Falling short.

There will always be someone with a more beautiful home where they will miraculously be able to keep their white carpet pristine and never find their couch covered in cat hair.

There will always be someone who looks stunning in a ball gown and doesn't have a curly mess of tangled hair to tame in the morning.

There will always be a wellness guru who has a perfect morning routine of matcha and meditation, followed by an hour of yoga.

There will always be another writer who more elegantly pens prose and garnishes the adoration of her readers (and never, ever gets writers block).

And that's ok. We should all feel free to share our good moments for the world to see. I want to celebrate the business success and perfectly executed buddha bowl of others.

But I also want to be ok with my reality that, when I'm not comparing it to people who are at a different point of their journey, looks pretty damn amazing.

Pain does not equal art

I bought into this idea that if I wanted to be a great writer I needed to tap into what seemed like an endless well of my own suffering.

The more pain I looked for, the more I found. Everywhere I turned — my relationships, my friendships, my beliefs about the world and myself — all gave me the confirmation bias I needed: pain equals art.

But pain and suffering got old for me. I was tired of being in a constant state of misery and I could no longer blame it on my need for discomfort in order to create.


I love this about New York. People are personable, without intruding on your personal space. They're aloof but focused, their observations turned inward, leaving everyone else to exist as they please.