I recorded this before the winter break as I was waiting at the airport to board my flight home. This letter speaks of the quiet voice inside that you learn to trust once your nervous system calms down, what labour and work could actually be if we were doing work that was meaningful, and the fact that large corporations only care about you so long as there is money to be made.

This letter is for those of you who are still finding their voice, and are courageously moving through the noise.

This letter is a doozy, folks. The water has been rocky by the lighthouse, dozen foot high waves crashing into the rocks, splashing into this lighthouse keeper's eyes.

Through it all, I remind myself that the lamp is lit and the light is still shining, even when things might be going sideways. I talk about my frustrations at being sold and marketed to 24/7, a collective unrest, and how being ill brings on a mental fog so dense I lost sight of myself.

This letter is for the storm-forged sailors out there–I see you, and the lamp is lit for you.

In this episode of the Lighthouse Letters, I talk about my preference of swimming holes over summit views ( I want an experience you can participate in!), the lies I've been telling myself about how much I should be working, and gratitude for friends and loved ones that understand when I'm absent for a while and get busy, who welcome me back into their lives with open arms.

I also share a challenge that I wasn't expecting to face: the idea of 'falling behind' at 30.

This letter is for anyone who feels like they should be farther along in their careers, has multiple texts they still have to respond to, and for the ones who love being in the water.

How in the helly are you supposed to survive your own transformation? When you're just goo.

This episode I talk about the inner child that demanded to be heard, and how finding your own authentic voice might involve revisiting that part of you that's been silent for a while.

This letter is for anyone who is currently undergoing a transformation and crossing the bridge from who you are to who you were meant to be. You're not alone. ❤️

In this letter, I’m talking about the kind of rest that fills you back up . The active, soul-filling sort that’s less about doing nothing and more about doing what lights you up.

I recap a weekend that swung between the heat (from both the sun and the sauce!) of a hot sauce festival, the joy of live music, and the unspooling of tense threads with a lake day with friends.

I reminisce about being seen by the people who know you best, and in carving out time for the work that matters most, like setting my play free into the world, and naming it. It's called Transmission: Wonder.

This is about making your own chances, chasing the things that tug at your soul, and for friends who not only fill your cup, but expand its size.

In this week’s Lighthouse Letter, I’m taking you through a weekend that felt like a love song. One written in stars, bike rides, goodbye hugs, and late-night laughter. I talk about what it means to feel deeply alive in tiny moments: stargazing inside on a Friday night with someone I love, city-hopping by e-bike (a la Lizzie McGuire) to three very different events in one day (including a DJ-ed house party… in space 🚀), and ending the weekend with an old friend, rosé disco, and a 4AM heart-to-heart beside one of my best friends.

This episode is about joy that sneaks up on you. About softness. About the kind of connection that makes you feel like the world cracked open for a second just to show you how good it could be. About realizing, and finally believing that you really are that cool.

Whether it’s romantic love, friendship, or the quiet magic of doing something just for you—I hope this one reminds you to look up, reach out, and keep your heart open to the wonder tucked into ordinary days.

In this episode of Lighthouse Letters, I reflect on a weekend that moved like a breath: inhaling joy, holding connection, and exhaling into freedom.

From feeling unexpectedly swept away watching my boyfriend drum at his album release, to showing up a little schleppy for a park birthday and being loved anyway, to learning how to sail with my friend Charlie, each moment pulled me gently back into presence. I talk about what it means to witness someone you love in their element, the quiet power of just being there, and the deep joy of catching wind with your own two hands.

This letter is a reminder that coming home to yourself doesn’t require polish. Just motion, wonder, and a willingness to be surprised. This one's for anyone who feels a little far from the home inside their heart.

In this letter, I reflect on what it means to choose yourself, on purpose, and often. I talk about the gift of solo dates, the kind where you take yourself to the fanciest sushi restaurant (that happens to be a 5 minute walk from your house that you've always wanted to go to but never let yourself) and remember how much you like your own company.

There are stories from this summer: some bright, some bruised. A beach day that introduced me to the sport of Waboba (yes, it's a real thing). A moment of a friendship shrivelling up in the sun like rotten fruit, and the slow work of making peace with that. I’ve also been thinking about content creation not as the cringe-worthy 'content creatorship output machine' but rather as memory keeping. Tiny ways to mark that we were here, that it mattered. Shouting that into the void. Maybe someone will hear us.

This one is for anyone learning to trust their own rhythm again. You’re allowed to be your own favorite person. Mostly, I hope this one reminds you to choose yourself, often and on purpose. Like a Pokémon.