; let’s see if we can sit at the bar.

Up the elevator, through the lobby, ah yes, that was it: San Laurel, the insanely creative Jose Andres restaurant with a view of the Music Center. We saddled up to the bar, the place almost empty, scan the menu looking for mezcal and the bartender says, “I’m a mezcal guy too.”

Well… now we’re off the races.

We learn his name is Josue, his entire family from a small town in Mexico, and he’s not just into mezcal - his life’s passion is mezcal. His dream for 2025 is to visit Oaxaca and smell the earth that his beloved plant takes root in.

We asked him: “What is it you love about it?” Josue: “Unlike any other spirit that tends to dampen the experience of what you’re doing, mezcal enhances it. It makes what you’re doing - pop.’

We had to know more: “So here you are - doing what you love, you’re at the top of your game at this topnotch restaurant, how do you stay passionate on the hard days?”

He said: “I pump myself up. I get myself hyped. If no one’s there to hype you up - you have to be the one.”

“But how? How do you pump yourself up?”- “Two things: first, I remember that I wanted this - how in 2021 I dreamt about one day being a bartender - I bought the tools, worked my skills at home, and now I’m here, where José Andrés himself loved one of my cocktails so much, he put it on the menu. And then, I remember where I wanna go: I wanna be a good leader. As a leader, others fall into your vibe. I want them to catch my flow.’

“How do you do that when you’re off it?’- “I tell myself - catch the rhythm. Do the thing you’re doing.Just… garnish the drink.”

The sound of drink tickets started clicking away, and Josue turned to work through them, his rhythm flawless.

ROBIN

Throughout our conversation, I noticed a man seated a few feet away at a table for one. Roughly my age, full head of ringlet curls, cherubic face—but what caught my eye was the small stack of reading material in front of him. Worn bindings. A binder with sheet music.

I couldn’t help myself: “Do you play?”- He looked up, surprised but warm. “Oh, um… yes.”

“When you’re reading music like that, is it the same experience as reading a book?”- “It is, actually. I’m hearing it play in my head as I read it.”

We learned that he’s from Sussex, he’s just here for the week, chatting over two empty tables, us at the bar and him at his, until he stands up and comes over to continue.

“So are you a pianist?”- “Well, actually, I’m a conductor - and I’m going to be starting across the street tomorrow.”

(Kevin and I stunned) “…. Uhh… you’re - the conductor - of the LA Phil - playing at the Walt Disney Concert Hall - this weekend?”- “I’m the guest conductor; and yes, I meet with them tomorrow for shows Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, so wait - are we talking to you the night before a dream comes true?”- “I’ve actually conducted them before, about 4 years ago. But everything is different now because I became a father 6 months ago.”

Y’all - we talked about everything from the initiation of fatherhood, to how and where he feels music, to Kevin’s cancer journey, to my career change, - on we went. And if you can believe it, he offered us tickets to Sunday’s matinee! The very building we were just dreaming under… my goodness!!! (We’ll report back, for sure.)

I digress - hot off the conversation with Josue, we wanted to learn about how he experiences his own sense of flow.

“When it’s go time and the curtain comes up, how do you get out of your own way?”- “I try to allow nature to fill every f*****g pore in my body and be so thankful for the moment that nothing else exists.”

“What if you feel insecure?”He tells us that with some orchestras, he could describe a color or a feeling and they’ve got it. With others, they need something more clinical, like the bar number and whether to be sharper or flatter. And then he says: “Conducting for me is basically a life lesson. I’m going to use it to love my child and wife.”

(Pause for breath to return to body)

“Wow, so you have one day of rehearsals with these guys before four shows this weekend. How do you get arguably some of the best musicians in America, who have a very specific way of approaching music, to join you in your flow?”- “Keep it about the music.”Just… keep it about the music.

JAMES

The night felt too magical to push our luck any further. We hugged it out with Robin, then with Josue, and caught a Lyft back to our hotel. Our driver, James, had great jazz playing in the car. It struck me that it wasn’t the radio and it wasn’t playing from his phone. The dials read something more familiar than that - it was a CD, playing “Track 4.”

“What a great track.”- “Marcus Miller.”

And since it was that kind of night… off we go: who is the best jazz musician, what are his thoughts on Jon Batiste, on Jacob Collier, on what kind of life you needed to have lived to play good jazz.

“What does jazz do for you?”- “Makes me relaxed. If it’s John Coltrane, that’s another thing. I like Coltrane but I can’t really play it in the car. It’s too intense. Charlie Parker played fast but when Miles Davis came along, he just slowed things down. But then - there’s Marcus Miller. Most underrated. Badass bass player.”

“What is it about the bass?”- “It keeps things moving. And it’s the center. You can have a great bass player but if you got a shitty drummer, pfff. Or, if you have a great drummer, with a shitty bass player, pfff. It’s okay to go out a little bit, but-come back.”

Go out a little bit, but come back.

And with that, he pulled up to the curb, and before we got out, he showed us the cover of the album and said, ‘take a ride with him next.’

2025

Our New Year’s Day wasn’t so much about making resolutions, but about one finding us, wrapped up in four different packages.

Just… walk under the table.Just… garnish the drink.Just… keep it about the music.And when you go out a little bit,Just… come back.

And its the same thing that it always is, what every tradition says, what every meditation is practicing, what every teaching is about:

Do what you’re doing when you do it.And, when you leave, just come back.

Thanks always, friends, for your listening ear and your attentive eye. If you enjoyed this post, the highest honor for me would be if you shared it with your crew. T’would mean a lot.

And in this new year of 2025, I hope to meet you out in the great wide world for one of my three Make the Sun retreats. And if you’re in LA, be on the lookout for the next SUN.day Service, coming January 26.

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No hardship is without its hidden gift.

As the year winds down, we have a choice: to let 2024 quietly slip away or to turn its close into an art form.

Friends, my invitation this week it to join me in artfully closing down 2024 with the care, color, and attention that our hardships and our hard-won blessings deserve.

Naming both is essential. Articulating our struggles isn’t about dwelling on the negative. It’s about acknowledging the fullness of our odysseys, and ensuring that we don’t unconsciously carry their weight into the next year. Naming the gift empowers us to see ourselves not as victims of circumstance, but as participants—players and students of a much larger, grander mystery.

If we choose to see challenges as a pathway to greater understanding, they cease to be ‘problems’ and instead become portals. And I think we can all agree—2024 was one helluva doorway.

Inquiry Architecture: Hardship

When I look back on a year, I like to give myself a structure—a kind of inquiry architecture—to guide the process. These questions open the door for introspection and clarity. The First Part:

* What was the biggest hurdle:

* Personally?

* Professionally?

* In health?

* In relationship?

* In community?

Personally

In the first half of this year, Kevin was still very much in treatment for Stage 4 cancer. I remember being on my knees this time last year, praying that he would survive. And then in May, by the grace of the gods, of western medicine, of easter practices, of who-knows-what, he was given the all-clear. I honestly could end the reflection there, because I can’t overstate how seismic of a shift that was. You might think this should fall under ‘relationship’ category, but it touched every part of our lives—quite literally a new lease on life—his of course and certainly mine.

But that wasn’t the end of the story. These last few months, I was on my knees wondering if we would survive. Kevin and I fought tooth and nail to hold onto our relationship through monumental transitions in our individual lives. There were moments when it felt like everything might unravel, we’d been stretched to our absolute limits. But through deep work, great friends, and hard conversations, we made it through. We were tested and tested again, brought to the edge, and slowly backed away from it.

Professionally

Leaving an 11-year career with The Class to launch Make the Sun wasn’t easy. Oof, honey. It meant leaping into the unknown and letting go of the identity and stability that came with the work I had been doing for over a decade.

Starting over meant confronting my own nakedness—asking myself not only what I wanted to create next but also who I wanted to become in the process. It was exciting, yes, but also deeply disorienting, bringing up thick historic insecurities I could no longer hide from.

In Health

The first part of the year, I felt the weight of all the stress and change in my body. Between Kevin’s recovery, being Caregiver and Co-CEO, and the emotional intensity of it all, I learned what it means to carry more than you can hold.

In those first five months, my body kept sending signals—constant tension, uncharacteristic insomnia, and very uncharacteristic cynicism—that something wasn’t aligned. For too long, I ignored those signals, pouring energy into everything but my own well-being. Everything changed as soon I began to align with my spirit.

In Relationship

As with any tectonic shift, friendships shifted too. Some faded, a few ended, others transformed, and through it all, I was forced to face some hard truths about connection and loyalty.

It became clear that certain relationships were no longer serving me—or the other person. As painful as those shifts were, they created space for something deeper: growth, clarity, and a renewed appreciation for the people who are truly evergreen in my life.

In Community

All of it amidst what you, dear friend, know all too well - the year the world shook. The US, UK, and Mexico experienced colossal political transformations. Two wars burned on. Climate-related disasters struck with unprecedented force.

As the old saying goes… “I miss ‘precedented times.’” (I don’t actually think this is truly an “old saying,” but as of 2020 it must be, right?)

Inquiry Architecture: Hidden Gift

No one came out of this year unscathed. Yet, if we pay close enough attention, we might uncover blessings hidden in the hardship. If it’s not top of mind, it helps to journal on them for a bit until it tells you.

* What was the hidden gift?

* Personally?

* Professionally?

* In health?

* In relationships?

* In community?

Goodness. Well, I’m happy to share that I’ve gotten my own personal and hard-won lessons down to their most potent. And my hope in sharing them with you, is that they serve your own life, in all five categories, all five dimensions, powerfully, effectively, and artfully.

Here are my most essential lessons from The School of 2024:

And here we all are, careening toward what might just be D) all of the above. Here we are on the cusp of holidays and at the end of 2024.

To give you some context, The Kuhns are those people at this time of the year. Christmas starts the day after Thanksgiving. Multiple holiday playlists begin their rotation. Our dog, Smooch, gets another Christmas sweater added to his closet which only consists of Christmas sweaters. The Kuhns embrace Christmas the way small sugar-filled children embrace a piñata at a birthday party - maniacal excitement, zero chill, and let’s call it a concerning… passionate level of intensity.

And at this time, few things bring me more joy that planning a holiday dinner party for loved ones. Lucky me, Kevin and I got to have my Dad and his girlfriend Kathleen over on Wednesday, for Christmas dinner, since we’ll be at Kevin’s family’s this year.

But this isn’t just any Christmas.This is the Christmas my dad retires.

After 50 years as a physician, he’s days away from hanging up his white coat. My dad - it chokes me up even writing about it - is one of the best humans on the planet. And trust me, from working with people’s intimate lives and troubles for the last however-many-years, I am keenly aware of how rare and privileged it is to make such a statement.

This guy was raised by Irish immigrants who came to the States with nothing. As the old story goes, Grandma Kuhn would use the same tea bag three times to stretch every ounce of what they had. For my dad, doubling down on education was his way out, but the stakes were high: get into med school or face the draft. He practically lived in the library until he became an MD. And even after, my fondest memories are with him in the public library as a kid.

And most recently, when COVID hit, he was the Director of the ICU, as the head pulmonologist. He saw every - single - COVID patient - from the beginning of COVID. He’s been working 12 days on, 2 days off from long before I was born. I often liken his dedication to that of the military—something almost superhuman about that loyalty, and certainly foreign to my generation.And in 10 days, all of that will… well, end. The long hours. The adrenaline rushes. The on-call demands. Being needed in the way he has been for five decades.

Understandably, he’s terrified.

Earlier that week, I mentioned my dad’s retirement in my study group, explaining how I planned to suggest things like standing coffee dates to help him adjust. Marcy, a retired woman in the group gently offered: “With all due respect, Nat, young people think they know what us elders need. But you don’t. Yet. What we really need are others like us. We’re not dead. We’re not in a home. We’re wise. We’re vital. And the hardest adjustment is our new relationship to time.”

She popped her number into the chat to pass to my dad.

Woof.

That changed something deep for me.Specifically, her words reframed how I would approach my dad that evening.

Cut to dinner:

Dad called to say they were five minutes away. I wiped my hands on my apron, cracked the front door open, and returned to the kitchen to finish prepping.

As I’m closing the oven door, I hear a man & woman’s voice: “ho ho ho!” And THIS is the brilliant scene that I’m greeted to.

Dad and Kathleen had fully decked themselves in head-to-toe elf costumes, complete with not just presents in tow, but - obvs - with Christmas sweater for their dog. Was there a dress code for the evening? No.Was this completely voluntary? Absolutely.Are Dad and Kathleen the stuff of legends? 100.We spent the first 15 minutes riffing on how warm it was in LA compared to the North Pole, debating which of them wrapped presents better, and whether their sleigh was ready for next week. OH - AND - to top it off, they brought elf outfits for us, which we couldn’t put on fast enough.

Finally, we sat down for dinner, and I took my chance—not just to offer Dad a standing coffee date, as was the plan, but to plant a seed for something more expansive. Maybe retirement didn’t just have to mean the end of what he’s known for 50 years; it could be an opening—a chance to embrace a new rhythm and community, as my classmate Marcy had suggested.And in fact, it is: D) all of the above.

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Thankfully, one of my favorite poets, John O’Donohue, has a blessing that says it better than I ever could. I read it aloud:

BLESSING FOR RETIREMENT John O’Donohue

This is where your life has arrived,After all the years of effort and toil;Look back with graciousness and thanksOn all your great and quiet achievements

You stand on the shore of new invitationTo open your life to what is left undone;Let your heart enjoy a different rhythmWhen drawn to the wonder of other horizons.

Have the courage for a new approach to time;Allow it to slow until you find freedomTo draw alongside the mystery you holdAnd befriend your own beauty of soul.

Now is the time to enjoy your heart’s desire,To live the dreams you’ve waited for,To awaken the depths beyond your workAnd enter into your infinite source.

And well, it worked. Dad visibly softened. Removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. A brief silence. And then he said: “that was really good.”

And we carried on with dinner.

Friends, I’ve read that blessing at minimum once a day since. And each time, it becomes more and more holographic. Because, boy does it hit the bull’s eye for those crossing the sacred threshold into retirement, but in a recent reading, it landed for me too. And then I realized… wait, in some way, isn’t this all of us at the end of 2024?

Aren’t we all about to - retire 2024?

As you read this, most of you on SUNday, we’re just now entering into our yearly suspension of time. Where the rhythm of our lives change. Regardless of how the time signature changes, quick or slow, the relationship to time morphs. The everyday routine gives way to this brief two week period where we seem to hover just above familiarity.And if we’re lucky, we might just use some of it to consider even just that first line: “this is where your life has arrived.”

At the end of 2024, here you are. And where might that be, for you??

We too might also: “Look back with graciousness and thanks on all your great and quiet achievements.” At the very least, such profound gratitude for living under safe skies. 2024 was hard, and thinking of those achievements not, amidst it all - somehow, boy we managed to do some pretty great stuff, eh?

And now, “You stand on the shore of a new invitation” - What is that for you, in this breath between years - worlds - versions of you?

“Let your heart enjoy a different rhythm” - ooof, what immediately came to mind?

My hope for all of us, where three holidays miraculously align on the same week - Christmas, Hannukah, and Kwanza - that we all “might allow it to slow until you find freedom to draw alongside the mystery you hold and befriend your own beauty of soul.”

Can’t you just see it - its so close, if not here already: Feet up. On couch. Crafting a moment either to be with yourself or possibly with loved ones. Hopefully accompanied by marshmallows in a warm cuppa. As if to say, “now is the time to enjoy your heart’s desire.”

And if we’re reeeeeeally lucky this holiday season, we might just lay down all swords, all hamster wheels, all google meets, and “Awaken the depths beyond your work, and enter into your infinite source.”

We might consider it again:

BLESSING FOR RETIREMENT… of 2024 ;) John O’Donohue

This is where your life has arrived,After all the years of effort and toil;Look back with graciousness and thanksOn all your great and quiet achievements.

You stand on the shore of new invitationTo open your life to what is left undone;Let your heart enjoy a different rhythmWhen drawn to the wonder of other horizons.

Have the courage for a new approach to time;Allow it to slow until you find freedomTo draw alongside the mystery you holdAnd befriend your own beauty of soul.

Now is the time to enjoy your heart’s desire,To live the dreams you’ve waited for,To awaken the depths beyond your workAnd enter into your infinite source.

Friends, may it be so.

Have a beautiful holiday week ahead. You more than deserve it.

Until SUNday soon,Nat

Oh, and PS… if part of that dreaming includes a retreat with me in 2025, Spain’s retreat is now live for booking, alongside Santa Fe and Greece.

We COULD innumerate all the reasons why 2024 was rough and 2025 is scary, or we could ‘eat dessert first’ and plan a trip.

(Shrugs shoulders emoji)

This week’s post is all about INDULGENCE. Why? Because life is hard and couldn’t we all use something to look forward to?

I’ve got two massive feasts of joy to share with you.

The first is a recipe for an:almond-butter-chocolate-chip-cookie skillet.

(I’m just… gonna leave that right there while you read that again.)

YES.Today you will learn how to make a gluten-free, refined-sugar-free cookie in a skillet. It’s so good for you, it might as well be kale. The full video + recipe are available to paid subscribers and friends, lemme tell you, with the amount of JOY that this recipe will bring you and/or your loved ones this holiday season, I promise it is worth upgrading for five bucks.

And second is that, YOU GUYS… I’m finally ready to share with you the 2025 plan for RETREATS!!!

Do you wanna go somewhere amazing and explore and adventure and get-off-screens and move and breathe and journal and hike and snorkel and play and laugh and fire pit sing and star gaze and remember that life is for living - with me? Can we PLEASE go have the best time together?

These trips are created in the same way that I personally want to travel. I want to practice in the morning in order to get my body awake, alive, and electric. I want to place my attention in some delicious inquiry that is pulled from a combination of philosophy and poetry. And then I want to leave all memory of zoom-meetings behind and venture OUT into the land that I’m on - whether that be through hiking, equine therapy, snorkeling, cooking classes, or cute-ass-picturesque-town-wandering.

And this is what I am thrilled to share with you.

If you’re a paid subscriber, you’ll be able to register right now. Registration for all will open Monday night when I share this information more broadly. AND SO… here are all goodly details:

The Spanish word MILAGRO doesn’t just translate to "miracle," it is to awaken the extraordinary. We’ve gone numb to the divine within and all around us. These 5-days on MEA’s sacred grounds in Santa Fe, New Mexico, will re-sensitize us to the profound magic of spirit. In the mornings: meditation, movement & dharma, YUM. In the afternoons: hiking the arroyo, equine therapy, ceremonial breathwork. YES!

We’ll leave behind screens to immerse ourselves in heart magnetism. Led by yours truly and my main man, Kevin Courtney, let’s re-connect to what matters most.

The Greek word MYTHOS translates to "our larger story." Good-NESS, don’t we all have some unhelpful myths about ourselves that are outdated and straight up FICTION. We’ll use our time in stunning Antiparos to explore the narratives that have shaped our sense of self and take wise cues from the ancient ones. Let’s re-inspire, re-write, and become larger than the strategic mind thought possible. We’ll move, we’ll breathe, we’ll hike, we’ll snorkel, we’ll feast. Let’s venture.

OLIVA is an invitation to learn from the centuries-old olive groves of the Andalusian countryside. The olive tree and its oil are seen as mediators between the earthly and the divine. Together we’ll remove all that distracts in order to listen from a different place, to hear a different source. How? We’ll get in and on the land. Hiking through sunlit orchards and walking through charming pueblos blancos… it’s time to replenish your spirit, harvest what’s taken shape, & plant seeds for what’s to come.

Let’s VENTURE, together.

Scroll down to book AND for the one, the only… COOKIE in a SKILLET RECIPE.

Shockingly difficult process: hear it, accept it. For a long time I would hear my internal voice say YES - but then I would talk myself out of it. YES but… I need to put their needs first. YES but… now’s not right time. YES but… that could never actually happen. YES but… it’s too much / hard / scary / uncomfortable / unnecessary / selfish.

Only recently, as in these last few months, have I started hearing a quiet voice answer YES—and then actually followed it with with a YES.

Last week’s trip to Mexico City became an experiment in letting YES take the lead—in all its forms: from “feels right” to “f**k it, let’s do it,” to “absolutely, why not,” and finally, “just… shut up and trust.” And not to spoil the ending, but YES has a way of answering back when you truly listen. For me, it brought clarity to a question I didn’t even realize I’d been asking all year. My hope is that as you read, you might uncover whether YES has been sending you its own quiet signals—perhaps to a question you’ve been holding, too.

Feels Right

When I had JUST launched Make the Sun, one of the very first emails I received was from Nicolle and Ornella, two women from Mexico City whose company, IN-TENT, had just held their first wellness residency with the poet Yrsa Daley-Ward (who I’m a big, big fan of). They asked if I’d be their second speaker.

From the first few seconds of meeting them on Zoom, I loved them. I thought: Nat, IN-TENT is a new venture run by two cool women—and Make the Sun is seconds old. Trust this YES.

Cut to last week.

As the elevator doors opened to the rooftop of Hotel Condesa DF, tote bags with a quote from one of my writings were waiting for each guest, with gifts, drinks, mirrors, and gold pens prepped for the Make the Mirror workshop. It was a dreamy setup.

As the community arrived, you could feel a wave of warm wind whip through the soon-to-be-filled tables and chairs. Open-hearted. Because, you know, it’s not every day an American dressed in head-to-toe florals steps up to the mic, asks—nay, requires—everyone to get out of the chairs they’d just settled into, and start shaking their bodies.

And with that, we were off.

Make the Mirror is a workshop about finding a simple, practical way to see ourselves more kindly. The more I offer it in different places, the more steadfast I feel in my belief that it’s for everybody. At the end of the workshop, the women shared the wisdom they drew on their mirrors, and of course, it was in Spanish.

How beautiful to hear this work reflected in not just a language beyond English but my mother’s native tongue, no less. (She was Spanish.) It felt like she was there with us.

Trusting that YES wasn’t just about putting on an event. It was another reminder of our interconnectedness - across culture and language - that we could all use a little help in being kind to ourselves. And in the end, the yes - as an adult - to making new friends.

After the morning session, I was chatting with some of the guests when one of them got the sudden hit that I needed to visit a hidden gem in Mexico City. She almost leapt off the couch, grabbed her phone, and said, “How many for Sunday?”

Without really knowing what she was talking about—whether it was a restaurant, museum, or something else entirely—I just said, “Three! Three of us!” She smiled, continued making the reservation in Spanish, and when she hung up, she said, “You’re in for Sunday at 11 a.m. for three people. You have no idea how hard it is to get in here.”

I said, “Get in where?”

She said, “Convento de las Capuchinas.”

American-ly, Embarrassingly, and embarrassingly American, I said something like, “Oh, I love coffee!” She generously laughed and said, “Oh Nat, no. Just trust me.”

And so I did.

Friends…I didn’t do a lick of research. I just said YES. Put it in the calendar and waited for Sunday.

That was me, just around this time last week. Last Sunday was the very first SUNday Service. And it was at first, everything - and then quickly, nothing. Thanks to some very old and very pernicious insecurities. At its simplest, it was the beginning of a new event series—a gathering the Sunday before Thanksgiving, put on by me and my dear friend and maestra Venika Morrissette, featuring music, poetry, philosophy, and community. That’s just about the pithiest—most marketing-y—way I can put it. The bare bones. But the marrow of it had much more life.

What it really was, was a room full of people who bought tickets to something they had no idea what to expect—who showed up because of trust, because of love, because we share a meaningful connection. For this first go, it felt like a truly safe community, and I was so grateful for that. The folks who came were both actual family and an extended family of friends, colleagues, and long-time students who came with genuine curiosity and love. I couldn’t have asked for a better first audience to pilot and co-create SUNday Service with.

It felt like an episode of “This Is Your Life,” with my partner Kevin there, two of my best friends Jaycee and Brooke, my dad & Kathleen, and even our dear friend Dossetti brought her daughter—which felt like a harbinger of how I hope SUNday Service becomes a place where families come together. And ten minutes in, I looked up and saw someone sitting quietly in the back who shook me to my core—Rev angel Kyodo williams, one of my most cherished teachers, who has profoundly shaped me. I had no idea she was coming. I felt a shockwave of nervousness and gratitude. It probably took me half the program to find the courage to look back in her direction and settle into the joy of having her there.

I had told Brooke and Peter earlier in the week that working on SUNday Service felt like the most me I had felt in a long time. When I taught The Class, it was often the dharma talk before the movement that lit me up the most. Crafting SUNday Service was like stepping fully into that fire. Collaborating with Venika on the music portions brought out such joy—and hearing her voice again after all these years of knowing her and now collaborating with her more directly, I thought, Wow, this is something.

The first 15 minutes were spent in song together, a way of cutting through nerves and settling into presence. Venika’s voice singing a capella acted as a guide, bringing us into a kind of meditation without needing to name it. I worked with three poems that have shaped me, weaving together their wisdom as bricks laid for the reader—a way to find grace in such an ungraceful world. And then, the most vulnerable moment of all: sharing my own blessing, the first I’ve ever written. When I wrote it, I imagined the late great philosopher John O’Donohue on my left and Rev angel on my right, their wisdom guiding my hand. To have Rev angel actually there for its first reading was almost too much to take in.

People sang. They listened. They connected deeply with strangers and even more deeply with themselves. It was the start of, well, everything I have been wanting to create.

And then came the crash.

By sunset that day, the magic began to dissolve. By the time my head hit the pillow, the old voices were back. You know the ones. Mine in particular say things like:You should have memorized more. People were just being polite—they were bored. They trusted you and you let them down. Probably no one will show up to the next one. Give up now, before you REALLY embarrass yourself. Give. Up. Now.The familiar refrain: You’re not good enough.

That night, I let myself succumb to it. Sure, I gave myself some useful, constructive notes, but I also handed myself a heap of downright mean ones. It felt like those old insecurities, those ancient wounds, had decided to stage a full-blown resurrection. I forgot the joy I’d felt while crafting this, the courage it took to create and share it, the profound love in the room. I forgot all of it.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. SUNday Service was a secular sermon on Grace, and here I was, in desperate need of the very thing I had been speaking about. Ha.

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And Kevin had even called it that night when I was in the depth of my self-pummeling. He said, If you’re going to call it Grace, you could almost expect that everything that is NOT Grace will show up.

The next morning, I went for my Smooch Walk (read: walking our dog, Smooch) and let the sun rise again. I gave myself a good talking-to. Nat, you literally told the audience that the brain prioritizes negativity 7x more than positivity as a survival mechanism. You told them believing in ourselves is a practice. Now, practice.

Grace, I had said only hours before, is the invisible thread that weaves the human and the divine, the tangible and the intangible, into one unified experience. It is not merely a gift we receive but a bridge we build, a practice we embody, and a love we offer without condition. Grace is the courage to open ourselves fully—to be seen, to see others, and to extend kindness and dignity without seeking anything in return. It is the silent, transformative power that enables us to meet life’s challenges with softness instead of resistance, to find beauty amidst bleakness, and to hold space for both our humanity and the humanity of others. Grace is how we remember and embody the truth that love does not ask "why" or "what’s in it for me"; it simply is.

How could I “fall” from Grace—so quickly? The cosmic joke was on me.

Egoic patterns are like that. I’ve been tending to that voice in my head this year—a year full of career changes, life changes, and a new version of myself emerging. One that believes in me. That loves me. That is caring less and less about what others think and more about my soul’s song. But especially with things that mean a lot, like SUNday Service, the old voices are bound to show up. When an ego-driven pattern is in its death process—on the verge of fading away—it clings desperately, gasping for air. I felt that so strongly. The part of me that wanted it to be perfect, fully formed, eclipsed the beauty of what it actually was.

So I spent my morning walk doing my best to let grace in, again. I let myself recount the beauty. Feel gratitude. Return to my ‘why’ for it in the first place. Girl, this is not just an event you wanted to create; this is something that could bring people together in sacred community, reconnecting with joy through song, reawakening the hardened heart through poetry, weaving together what it means to be alive in a volatile, unpredictable time. This isn’t even about you—it’s about creating a way to remember our humanity.

Keep going, I said to myself.Just keep going. Keep lifting your chin up. Keep creating from that vulnerable open heart.That nakedness you feel is a sign you’re on to something.

And by the way: you are deserving of grace.

Something lifted that morning. The fog did eventually dissipate. Because what we know about patterns, and what we’d do well to normalize about their death process is this: it’s not about never having another negative thought. It’s not about never feeling insecure ever again. It’s not about that old pattern never showing up ever again.

Evolving on our spiritual practice is about becoming more agile and more adept at one thing:Return, faster.

That’s it. Keep it simple. And let grace in. It’ll help.For You, my friend:What about you? What’s that soft, tender part of you that’s just begun something new? And what’s the old, familiar voice that wants to squash it out of fear? And most importantly, how does that soft, tender part begin to take up more space - lovingly refusing to go away because it knows—it knows—it’s more needed, more honest, more of who you’re becoming?

This week, I offer you the same mantra in hopes that it might serve you in moments of challenge: you too are deserving of grace. Thank you, friends, for your attention and for your grace. If you feel so inspired, please tell your friends! It would be a joy and an honor to have your loved ones with us on this journey.

Thanks for reading Make the Sun! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Big loveNat

Why is Thanksgiving so emotional? Shouldn’t we, ya know, be giving thanks instead of shedding tears?

While we could talk about everything from family (what that word means and what that configuration looks like) to loss, estrangement, stress, and cultural complexity, we could also boil it down to one powerful theme: unconscious expectations.

Thanksgiving is never about this year’s dinner table. It’s about every Thanksgiving table we’ve ever sat at and every table we wish we could create. It’s a holiday full of history—personal, cultural, and emotional.

Where We’re Headed Today

* What is the expectation you don’t know you’re expecting - but still expect?

* If that’s the expectation, now what? 

* And when-oh-when does that thanks part enter the scene? 

And because recipes are everywhere this week, I’m mixing it up with a playlist instead: “People are over and I’m cooking”—to help you set the scene.

What is the expectation you don’t know you’re expecting - but still expect?

Mind and heart are living in one reality. Body is living in another. Cue the tears.

In the years after my mother passed away, I was going about my business, going on the grocery runs, chopping all the vegetables, welcoming the guests warmly, and all seemed, on the surface, like it was all going as planned. But if just one thing went wrong—a forgotten side dish or a misplaced comment at the table—I would feel a surge of reaction, bursting through like a broken pipeline: “someone just pass the goddamn SALT!” Umm…. It wasn’t about salt. Never is. Wasn’t about the logistics. It wasn’t about Aunt Sally and the horrible way she brings up politics at the table. It was under the circumstances, under the things to do, under the uncomfortable configuration of worlds sitting together, pretending this is normal. It was the quiet script running under it all. The one that said: “Mom should be here.” 

Loss’ll do it. And of course, there’s an infinite number of narratives and challenges, especially as we get older, and November 2024 - that’s a whole thing right there. This year, more than a few of my friends are stepping into Thanksgiving tables where they’ll be breaking bread with folks they’re not thrilled to see. Whether it’s the complexities of blended families, a new partner someone brought along, the reality of aging parents, or a child someone’s worried is a "bad influence," there’s often an unspoken narrative like: “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

And let’s not forget the expectation alive in the holiday’s name itself - giving thanks. For many of us, we feel the weight of the world—the cultural misgivings of its origin, the geo-political pain of our time, or just the exhaustion of carrying too much—making gratitude feel distant.

What we’re unaware of, we give our power to. First step: acknowledge what’s happening. We need to ask ourselves: rational or irrational, what alternative reality am I wishing for?

Here is a list of some of the most common Unspoken Expectations that are unconsciously driving our emotions: