This week at the lighthouse, we’re talking about art that survives your dislike of it . I’ve been thinking about time and how it can feel both blisteringly fast and painfully slow, about getting almost there and learning that proximity still counts.

There’s a poem I wrote, No More Doom n Gloom , and a comic that followed, a little personal rebellion against cynicism. Between reading hard things in the bath and watching Sleepless in Seattle after, I’m trying to build a sustainable practice of feeling deeply without burning out.

If you’ve been hovering at the edge of your own creative fog, consider this a soft nudge to keep going. To keep making, even when it’s messy. To keep hoping, even when it hurts.

Here's to building resilience

In today's Lighthouse Letter, I talk about a practice that I've been doing for the last 5 years: writing a love letter to myself every month.

It's a practice that's helped me see the best in myself even when I really didn't want to (it can be so easy to just be full of self-loathing), develop my resilience, and witness my own personal growth in real-time.

It's also helped future me a lot. When I'm sad or struggling, I'll pick out a letter and read it. And it turns out that I do a lot every month that aligns with my values. I show up in ways that my inner critic likes to conveniently forget. And writing these letters helps me show up for my community, because they fill my own cup.

This letter is for those of you who might not feel like you are your own home quite yet, and includes a small invitation for you to write your own love letter to yourself, if you feel so inclined. I also talk about my journey to starting this practice, and how much of my ability to stay hopeful is due to this particular act of loving myself, even if it feels weird, cringy, or odd.

Today's letter is different. Today's letter comes from rocky waves and seas, from a place in my heart that is stormy and terrible.

We're currently witnessing global acts of violence that are atrocities. I cannot turn a blind eye to all of it anymore, and I am ashamed to say that I have been. But now that I've chosen to actively participate and learn, everything I'm learning carries with it the crushing weight of a truth I have always known: people are cruel. Not everyone, not all the time, but there are people who engage in acts of extreme cruelty to others in a way that makes me want to gouge out my own eyes. For a long time I lived far away from this truth and tried to combat it with hope and optimism, being careful with my consumption of bad news, and trying to limit it in an attempt to preserve my own hopefulness.

I'm learning that hope can look different these days. Today, hope is discipline. Hope is a concentrated effort, organizing, and action-taking in my community. It's inviting my friends to the table to pool our ideas together, it's sharing the grief and alchemizing it into something that reminds us and others of our humanity. Of the fact that this life is a little miracle to be cherished, and of our duty to each other to protect that.

Admittedly, this is kind of a scary letter for me to share. I do worry about what people might think, I am afraid of potential backlash. But this issue isn't about me, it's about where we draw the line with how we treat each other, and what we stand up for. How we create the world we want to live in, how we choose to design and shape it through our actions.

So, I hope that if this is something that's stirred you, that you leave a comment or reach out to me directly if you know me personally. The lantern is lit for you, the invitation has been sent. Maybe together, we can turn those embers of hope into a blaze.

In this episode, I reflect on the small things we so often take for granted. Seasonal shifts, the quiet magic of rainy afternoons, and friends who are still here, in spite of it all. I share a poem I wrote about anxiety and the way it follows us, even into space, but also how writing can turn worry into something a little less scary.

There’s a little bit about Mexico City, the beauty (and overwhelm) of so many people in one place, phone-free Sundays, and celebrating my friend Charlie’s birthday, knowing what it took for her to still be here. (If you're reading this, Charlie, I love you).

Mostly, this one’s about paying attention. To the “lasts” that slip by without notice, to the ordinary rituals that stitch our lives together, and to the people who turn surviving into living.

This letter is for my wayward ships who are fighting to still be here in spite of it all, despite the world's cruelty and cynicism.

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.