This morning, I woke to a call from my daughter. She’s preparing to usher in the birth of her daughter (yes, I’m going to be a grandmother). And I can’t help but feel the sacredness of this moment.

Living Artfully (the name of my upcoming book) invites us to infuse our lives, our work, relationships, and creativity with intention and curiosity. To show up as we are. To approach life like art... not for the result, but for the process itself, where, in my opinion, all the good stuff lives. This way of living asks us to relate to others not from obligation or performance, but from truth. Our own truth, not someone else’s, and not at the cost of others, either.

There’s something deeply refreshing, and dare I say it, luxurious about a slow Sunday. It invites you to slow down, take stock, greet the moment. For me, it means choosing softness over cynicism.

I recently went on a road trip with my partner, and in between podcasts and our favorite tunes, we found ample space to pause, connect, and reflect. I know the open road isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for us, it’s become a source of deep connection—and for me personally, an opportunity to recalibrate my nervous system.

What began as a simple writing prompt turned into something else entirely, a love letter, a survival guide, a list of things I wish someone had told me sooner. Here’s what I’ve learned (and unlearned) about dating, friendship, bodies, boundaries, heartbreak, healing, and what it means to show up, for yourself and others, in your 40s and beyond.

I’ll be the first to admit, letting myself be seen is something I’ve struggled with most of my life. When I share that, people are often surprised. After all, I work as a consultant, collaborating with executives around the globe and creatives from all walks of life. Make no mistake, I’ve had to hone the art of being social.

Writing shows up like an old friend at the door of my heart and says, Pull up a chair. Tell me everything. Tell me your grief, and I’ll tell you mine.

It reminds me: you’re welcome here. You belong.

Creativity, like life and love, asks for patience. It’s like tending a garden: sorting through the seeds of thought, choosing what to nurture, and letting the soil of challenge and change do its work. Every creative idea begins as a tiny, fragile seed. It takes time to grow, time to see the first sprout, and often, time to face the rough roads of self-doubt or external obstacles.

While I fully recognize that taking time off to explore creative pursuits or start a business isn’t a luxury everyone can afford, being laid off often forces a perspective shift. It can be an invitation to consider different ways of living and earning, including paths you might never have explored if life had stayed on its expected track.

Whenever a period of transition arrives at my door, a storm of questions follows. Along with them comes the instinct to armor up, to prepare for battle—not against the world, but against the part of me that clings to identity, ego, neurosis. The inner critic, the judge—the part of me that would rather point fingers, project, and blame than sit with discomfort, with fear—fear of abandonment, fear of loss, fear of letting go. And when the armor is fully fastened, there it is: the impulse to run. Because to stay—to sit in the dread, to face the parts of myself I have deemed unlovable—is far harder.

To me, creativity is more of a mindset or energy — a way of moving through the world with imagination and openness. Being an artist, on the other hand, feels like a more defined identity, tied to the intentional creation of something: music, writing, painting, dance, etc. Calling oneself an artist suggests a relationship to a particular medium or practice, often with a sense of purpose and direction.

In a 2017 article for Vanity Fair, Rich Cohen wrote:

“Irony and a keen sense of dread are what make Generation X the last great hope, with its belief that, even if you could tell other people what to say and what not to say, even if you could tell them how to live, even if you could enforce those rules through social pressure and public shaming, why would you want to? I mean, it's just so uncool.”

This morning, I came across an interview with Martha Beck, and something she said really stuck with me:

“The only way we’re going to fix the problems we’ve made with our fear-based behavior—the only way to solve problems this big—is to access the incredible capacity of human creativity.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to embrace creativity in everyday life—the process of transforming the ordinary into art. When we approach creativity from that perspective, each moment becomes an opportunity to create something meaningful. And in that way, we are all artists, crafting our lives with intention and presence.

How does one make sense of heartbreak, grief, and the relentless weight of the world’s atrocities and suffering? And how does one fully embrace sacred joy, knowing it can dissolve in an instant—replaced by political upheaval, sorrow, anger, or despair? These are questions I have pondered for what feels like a lifetime, questions that have shaped the way I move through the world.

Love is a verb. It's built through the things we do-the small, consistent choices, the sacrifices, and the everyday moments that make someone feel truly seen and valued.

It takes a lot of courage to speak our truth; to listen to our hearts and take the road less traveled.

I haven’t shared with many people the details surrounding the end of a long-term relationship nearly 3 years ago with someone who struggles with alcohol abuse. Mostly, I’ve kept it private because I care for them, want to honor their journey, and protect their anonymity. However, I’ve reached a point in my own journey where I feel compelled to share some of what I went through, with hopes that it may help someone facing similar struggles.