It’s one of the worst feelings: You open up to someone, and they get it all wrong. Like, completely wrong.

Maybe they don’t wait for all the information. They jump to conclusions, or project their own values and meaning onto your experience.

Like they’ve finished your sentence…on another planet.

Either way, you feel misunderstood, misrepresented, or minimized. You walk away feeling disappointed and unseen. Crazy, even.

It’s isolating.

And in that moment, you might think:

Are they seeing something I’m not?
Am I missing something?

Personally, I struggle a lot with catching this in real time. When it happens, I’m usually so shocked and confused by the lack of understanding that I can’t find the words to correct it. I might not even know how, if it’s so far from anything I would think.

My brain doesn’t work like that. I rarely see it coming.

And I’ve started to realize: If the way someone interprets your experience doesn’t even make sense to you—like you genuinely can’t track how they got there—it might just be a projection.

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If you catch this happening, pause and ask yourself:
Does their interpretation actually track with my experience?

If you have to stretch or distort your own reality to make their version make sense, that’s your signal.

This isn’t to say you’re not responsible for communicating clearly and accurately. But even then, understanding isn’t guaranteed.

Some people see the world through the lens of trauma, a baseline of negativity and distrust, or an attitude of apathy or dismissiveness. And from that place, they assign meaning to your words or actions that was never actually yours to begin with.

Like retelling the same story they’ve told themselves a thousand times, with different characters—casting you in a role you didn’t sign up for.

Perhaps their life experience has shaped a mindset that doesn’t recognize pure intentions, kindness without ulterior motives, justifiable frustration, genuine growth from mistakes, or experiences that don’t fit their existing framework.

It’s natural to want to be compassionate—to assume the best. But not at the expense of your own reality.

To be fair, everyone does this to some extent. We all see through our own lens. But sometimes that lens is so distorted that it completely overrides the truth.

The effects can range from relatively benign to completely invalidating—even harmful. Or there’s a subtle moment where someone starts narrating your life for you.

You might even let them…only realizing how unfair and incorrect it was hours or days later.

In these situations, it feels like you’ve inadvertently abandoned your authority, letting them color the true meaning of your own lived experience with their perspective.

It can feel somewhat violating, like something true about you just got overwritten.

I think part of building self-trust is learning to catch that moment sooner—or, at the very least, trusting yourself when you catch it later.

In either case, self-trust can simply sound like:
That wasn’t accurate.
I know who I am.
I trust my own experience.

Even if you never say it out loud.

Just because someone is confident in their assertions doesn’t make them correct. Just because they say it doesn’t make it true. And just because you don’t correct them doesn’t make them right.

It’s worth remembering:

We’re living in a world of 30-second lectures, reductive one-liners, and feel-good content designed to reinforce existing narratives. Nuance disappears, oversimplification takes over, and misinterpretation naturally follows.

Read: Dysfunction is Not a Personality

None of this is easy to navigate in real time. And it’s not exactly enjoyable to defend yourself, or feel like you have to over-explain.

You shouldn’t have to.

Sometimes, it’s just a well-worn narrative at play. And there isn’t much you can do about that.

Human beings have always relied on storytelling. Narratives are powerful—so powerful that it can be difficult to step outside of your own.

At times, feeling misunderstood can be an invitation to examine your story. But other times, understanding simply isn’t available.

Not because you’ve failed to explain, but because the other person doesn’t have the inputs, the experience, or the framework to arrive where you are.

You don’t have to argue or convince. But you also don’t have to take on a version of your life that simply isn’t true.

Read: Mainstream Outsides, Rogue Insides

It might be tempting to correct the record, but over-explaining is almost never worth it. At a certain point, it stops being about communication and starts being about capacity: Either they can’t understand, or they don’t want to.

In any case, it’s probably not a good use of your energy.

When you realize you’re up against a narrative—not open communication—it becomes a lot easier to walk away, or reduce your participation.

People will misinterpret your life.

But the beautiful thing is that it’s a powerful kind of anti-compass.

Not everyone is meant to understand you. Some people are there to show you where your self-trust needs strengthening—or maybe where you’re not meant to stay.

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I’ve known some people with serious talent. Not the hypothetical kind—or the “my mom says I’m good at this” kind—but the real thing.

Obvious ability. Good taste. Killer instincts.

The kind of people who make you question your own talents. The kind of people who get you naturally excited about theirs…without even trying.

Musicians, artists, teachers, builders, inventors, writers, creators, and curators.

But in many cases, it never moved beyond potential.

Abraham Maslow described the Jonah Complex, a fear of one’s own potential. Steven Pressfield writes about resistance, the force that keeps you from doing your life’s work. And Julia Cameron (author of The Artist’s Way) describes the concept of shadow artists, creative individuals who orbit their creative realm, but never fully claim it as their own.

Different ideas, but all circling a similar tension.

People don’t lack talent. They stall at the threshold of using it.

It’s easy to point the finger at lack of discipline, resources, or time. And sure, sometimes there’s a kind of avoidance there—a reluctance to commit, or a desire for absolute certainty before effort.

Perhaps they say:

“I don’t know what to choose.”
“Passion won’t pay the bills.”
“I guess I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“There are already lots of people doing it.”
“I don’t want to spend the time if it isn’t going to pay off.”

Sometimes, there’s another element at play.

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Mastery used to be something you pursued off-camera. You practiced in private, experimented quietly or in limited, low-stakes settings, developed skill away from global scrutiny, and revealed it when you were ready.

Many of us weren’t trained to create in public, or share our messes and mistakes. We were trained to share something polished, finished, and the result of genuine skill and practice.

At the same time, the landscape has shifted in another way: Modern tools have made it easier than ever to produce something passable, or “good enough”—making it harder to want to pursue true mastery of anything at all.

So now you’re caught between two pressures: Be visible before you’re ready…or question whether it’s even worth getting great in the first place.

It’s not that people today are less capable. It’s that the conditions of starting have changed. The process is more visible. The comparisons are immediate.

So showing up now requires a different kind of courage than it used to.

And most people would rather stay in the mental comfort of potential than risk being seen struggling in progress.

Read: What We Fear When We Create.

But here’s the thing:

Even if your concerns are very real, they don’t make your gifts optional.

Even with all the visibility, the pressure, and the noise—the responsibility doesn’t go away. Because avoiding your gifts doesn’t actually protect you. It just delays you.

At some level, it’s not really a matter of choice. Call it wiring, personality, instinct, the universe, or God. There is something in you that wants expression, and ignoring it has very real consequences.

You can absolutely choose not to pursue your gifts. But the cost is a life that feels slightly off.

Less expressed. Less alive.

Less you.

This isn’t a conversation about turning your gifts into your profession. There’s a lot more nuance to that (and no shame in how it unfolds).This is about something simpler, and more fundamental: not ignoring what’s in you to express.

Expression doesn’t require permission. And it doesn’t require an audience.

Honoring your gifts also doesn’t mean turning your life on its head or having a perfect plan. It doesn’t mean going full-force into a curated image or producing nonstop content for the sake of it.

It can look a lot simpler than that:

• recording an idea instead of letting it pass

• writing something small

• practicing your craft for an hour

• making something without knowing if it will go anywhere

• creating a dedicated space for your creative work

Honoring your gifts isn’t about image, certainty, control, or eliminating the risk of failure. It’s about the bravery to show up, and keep showing up—without guarantees.

It’s the resolve to show up because it’s who you are. Not because of payoff, pride, comparison, expectation, or status.

Read: The Courage of Subtlety

I made that decision for myself when I started this newsletter. I chose to write for the sake of the craft and the ideas—not for a specific outcome.

I haven’t always been consistent. I’m still far from where I want to be.

But I keep showing up.

At some point, you have to decide: Are you going to honor the gifts that you’ve been given or keep postponing them?

If you’re anything like me, you’ll probably have to make that decision again and again—across different seasons, and sometimes across different forms.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not easy. But it matters.

Because your gifts aren’t optional. You can ignore them for a while, but you can’t outrun them.

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✦ Mid-Week Musings for the Modern Renaissance Soul ✦

Reinvention is sometimes necessary—lifesaving, even. Some people survive by becoming someone else.

They may feel compelled to shed skins built in pain, scarcity, or confinement. They step away from identities that once protected them, but no longer fit. In those moments, reinvention isn’t vanity or escapism.

It’s oxygen.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

But progress doesn’t require a costume change. Sometimes, the costume change is a distraction that stops real progress.

Because not every meaningful evolution announces itself. Some of the most consequential work happens quietly—without witnesses, validation, or external confirmation. It unfolds in the most unglamorous hours, when no one is there to see it.

To everyone else, it can look like nothing is happening at all.

Subtlety as Inner Integration

(Self-Work)

We live in a culture that rewards the theatre of reinvention. Shocking glow-ups. Dramatic statements. Aesthetic overhauls and visible pivots. Public declarations. Before-and-after stories that minimize the complexity of real life.

The story is familiar: burn it all down, start over, rebrand the self—preferably in public, with an audience. Become louder. Prouder. Sharper. More confident.

It will impress those who feel stalled in their own lives. The response will be immediate.

Gratifying, no doubt.

Refinement asks something else entirely. It’s harder to see—and even harder to choose.

Refinement doesn’t lend itself to dazzling narratives or epic reveals. There is no single moment where the “new you” steps into the light fully formed. Refinement happens incrementally, through repetition, restraint, and discernment.

No spectacle. No grand unveiling.

It can feel almost…unremarkable.

Refinement is a purifying process—less about becoming someone else and more about becoming truer.

An important distinction.

Refinement asks for more patience and less reaction. It requires the strength to withstand discomfort. It asks you to look closely at what’s already there and decide what needs shaping, what needs deepening, and what needs to be released—with or without ceremony.

Perhaps most challenging of all, refinement requires the courage to proceed without reassurance.

We’ve been conditioned to associate progress with recognition. If something is real, and growth is happening, someone will notice, right?

But refinement tends to happen without any such mirrors. It asks us to keep improving without immediate feedback, and to finish work whose value may not be obvious or celebrated for years—or ever.

It’s about alignment. And alignment compounds, even when attention does not.

The slow burn of becoming.

The good news? In the absence of external markers, we’re allowed to create our own. Quiet rituals. Private ceremonies. Small, intentional ways of acknowledging what’s changing beneath the surface.

And we should.

Read more about rituals and small acts of presence here.

Subtlety as Aesthetic Intelligence

(Art, Culture, Expression)

In a world saturated by excess, in-your-face entertainment, and reductive groupthink, subtlety becomes an intentional stance.

If novelty, exaggerated aesthetics, and bandwagon movements are the dominant currency, then subtlety is the counterculture.

It’s not passive. It’s not timid. It’s selective.

Quietly rebellious.

Subtlety doesn’t sacrifice meaning for volume. It favors coherence over reaction. Trained as we are to respond reflexively, on cue, it slows the signal long enough for us to actually understand it.

This isn’t just a personal posture. You can feel it most clearly in art.

If you’re a cinephile like me, you’ve probably noticed the shift viscerally.

Old-school suspense trusted the audience. It relied on restraint—on what was withheld. Tension unfolded slowly, often in silence. Meaning emerged through implication rather than force.

Much of today’s entertainment does the opposite: louder soundtracks, faster cuts, emotional saturation dialed to eleven. Less suspense, more stimulation.

Overkill.

It’s the psychological equivalent of drinking an entire bottle of hot sauce and calling it flavor.

It’s intense. But intensity isn’t depth.

Theatrics work because they hijack the nervous system—flooding the senses, spiking urgency, and compressing nuance into something instantly consumable.

In other words: empty psychological calories.

Theatrics create the sensation of meaning without requiring its substance.

Read: A Reminder to Take Your Soul Vitamins

Subtlety, by contrast, engages perception without overwhelming the senses. It leaves room for meaning to unfold instead of forcing a reaction on cue.

It’s the film that trusts you to extrapolate meaning through your own mind and inner life. The conversation that allows complexity instead of demanding political allegiance. The identity that lets you remain fully human—without requiring a new coat of paint to cover mistakes or insecurities.

Different domains. The same underlying stance.

In each case:

Subtlety respects the intelligence of the participant.

Subtlety as Ethical Posture

(How We Relate to Truth, Politics, Meaning)

Ethics isn’t just what we believe. It’s how we respond to what we encounter—complexity, disagreement, uncertainty, and power.

In this sense, subtlety isn’t an aesthetic preference or a matter of temperament. It’s a stance. A way of meeting the world without coercion, distortion, or force.

Because what is real tends to hold its shape without constant reinforcement. What is true doesn’t need to be controlled in order to persist.

Fervor isn’t the same thing as conviction—and true conviction rarely needs amplification.

Perhaps, in a sea of sensationalism, the hottest take is refusing to turn truth into theatre.

I explore this further in Dysfunction Is Not a Personality, where I look at how emotional intensity and performative struggle often get mistaken for depth—online and off.

This way of moving through the world is centered around small, often invisible decisions: how you spend your days, what you allow to shape you, what you decline to perform. Courageous subtlety shows up in standing firm in your own voice, deepening your understanding over time, and engaging in discussion without constantly scanning for opportunities to win, dominate, or persuade.

Ultimately, this becomes a question of relation—not just to ideas or change, but to how we spend our energy.

Shaping the Fire

None of this is a rejection of ceremony, passion, enthusiasm, or intensity. It’s an invitation to let subtlety shape how those forces are expressed—across art, ethics, and the ways we mark change.

Subtlety does not ask us to flatten ourselves or live without heat. It asks us to place intensity where it belongs…in what we’re committed to, not in how loudly we announce it.

To shape the fire with intention.

This is the courage of subtlety: Being brave enough to resist the urge to react, perform, or abandon yourself in exchange for comfort, reassurance, validation, belonging—or the need to be right.

Even when doing so would feel easier, safer, or more immediately rewarding.

Subtlety doesn’t drain life of color; it gives it depth. It doesn’t dull experience; it purifies it. It allows passion to be directed with care, and sustained rather than scattered into the void.

Not censored. Not quieter for the sake of it.

Truer.

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If you’re an artist, writer, or creator of any kind, you’re probably very familiar with the feeling of self-censorship.

If you’ve read The Artist’s Way, if you do Morning Pages, if you’ve ever tried to build a life around your inner world—you probably struggle with this more than most. I know I do.

The voices start creeping in:

• the sibling, parent, or friend who always scoffed at your big ideas

• the silence from those you cared about when you shared your work in the past

• the imaginary laughter from someone online who doesn’t even know you

• the people who only ever saw an outdated version of you—and still assume that’s all you’ll ever be

What’s wild is this:

Most of our self-judgment isn’t actually…ours.

It comes from the echoes of other people’s fears, other people’s limitations, and other people’s projections that embedded themselves into us before we even realized what was happening.

We think we’re being “realistic”…but often we’re just repeating an old narrative we never consciously chose.

We think we’re protecting ourselves…but really we’re honoring someone else’s disbelief, or even cowardice.

We think we’re afraid of failing, but usually? We’re afraid of being seen trying.

Afraid of looking stupid, or being cringe.
Afraid of being earnest in a world that worships irony.
Afraid of caring too much in front of people who don’t care at all.
Afraid of being anything less than effortlessly cool for a few moments.

Because trying—really trying—exposes you. It reveals what you want, what you value, what you believe you’re capable of.

And nothing feels more vulnerable than letting people witness your desire.

It’s not failure that we fear. It’s visibility.

There’s a moment every creator knows—that quiet internal negotiation where your desire to express something meets the inherited fear that someone will judge you for it. Like the instinct of a bird to spread its wings, only to discover the cage is much smaller than it remembered.

Most of the time, the fear wins, not because it’s stronger, but because it’s older.

In fact, it’s ancestral. Conditioned. Memorized. Second nature. A poison absorbed into our bodies—like an injection we never consented to.

Not lethal enough to stop your heart…but potent enough to stop your art.

And the wildest part?

The fear doesn’t show up because your work is bad.

It shows up because your work is true—and truth threatens the scripts you were taught to obey.

So if you feel resistance this week, if you feel the discomfort of being witnessed or the urge to retreat into smallness…please remember:

That voice isn’t all yours. And treating it like truth only keeps you living someone else’s story.

You’re allowed to tell your own.

Let’s break the script.

— M. ⟢

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P.S.
If this theme resonated, might enjoy my new conversation with Victoriya—a music producer, artist, and entrepreneur who’s built an entire creative life by refusing to shrink herself.

We talk about creativity, wellness, lifestyle design, and the importance of unlearning inherited beliefs.

✦ Watch the episode on YouTube
✦ Listen on Spotify / Apple Podcasts / More

There are moments in life that feel less like beginnings and more like remembering…

…remembering who you were before the world told you what to be, before life and circumstance demanded other things, before childlike joy, creativity, and curiosity were deprioritized.

Remembering the parts of yourself that went quiet while you were busy surviving.

I’ve helped other people produce their podcasts for a long time, but during a creative brainstorming session with a close friend, I realized: I should just do this myself.

It’s not so much of a debut as it is a return. Nothing glamorous or spectacular, but something deeply authentic.

For years I’ve been exploring the concept of the renaissance soul—not just the colloquially convenient term for someone with many interests, but the committed worldview of the multi-passionate person in pursuit of a meaningful, inspired life.

Learning, exploration, curiosity.
Craft, growth, excellence, artistry.
Connection. Community. Presence.

Long ago, I decided that was the kind of life I wanted. I also knew I wasn’t the only one.

Over time, I built connections with people I saw as renaissance souls in their own ways: artists, creators, explorers, builders, meaning-makers, and visionaries. And slowly, a home for this growing community began to take shape.

On Substack, New Renaissance Tribe became a place where I could share insights, reflections, and personal narratives—a place to simply begin writing. I needed somewhere to channel my psychic prism.

Now, I’m excited to introduce The New Renaissance Tribe Podcast, a space for conversations around creativity, identity, soul, and the art of building an intentional life.

Episode 001 begins with my friend Victoriya, someone who has spent years building a multi-passionate creative life entirely on her own terms.

Why This Conversation Matters

We’re living in a time when the old rules of creativity are dissolving. The culture of specialization is breaking down, performance is becoming detached from meaning, reality is getting harder to decipher—and the world is hungry again for the polymath, the explorer, the modern renaissance soul who creates from a place of depth.

Victoriya embodies this.

She’s a music producer, vocalist, visual artist, wellness advocate, and digital business owner. But more importantly: she’s someone who has spent years unlearning the cultural scripts that kept her small and rebuilding a life aligned with her mind, body, and soul.

This conversation is about that rebirth—the transition from the life you were handed to the life you deliberately design.

It’s about choosing expansion over dilution. Presence over autopilot. Wholeness over branding. Artistry over approval.

And it’s the perfect place to begin this podcast.

In This Episode, We Explore…

✦ The childhood sparks that reveal who we were always meant to be
Victoriya’s early relationship with music, art, and creativity—and how those forgotten beginnings often hold the blueprint for our adult creative selves.

✦ Wellness as the foundation of long-term creativity
The transition to intentional living, daily rituals, sun, sleep, nourishment, presence, and how physical health is inseparable from creative output.

✦ Unlearning cultural scripts and reclaiming your identity
People-pleasing, anxiety, spiritual awakening, and the moment you realize you don’t have to follow anyone’s path but your own.

✦ The death of specialization and the rise of the multi-passionate creator
Why being “many things” is not a flaw—it’s the future. And why personal brand > niche in an era shaped by AI.

✦ Independent artistry + building your own ecosystem
Going label-free, diversifying income, building Etsy shops, eBooks, coaching, faceless accounts—and why obsession (not permission) is the secret ingredient.

✦ Partnership, soul resonance, and choosing someone who expands your world
What it means to grow alongside someone who shares your values, humor, worldview, and emotional landscape.

✦ Rituals, presence, animals, and the art of living well
Tea ceremonies, morning pages, cooking as devotion, pets as grounding portals, and crafting daily rhythms that support creative flow.

✦ What it means to be a renaissance soul today
Curiosity, versatility, depth, self-invention, and the fire that keeps pulling you back to your craft no matter how many times life interrupts.

Watch or Listen to Episode 001

Listen to the audio version here.

A Reflection for You

Every creator I know reaches a moment where something quietly breaks open…where you realize the life you were living was too small, too scripted, and too inherited.

So here’s your prompt for the week:

Where are you still diluting yourself? And what part of you is asking—gently or loudly—to be restored to its full strength?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. So, feel free to hit reply, or leave a comment.

Thank you for being here at the beginning. This tribe will be shaped by the people inside it—the ones who care about beauty, meaning, craft, growth, and the art of building a life that feels like your own.

More to come.

— M. ⟢

“I guess you’re pretty good at giving other people advice, but not so good at taking your own,” someone said to me with a chuckle after skimming one of my essays.

Even after nearly a decade of writing professionally, it’s amazing how a single comment can shake your foundation.

I probably shouldn’t have let it bother me—but, of course, it did.

Maybe they’re right? Am I a hypocrite? Technically, I’m not doing the things I advise others to do—at least, not all of them. Maybe I’m just a charlatan, or an imposter. What am I even doing?

Thankfully, after a momentary spiral of self-doubt, I quickly remembered that I’m not a guru and never claimed to be.

The thing is, writing isn’t always meant to inform or advise someone else. It’s not always instructional, or a reference, or even particularly useful.

Writing is the sacred guidance of the soul through the written word.

Writing is where the wise mind meets the wild creative—a collaboration between intellect and instinct. It can be art, exploration, or prophecy. Maybe reflection, maybe revelation.

Writing might heal the reader, but it certainly heals the writer.

Still, it’s worth asking: Why read any of it?

Because writing mirrors our inner life, and the more aware we become of what moves through us, the clearer our compass becomes. Every sincere word brings us closer to understanding ourselves—and, by extension, each other.

The world can be overwhelming, and being human is not always easy. We don’t write because we have all the answers. We write to follow the shape of the questions.

When my words find someone, I’m grateful. They’ve touched something true. I never planned on doing all of this, after all. I’m a musician. I’m supposed to be doing other things.

And yet, it took everything I had to arrive here—just here, nowhere special.

Creativity is a strange, capricious thing. It rewards devotion, but resists control. Some days it feels like grace; other days, like chasing smoke. It asks for patience when you have none, honesty when you’d rather hide, faith when everything feels pointless.

Still, I keep showing up—slowly, imperfectly, in whatever form I can. Because every time I write, I remember that clarity doesn’t come before the words; it comes through them. The page isn’t where I prove what I know; it’s where I rediscover the prism of who I am.

But it’s also what keeps me sane. It’s how I make peace with the world, with myself, and find my way forward.

Maybe that’s the irony: they were right. I don’t always take my own advice. But I write, and through that slow process of becoming and rediscovery, I eventually do.

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Vienna has always been one of my favorite cities in the world. Perhaps it’s the artful elegance in the air—it’s not only the home of Mozart, Klimt, and imperial palaces, but also a sanctuary for great thinkers, and for the café culture that cradled their ideas.

Strudel, timeless beauty, and intellectuals? Count me in.

As an American with a not-so-secret obsession with the many charms of old world Europe, I suppose falling in love with Vienna was inevitable.

And since I also seem to have a sixth sense for good restaurants, it was pure intuition that first led me to Reinthaler’s Beisl—a place I’ve returned to every time I pass through the city.

This time, only days before Christmas, I found myself with a few hours between a train and a plane. Whenever possible, I try to turn such layovers into my own special ritual: lunch in Vienna.

Stephansplatz, the city’s historic heart, was alive with Christmas market patrons, glowing lights, and the perfume of mulled wine, kürtőskalács (hungarian chimney cakes), and chestnuts roasting in the chill air.

Patches of gray afternoon clouds drifted across an otherwise bright sky, giving the scene a characteristically moody backdrop I’ve come to associate with Vienna.

Eager for my ritual, I walked from the metro station to Reinthaler’s Beisl and joined the line of lunchgoers outside. After a few minutes, the hostess asked if I would mind sharing a table with other solo diners, which was no problem for me.

She led me to a booth across from a young Brazilian traveler, and we struck up a cheerful conversation. Just as I was about to order my usual schnitzel, potato salad, and white wine spritzer, the hostess returned—this time with a very well-dressed old woman.

As the woman took a seat at our table, I felt a noticeable shift in energy, like the room itself leaned in to listen.

It wasn’t her age—I would have guessed late 80s, or even 90s. It was her presence.

In a chic and colorful form-fitting high-collared dress, dark tights, and elegant black boots, she came across as someone who was spiritually about 35 years old. Odd as that may sound, there was nothing contrived or try-hard about it—she was authentic.

Artful elegance, just like Vienna.

The three of us ordered our meals, and my curiosity grew.

I’ve always had a soft spot for older people, especially since I grew up so close with my grandparents. Wanting her to feel included at the table, I introduced myself, and the Brazilian traveler did the same.

At first, she spoke lightly, with the sharp wit and sparkle of someone far younger than her years. But as the meal went on, her stories deepened, unfolding like chapters of a novel.

She was Austrian-born, but her family fled during the war. She lived in the United States now and returned only occasionally—this time to spend Christmas with her daughter. Her husband, the great love of her life, had died in 1969 when he fell from a mountain while climbing.

The old woman spoke to us thirty-somethings with a quiet wisdom untouched by condescension, frankly acknowledging that that her life was nearing its final chapter—a jarring thought I didn’t quite know how to process.

Something about her moved me: her quiet conviction, her resilience, the timelessness of her presence. She felt like a kindred spirit, crossing my path to offer an unexpected spark of inspiration in one of my favorite places, just before Christmas.

Already, I felt a sadness that our time together would be brief.

When our meal ended, I suggested we walk together. I asked where she thought I should have a melange and strudel, and she offered to show me one of her favorite cafés, with lofty windows and a view of a historic mosaic.

As we approached, my heart clenched. I knew I would probably never see her again, and perhaps she felt the same. She hugged me warmly, wished me a good life, and I held back tears as I thanked her and wished her a Merry Christmas.

It felt poetic that in Vienna, a city of art and intellect, I should find my muse not in a museum, but across a lunch table.

Connecting with someone two generations older made me think about the past and the future all at once, yet somehow it drew me more deeply into the present. It made me think about the quiet forces that sustain us—conviction and resilience—and how they are often born from lives fully lived.

This stranger inspired me to move through the world with the same vitality and timelessness she embodied—simply by being herself, with conviction, and sharing her story, with resilience.

After we parted, I found a cozy corner of the café and tried not to weep into my strudel as I gazed out at the beautiful Mosaic of Kärntnerstraße. With its shimmering figures symbolizing the world’s continents, the mosaic is an ode to Vienna’s international spirit, and a rare fragment that endured when so much was lost in the war.

In that moment, I loved Vienna all the more. Just like the old woman and the mosaic, the city was scarred by loss, yet radiant. A testament to the endurance and beauty of the human spirit.

Whether at home or abroad, moments like these remind us:

Life itself is art, and meaning is what fuels it.

And sometimes, that meaning finds us in the smallest gestures—an open seat, a shared story, the brief but lasting imprint of a stranger.

I wrote about another meaningful chance encounter here: An Old Venetian Harbor and a Wink from the Universe.

When I first became a digital nomad in 2016, it wasn’t because I dreamed of working from beach cafés—who in their right mind actually wants to spend hours squinting at a sun-battered laptop, propped on a wobbly table, with no charging outlet and sand flying everywhere?

Not me.

It also wasn’t about collecting passport stamps—I’d already visited something like 70 countries by then.

The truth is, it was out of necessity.

In fact, it was the only way to maintain an international relationship with someone whose country wouldn’t let me stay longer than a few months at a time. Being a nomad was, quite simply, a means to an end.

I’ll admit: I’m a long-time traveler and explorer by nature, so it wasn’t exactly a chore. And after a lifetime of following authors and speakers who challenged the status quo—plus being a bit of a rebel myself—there was a certain thrill that came with doing something different.

But it felt more like the joyful exhale of freedom than it did a haughty status symbol. My goal was never to look cooler or feel better than someone else, though I’ve certainly been accused of it.

I just wanted to live—at least, in a way that felt authentic to me.

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Building a life online

It wasn’t an easy transition, but within a year I’d gone from working odd location-based jobs to making a living fully online. I probably took a few too many risks and certainly sacrificed any sense of security, but I also gained countless new skills and rich life experiences.

In the years that followed, I mixed in a few remote roles alongside freelance projects and my own business-building efforts, saying “yes” to things I had no idea how to do (and teaching myself). After a lot of discomfort and many failures, I managed to carve out a modest living.

I was proud of that. For a while, I reveled in the novelty of working from anywhere—no doubt annoying my family and friends with constant reminders of my newfound freedom.

Back then, it still felt rare and intentional, like belonging to a small, scrappy club of people designing life on our own terms. But the magic began to fade as the lifestyle became more saturated.

Remote goes mainstream

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, things changed practically overnight. Suddenly, nearly everyone I knew was working from home and living pretty much the same way I was—just without the constant change in scenery.

Two things happened at once: Remote work became the norm, and demand for remote jobs exploded, leaving companies scrambling to keep up. At the same time, after months of lockdowns and restricted movement, a lot of people were restless, fed up, and hungry for change.

It became harder to tell which roles were remote by design and which were begrudging pandemic stopgaps. On the outside, they looked the same, but beneath the surface, there were completely different motivations.

This blurred the line between intentional nomadism and a mass movement chasing a postcard image of freedom.

Once restrictions were lifted, this newly remote workforce was free to move, and the nomad lifestyle exploded—fueled by a variety of new digital nomad visas and an influx of long-term travelers sharing the same cafés, co-working spaces, and neighborhoods as established nomads.

It was no longer just a subculture.

When trends take over

This was a seismic shift—one that took a niche lifestyle and, like most trends, completely diluted it.

Don’t get it twisted: I’m not complaining about others having the same freedom I’ve been fortunate to enjoy. I’ll champion meaningful remote work all day (emphasis on meaningful) because the more people using their skills and passions to do good in the world, the better.

But somewhere along the way, the energy changed. I started to notice the same scene at cafés in every city that I went: rows of open MacBooks, noise-cancelling headphones, oat milk lattes (guilty!), and minimalist backpacks.

The captions practically write themselves:

living the dream 😎
my office for the day 🌴
it could be worse 😉

On one hand, I was glad to see more people expanding their horizons and enjoying life in new ways. On the other, it was a bit strange that something once rooted in personal freedom now had a recognizable uniform.

Meetups and events once buzzing with entrepreneurs and seasoned travelers started to feel more like summer camp for well-funded gap-year kids. I’d show up hoping to form real, lasting connections, only to leave drained by the surface-level frenzy of elitist backstories, performative tech jargon, and “living the dream” one-upmanship.

Even my favorite co-working spaces had morphed into do-nothing happy hour hubs. Forget productivity.

All of this was amplified by the online chatter:

“Digital nomads are out of touch.”
“Café culture is ruined.”
“They’re driving up AirBnB prices.”
“All they do is take up space and complain about the wifi.”
”Nomads, go home!”

Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, my travels had shifted from necessity to lifestyle choice, and I had to ask myself: Why am I doing this? Am I living this way because it’s truly me, or because it looks good from the outside?

Where’s the line between working, truly living, and Instagramming it all into oblivion?

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Authentic origins vs. optics

Many trends don’t start as trends. They start as solutions.

For me, the nomad life began as a visa workaround. For many, it was an escape—from draining jobs, stifling cities, or routines that felt like slow suffocation.

For myself and the early nomads I knew, the draw wasn’t the aesthetics, but the benefits: freedom, flexibility, and the chance to design a life around what mattered most. The aesthetics—photos with palm trees, laptops by the sea, picturesque old town streets—were just a nice little bonus for enduring all the difficulties: visa limits, endless housing searches, unreliable internet, and constant goodbyes.

The early days of any movement tend to be filled with this kind of raw intention. People aren’t thinking about optics; they’re too busy actually living.

But in today’s social media culture, optics eventually take over. It gets harder to tell whether someone’s doing something for personal meaning or for how it will look online. The more something photographs well, the more it’s repeated—until the image starts to replace the experience itself.

Once performance becomes the point, purpose begins to fade.

The lifestyle gets a name, a hashtag, and eventually a collective caricature that flattens all of the nuance, the meaning, and the struggle into a single meme-ready stereotype.

Optics vs. reality

When the goal becomes proving you’re “living the dream”, you risk spending more time performing freedom than actually feeling it. Nowhere was this more obvious to me than in one of the world’s most Instagrammed nomad hubs: Barcelona.

After living there for several years, I decided to leave. Too many shallow encounters with transient, uncommitted people, ever-growing crowds, and an endless carousel of predictable and unfulfilling meetup conversations left my days blurring together until it felt like I was living the same one on repeat.

The city itself never lost its magic: the architecture, the art, the music, the calming seaside, the colorful energy. I’d built a life full of beauty, creativity, and moments I’ll always treasure. Who knows: I might end up back there someday.

But within the nomad community, it was hard to find what I was looking for. Most people seemed to be passing through, stopping for a few months or stretching a short stay and filling their days with sightseeing and cocktail parties. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly, but the pace and priorities rarely left room for the kind of meaningful connections I craved.

The rising anti-nomad and anti-tourist sentiment didn’t help, either; even with an apartment lease in my name, I still felt like an outsider. And the community that was supposed to be a lifeline began to feel like part of the problem.

The rinse-and-repeat rhythm of the nomadic life created a constant state of transition that kept me rebuilding my life from scratch, adapting instead of rooting, and never really staying long enough to feel truly at home.

When you’re always moving, everywhere starts to feel like nowhere.

That’s when I knew it wasn’t just a phase of restlessness, it was full-blown nomad fatigue. And if I wanted to keep traveling (and feeling good about it), something had to change.

Purposeful travel: Why you go (or stay) matters

Travel will always be a part of who I am, but it means the most when it’s rooted in purpose.

There are two sides to purposeful travel:

1. External: The relationships you build, the communities you connect with, and the depth of belonging you find in each place.

2. Internal: Your own presence, intention, and the way you engage with the moment—whether you’re truly experiencing it or simply curating it for others to see.

Both matter. Without the external, travel can become isolating; without the internal, it can become hollow. Together, they’re what turn movement into meaning.

I’ve never traveled for the optics, but as an artistic person who loves taking photos, I’ve always enjoyed documenting my experiences (and still do). For me, the camera is less about proving anything to anyone, and more about noticing, preserving, and celebrating the details that inspire me.

Over time, though, I’ve become more aware of the fine line between documenting and performing. I never want the record to become more important than the reality.

I hope all of us get to experience that joyful exhale of freedom, and I also hope that we’re able to protect our souls from the noise, the sameness, and the ever-growing pull toward living for an image. That means checking in with ourselves to be sure we’re traveling for the right reasons: not for consumption or content, but for meaning.

The world isn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet; it’s a treasure to explore with intention.

And if everywhere starts to feel like nowhere, the answer isn’t a shinier “anywhere.” It’s discovering—and sometimes rediscovering—the places and reasons that make you want to stay.

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We live in a time where being a mess is marketable. You don’t need to be stable, grounded, or emotionally mature to go viral—you just need to be relatable.

A little chaotic, a little “unhinged.” Bonus points if you can meme-fy your coping mechanisms. Triple points if you can turn your red flags into merch.

From reels that glorify ghosting people to TikToks celebrating delulu behavior and promoting trauma-dumping as radical authenticity, we’re flooded with content that paints dysfunction as a lifestyle. It can be oddly charming, aesthetic, well-curated, and quietly destructive.

Let’s be real: Usually, a good meme hits because it’s true. I love a bit of self-deprecating humor myself, and there’s something refreshing about seeing a post that perfectly names a feeling you didn’t have language for. Relatable content can offer plenty of comfort, community, and even clarity.

But…

There’s a difference between laughing at your own mess—and living in it.

I’ll be honest, I’ve done it myself. I’ve made jokes about my worst habits. I’ve shared memes that made light of behavior I probably should’ve been working on. Maybe it was a way to cope, or it was just easier than being truly accountable.

Either way, it didn’t move me forward.

There’s a growing trend of turning trauma, dysfunction, and poor relational patterns into personality traits. Terms like “hot mess” and “trauma-chic” have become part of the cultural lexicon. Dismissiveness gets romanticized, avoidance is repackaged as self-care, codependency as devotion, and emotional exhibitionism as depth.

Somehow, being disordered has become a badge of honor. We’ve stopped reaching for growth—collecting and branding our wounds instead.

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How we got here

Maybe it was inevitable after generations of silence, shame, and stigma. For so long, mental health, emotional, and relational struggles were either hidden or pathologized.

Of course the pendulum swung toward visibility, openness, and self-definition. The internet became a place where people could finally say, “This is what I’m dealing with,” and be met with validation instead of judgment.

That shift gave a voice to the voiceless, and in many ways, it saved people.

But now, we’re seeing the pendulum swing too far. The tools that once helped us name our struggles are becoming masks that stand in the way of self-development.

The danger isn’t the content itself, but what happens when we start building an identity around it. When feeling “seen” becomes a substitute for doing the work, red flags turn into punchlines—and then, into personality.

Humor can be healing, but it can also be a disguise. And the more we wrap our wounds in irony, the harder it becomes to tell where the performance ends and the truth begins. I say this as someone who will probably always bring humor into self-observation, because laughing at myself helps me stay honest.

But I’ve learned that there’s a difference between humor that reflects the truth and humor that deflects it.

When labels undermine growth

In recent years, a flood of psychological language has made its way from therapy offices to TikTok, often stripped of nuance and context. These terms can be valid, and the content around them can be incredibly helpful, especially for people who are genuinely struggling and seeking clarity.

But when these labels overtake entire identities (instead of simply providing useful information), we risk reducing ourselves to a set of symptoms, and using those labels to justify behaviors we could actually work on.

What’s more troubling is how dysfunction is often repackaged as empowerment:

• Avoidance is just “boundaries.”

• Melodrama or self-centeredness is “main character energy.”

• Entitlement is “knowing your worth.”

• Manipulation is “black cat energy.”

• Constant conflict is “care” or “passion.”

Instead of challenging us, this kind of content encourages us to feel good where we are, and defend a version of ourselves that may be rooted in pain, reactivity, or outdated coping mechanisms.

Thus, we may never ask, “Is this actually bettering me?”

Let’s be clear

Content that helps people feel seen isn’t the problem. Feeling validated by a post about your dating experiences, or realizing you’re not alone in your anxious spirals, can be genuinely therapeutic.

But content that mirrors your experience is different from content that encourages you to dig your heels in and stay there.

We’re increasingly relying on oversimplified narratives to explain away our behavior. Entire relationships get reduced to a 15-second sound bite and a diagnosis pulled from TikTok:

“He’s a narcissist.”
“She’s a psycho.”
“They’re gaslighting me.”

Maybe. But maybe it’s just easier to slap on a label than to look at the full, complicated, human picture—including our own role in it.

When we stop being curious about what’s really going on, it’s easy to fall into the trap of explaining behavior using incomplete data and memes designed more for engagement than insight. The internet might not be the best therapist, even if our favorite content creators serve up juicy, delicious validation on a regular basis.

An endless loop

It’s one thing to say, “I struggle with emotional regulation.” It’s another to meme it into: “Lol I just start fights and disappear because ✨trauma✨.”

We’re not just laughing at ourselves—we’re normalizing staying stuck, as long as it’s packaged into something entertaining.

Accountability, meanwhile, rarely trends. There’s no dopamine rush in saying, “I’ve been emotionally unavailable,” or “I’m working on the way I react when I feel ignored.”

Growth is often quiet, private, and inconvenient.

And when social media offers an endless stream of selective validation for all of our existing biases, it gets harder to tell the truth from an echo. There’s a reel, tweet thread, or image carousel for every narrative. And because the algorithm rewards repetition, it’s easier than ever before to be fed a heaping pile of everything you already believe.

Like staring into a mirror, forever.

The hidden costs of the branded struggle

When dysfunction becomes identity, and validation becomes the goal, we lose more than we realize:

• Nuance. Not everything is a red flag, a diagnosis, or a trauma response.

• Growth. We trade transformation (uncomfortable) for validation (comfortable).

• Maturity. Emotional intelligence gets buried under memes, tropes, and hot takes.

• Sense of self. If all of your insight comes from content online, then who are you when the phone is off?

We lose the plot, performing a role while forgetting that we are more than the worst parts of our story.

So where do we go from here?

If we want to move beyond performative healing and into real transformation, we have to start:

• Asking better questions: “Is this helping me grow?” “Am I being truly honest with myself?” “Is this reinforcing my existing bias or challenging me?”

• Pausing before diagnosing, dismissing, or blaming others

• Remembering that accountability and grace can coexist

• Reclaiming the part of healing that doesn’t need to be shared or on display

Inner work doesn’t always make a good meme—but it does make a better life.

Choose growth

At the end of the day, you get to choose who you become.

You don’t need to be a self-deprecating “mess” to be interesting, funny, or lovable.
You don’t need to be broken to be unique or worthy of attention.
And you don’t need to brand your pain to be seen.

Dysfunction isn’t a personality.
Disorder isn’t a brand.
Accountability is still the most underrated flex.

Choose growth, even when it’s quiet, nuanced, and offline. Because the real glow-up is becoming someone you’re proud of.

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What’s one label, trait, or behavior you’ve stopped identifying with, and why? If any part of this hit home, I’d love to hear how you’ve experienced this yourself in the comments below.

When I first started working seriously as a recording vocalist and songwriter, Instagram felt like the place to be. It was 2016, and the app was booming. Hashtags and curated feeds were the currency of creative connection.

At that time, I was just getting into the dance music scene, gaining traction as a vocalist, and eager to make the most of it. I was excited to learn, to share, to express, and to create. I was meeting musicians, producers, and artists from all over the world, and the feeling was expansive and joyful.

Although a lot of artists roll their eyes at the mention of “content” or social media (and I get it), the fact is that building an audience didn’t feel impossible back then.

Engagement felt organic, almost effortless at times. I’d revel in aesthetics and connect with like minds, looking to other artists for inspiration and content ideas, as we all did.

And it wasn’t just about getting attention. Instagram, in particular, felt like a genuine community—a place to share and discover, to connect with other people who were as passionate about music (and many other topics) as I was.

I had so many conversations and interactions with people who were genuinely interested in what I was doing. It felt like we were all part of something, growing and creating together.

But things began to change.

The landscape that once felt like a community started to feel more like a marketplace. Content that had once felt like genuine expression now seemed tailored for attention—colored by a new kind of pressure.

And while there had always been plenty of insincere or attention-seeking content before 2016, this felt like a major shift.

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Enter the endless scroll

It was 2018, and TikTok had grown popular. Its algorithm initiated the endless scroll, where content streams past at lightning speed, rewarding bite-sized entertainment and instant engagement.

This changed the game, pushing creators to post faster, funnier, and more performative just to keep up.

At the same time, TikTok empowered countless individual creators—who might never have found an audience on Instagram—to share their voices and build careers in ways that were once unthinkable.

Instagram and other platforms followed suit, and a new scene emerged: one that demanded a constant hustle while also offering new opportunities and revenue potential for artists willing to invest their time and effort in creating highly-engaging content.

But the fruit that once felt so reachable now seemingly demanded a metaphorical clown costume of trends, sounds, dances, and skits—anything to catch an eye in the endless scroll.

Must I really do childish playground dances for my music to be heard?

What a depressing thought.

Connection or clickbait?

We all know the feeling: sitting there, staring at a blank page, waiting for inspiration to strike. And then, like a shiny apple dangling just above your head, there it is—the easy win. A trending topic, a clever meme, a remix of something that’s already been done a hundred times. It’s quick, it’s light, and (let’s be honest) it’s satisfying.

Low-hanging fruit, they say.

I’ve reached for it more times than I can count. Sometimes it’s a relief—a balm against creative inertia, that gnawing sense of stuckness that makes you wonder if you’ll ever accomplish anything. A fast payoff can feel like a small mercy: a way to stay in motion, even if it’s just one small step at a time.

Other times, maybe it’s just for clicks, likes, and validation.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with trying to stay engaged, as it’s becoming easier and easier to get lost in the sea of voices. It’s natural to want to remind the world: I’m here, I’m still part of the conversation, don’t forget me.

But how do you know the difference?

If you’re trying to build something, whether it’s a business, brand, persona, or some kind of art, of course you want people to engage with it. But is it enough to show up, or does it matter how you show up?

Is the easy win a step forward, or just a detour that leads you further from the work that truly matters to your soul?

Recently, I discovered a fantastic classical pianist who only gained traction on Instagram after posting videos of himself mispronouncing French Canadian food labels. While I find great amusement in his videos and enthusiastically support him to this day, I grapple with how that actually makes me feel as an artist myself.

Some would say, “Whatever works,” and that’s fine. There’s no harm in it. There’s also no shame in wondering, Where can we possibly go from here?

Certainly, more people know this very talented pianist exists now, due to some humorous and unrelated videos. That’s a net positive, I’d say.

Why do we share?

Every time I post something on any of these platforms, I ask myself:

Is this post, this song, this story coming from a place of meaning, or is it just a desperate attempt to stay afloat?

Is it just marketing? Art? Is it real? Fake? Is it worthwhile?

Honestly? I can’t answer it the same every time—and I know I’m not the only creative person who questions the point of it all.

Naturally, we want to be seen, heard, and acknowledged as creators. But isn’t the motivation ultimately the art itself? Or is it the meaning that the art creates for others? The community? All of the above?

This is where the debate always starts: One camp says, “Just post what’s authentic to you and the right people will find you.” The other says, “You have to keep up and hustle to promote yourself, or you’ll be left behind.”

If your goal is to be known by the public, it’s not much of a dilemma. But if your goal is to create meaning and connection with others through works of your creation, it can be.

Of course, they are not mutually exclusive. And sometimes, simple engagement is enough of a reason. There’s nothing wrong with entertaining people.

Maybe overthinking is the problem!

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Content, content, content

So many of us cringe at the thought of self-promotion, yet feel compelled to do it anyway, pulled by the algorithm’s siren song. And now, it feels like we have to jump on a bandwagon, put on a costume, or chase a trend just to stay in the game.

Creating content can feel like a race to the performative look-at-me finish line: a total stranger’s device screen.

And that’s the point where anyone who believes in the law of attraction might start to wince. After all, if you’re truly what you say you are, should you really have to shout it, or beg for acknowledgement?

When I look back at the work I’m most proud of, it’s never the low-hanging fruit that comes to mind. It’s the projects that made me wrestle with doubt, the ideas that refused to go quietly, the stories that demanded more than I thought I had to give.

But we humans are wired to reach for the easiest option. Our ancient brains still whisper that energy is precious, that safety is in the familiar.

Steven Pressfield writes in The War of Art: “The more resistance you experience, the more important your unmanifested art/project/enterprise is to you—and the more gratification you will feel when you finally do it.”

In the ache of avoidance, there’s a certain magnetism to the low-hanging fruit: the promise of quick likes and shares on social media, where algorithms reward surface-level work—bright and shiny, fast and shallow.

Content for content’s sake. A bottomless pit.

You might start to feel like you’ve at least overcome resistance. “Productivity” is a good thing, right?

The thing is that often, the work that stirs your soul—the kind that demands your full attention and your truest voice—never comes easy. It’s the work that fights back, the project that feels too big, too complicated, or too personal.

That’s the resistance Pressfield is talking about.

It’s the signpost that says: Here lies the work that matters. This path might not get you the dopamine rush of quick applause, but it will leave you changed, and proud.

Personally, that’s the work I want to do more of.

But quick wins aren’t always bad. Sometimes, what looks like surface-level success is actually a small, achievable piece of a larger creative strategy. A single post might spark a deeper conversation, or a short video might draw the right people into your orbit.

The key, I think, is being honest with yourself: Is this something that moves me forward toward the work that matters—or is it just a short-term gain that feeds the feed?

It’s okay to balance both: to mix the momentum of quick wins with the depth of meaningful work. Maybe that’s the sweet spot, the place where art and audience actually meet.

And that brings me back to the question that sits at the heart of every creative life.

What do you want to be remembered for?

It’s the tension between the quick hit and the long game—between instant gratification and the work that makes your heart race. Because the easy win is, well, easy.

But easy isn’t necessarily meaningful.

Technology has made the low-hanging fruit more tempting than ever. AI writes captions, generates images, drafts outlines. And yes, these tools are incredible. They’ve opened doors, leveled playing fields, and given us power to bring our ideas to life in ways that used to take a team (or a small fortune).

But they can also lull us into thinking that easy is enough, or that done is better than deep (which can be true, in some instances).

A reminder:

The applause of the crowd can never replace the applause of the soul.

I’m not here to tell you to stop picking the low-hanging fruit. Sometimes it’s the very thing that breaks the spell of perfectionism and reminds you to keep moving. Sometimes it’s the seed of something greater, a small win that grows into something beautiful.

But I am here to remind you (and myself!) that the work that changes you rarely comes easy—and that resistance is a signpost: a nudge to climb higher, to stretch further. I’m still learning when to embrace the quick wins and when to climb higher.

Maybe the best question we can all ask is: What do I really want to be remembered for?

And:

• Am I chasing clicks, or am I chasing meaning?

• Is this piece of work coming from a place of curiosity and joy, or from a place of insecurity and fear?

• Is this low-hanging fruit, or a step toward the work that shapes me?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. When has an easy win helped you move forward, and when has it held you back? Let’s talk about it, because we’re all reaching for something.

When I was a kid, I nearly drowned chasing fish. Decades later, I tried to save someone else from drowning—and failed.

The ocean doesn’t care how big (or small) you are.

Water is one of the most powerful symbols in the human experience. It represents life, transformation, beauty, and danger. In stories and myths, water often symbolizes both the journey and the struggle—a passage to something new or an unpredictable force that overwhelms.

In my life, water has been both a calm, inviting place and an otherworldly force that pulled me under. I’ve been mesmerized by its beauty, drawn to its vastness, and felt at home in its embrace.

But I’ve learned (the hard way) that water doesn’t care about your intentions or your strength, or whether you’re confident, cautious, or desperate. It taught me about humility, surrender, and the harsh reality that we can’t always fight the current, no matter how hard we try.

These are two stories about water: one about being saved, and one about trying to save someone else.

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Curiosity Nearly Killed Me

I was seven years old, playing at the beach in Honolulu. The swimming area was enclosed by a low rock wall, and the water inside was calm and shallow—perfect for a little kid armed with a plastic bucket and the unshakable conviction that I could catch some fish.

I was always a good swimmer, so a popular beach with plenty of kids didn’t set off any alarm bells. Crouched chest-deep, I dipped my bucket into the crystal-clear waters, aiming for a shimmering school of tiny fish. I was mesmerized by how they moved in perfect sync, darting just out of my reach, so focused that I didn’t notice a child-sized gap in the rock wall.

Like magic, the fish slipped through the gap, and disappeared into the open ocean. Impulsively, I chased after them but stopped just before the break.

Suddenly, I felt the current wrap around me like a pair of invisible arms, and in an instant, it swelled, overpowering me with unstoppable force. The ground dropped away beneath me as I was pulled into a fierce undertow. My small body spun helplessly as the water dragged me under.

Good swimmer or not, I was in serious trouble. The force was stronger than anything I’d ever felt, and I could barely keep my head above water.

My mother saw what happened and rushed to help, but the rocks were slippery, sharp, and I was just out of reach. She tried anyway, cutting her legs and feet on the stones.

Then, an older man arrived—a local—and together, they pulled me out. I was breathless, trembling, but alive.

A Lesson in Humility and Limitations

We’re often so confident in our ability to chase what we want that we forget: some forces are simply beyond our control.

Confidence is important, but it isn’t enough—and being humble enough to recognize when we’re out of our depth can be a lifesaving mindset. When I was chasing those fish, I didn’t think twice about the limits of my small body or the power of the ocean.

(Of course, I also didn’t realize there was any particular danger.)

The situation was well beyond what I could handle alone.

Balancing Curiosity and Caution

Many of us have experienced being caught up in the excitement of pursuing something beautiful, whether it’s a dream, a relationship, or a passion project. Our desire to build, love, or explore leads us to push boundaries without even realizing it.

But without at least some degree of caution, that curiosity can pull us into dangerous territory.

Some people lean too far on one side of this balance:

• Overly cautious: They hesitate to chase anything beautiful because they fear the risks. They might never experience the thrill of pursuing something that sets their soul on fire.

• Overly curious: They charge ahead without considering the consequences, constantly swept up in new pursuits without pausing to evaluate whether it’s safe or sustainable.

The reality is that you can let curiosity guide you while also keeping enough caution to recognize when you’re moving from safe exploration to reckless pursuit.

When Good Intentions Aren’t Enough

Decades later, I found myself back in the water—not as the one being rescued, but as the one trying to save someone else.

It was a hot July day at a beautiful lake in Minnesota. The summers there have a special quality: clear blue skies stretching endlessly overhead, sparkling waters, lush greenery swaying gently in the breeze, and the kind of warmth that makes you believe nothing bad could ever happen.

With a pink summer dress on, I was dockside at a campground where I was staying with friends, waiting to go out on a boat together.

Out of nowhere, I noticed a man struggling far out in the water. At first, I couldn’t tell if he needed help—he was clutching an inner tube, and it looked like he might just be catching his breath.

But then I heard his faint, strained calls for help, and I knew something was wrong.

My lifeguard instincts kicked in. I looked around for anything that could float, grabbing a seating pad from one of the boats, and dove in, dress and all. I swam as fast as I could, heart pounding in my chest, fighting the weight of my clothes.

When I finally reached him, I realized that he wasn’t alone.

Beneath the surface of the water, his 27-year-old son was fully submerged, tangled in thick, feathery strands of watermilfoil. The underwater plants had formed a dense, net-like mat that wrapped around his legs like ropes, keeping him submerged.

The young man had a strong athletic build, but it hadn’t mattered, as his feet were completely ensnared—his body now hanging motionless just below the water’s surface.

Horrified, I could only imagine how he must have felt losing consciousness within mere inches of lifesaving air.

The father was desperately trying to lift his son, his face etched with pain, panic, and exhaustion. I joined in with all the strength I had, hooking a shoulder with my arm and trying to lift him higher, but his water-logged weight and the pull of the weeds made it nearly impossible. The watermilfoil started to tangle around my own legs as I struggled to keep myself afloat, but I finally managed to get the young man’s head above water.

I shouted back to shore for help, the strain building in my arms as I fought to support his body with my own (and the seating pad).

Just as my own energy began to wane, another boater arrived. Together, the three of us managed to get the young man out of the water and onto the boat. The driver immediately began CPR, and I slowly swam back to shore, my muscles trembling with exhaustion and shock.

When I reached the dock, I could barely stand, my consciousness dazed and flooded with the chaos and muted hum of people rushing around. My dress clung to me, soaked and heavy as I tried to catch my breath.

We all waited anxiously for the ambulance to arrive.

Still alive, the young man was taken to the hospital. After telling the police what happened, I wandered off and broke down, my mind spinning with questions.

How long was he there? How did I not even see him struggle? Had he been there seconds? Minutes? Could I have done something differently? Should I have reacted faster? If I had been physically stronger, would it have mattered?

The weight of the guilt pressed down on me like the watermilfoil, tight and unrelenting. I couldn’t sleep that night, lying awake and replaying the scene over and over, praying that he would survive.

When I later learned that he didn’t make it, I was devastated. I spent days in bed, weeks disillusioned, and years haunted by the experience. I still can’t imagine what his loved ones must have gone through.

A Lesson About Strength and Surrender

Letting go when you’ve done all you can is one of the hardest parts of being human.

For a long time, I couldn’t accept that. The feeling that I could’ve and should’ve done more hung over me for quite some time.

This feeling translates to the rest of life as well: In the past, I held onto experiences, ideas, nostalgia, friendships, and relationships, convinced that if I was just patient enough, forgiving enough, tried harder, or forced my will, I could keep sinking ships afloat.

I lived with the belief that with my effort alone, I could evade or overcome the inevitability of loss. But despite our best efforts and intentions, we can’t always control situations, or save other people.

Over time, I’ve come to realize that humility and surrender aren’t just about recognizing when you need help; they’re also about fully accepting when your best isn’t enough.

Lifeboats and Letting Go

In the first story, those who saved me from the undertow were my lifeboat. In the second story, I wanted so badly to be the lifeboat for someone else, but I couldn’t.

Both stories involve control—or the loss of it.

There are moments when we are the ones being saved, and others when we’re desperately trying (and perhaps failing) to save someone else. Both roles require courage and humility.

Control is an illusion that slips through our hands when we think we need it most.

But trying your absolute best (even when it falls short) is its own kind of bravery.

Sometimes, even our best efforts can’t change the outcome. That’s a hard truth to accept, but it doesn’t mean we didn’t give everything we had.

Likewise, when we’re caught up in something beautiful like a dream, a goal, or a relationship, it’s easy to believe that simply pushing harder will make it work. But that pursuit can pull us into dangerous waters—places where our well-being, safety, or sense of self are at risk.

There’s strength in knowing when to let go, when to pause, and when to ask for help. In fact, these moments of surrender can be just as virtuous as perseverance—not signs of weakness, but acts of wisdom.

In letting go, we allow ourselves to be carried, not by force or determination, but by acceptance, and the quiet courage to find peace in a reality we can’t change.

Still drenched from a wave of life changes, I’d been struggling with motivation, direction, and overwhelm for months. So, when my mom suggested we plan a trip to Greece, I didn’t hesitate.

Being in motion always helps me shake off negative feelings, whether by plane, train, or on foot, and I was due for a dose of Mediterranean atmosphere—a soul vitamin that I find particularly healing.

I’d been losing steam for music, my primary passion in life. Several original songs had been knocking around my consciousness for months, each one accompanied by a growing sense of shame for every day it went unfinished.

This wasn’t the first time.

The constant hustle of self-employment was wearing me down as well, which feels almost embarrassing to admit when your entire identity is built around following your dreams and forging your own path. Getting enough work was tough, but pushing through client fluctuations, evolving tools, and shifting earning potential in the age of AI had been deeply disorienting.

I wrote more about this topic here.

I’ve never been very good at putting my feelings aside to “get the job done" (except in emergencies), so all of this heavy energy, unrealized creativity, and self-judgment piled up—until it was utterly crushing.

Something had to give.

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Following My Intuition

Sometimes, a change of scenery is a lifeline.

I believe in intentional magic—deliberately creating experiences that feel purposeful, magical, uplifting, or otherwise inspiring. It’s not always easy to do when you’re in a slump, but that’s exactly when it matters most.

Sometimes, creating that magic means trusting your gut and taking a leap, even when you’re feeling stuck.

Since I wasn’t meeting up with my mom and our family friend until a few days later in Santorini, I decided to follow my intuition and book some time to myself on the island of Crete.

Crete: A Land of Complexity and Paradox

Although I’ve been to Greece many times, I’d never spent time in Crete. My only major association with the island was from Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey.

Throughout his journey, Odysseus often claims to be from Crete when telling false stories to protect his identity—a choice that mirrors Crete’s own complex nature as both a place of civilization and chaos. To the ancient Greeks, Crete was both revered and feared. It marked the dawn of Western European civilization, yet it was also cloaked in mystery and myth.

The second association only dawned on me after I arrived: I was reading Haruki Murakami’s novel The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle at the time, and it hit me that one of the characters, Creta Kano, was named after the island.

In the book, Creta is portrayed as a complex, enigmatic figure shaped by profound trauma. She undergoes a journey of transformation, ultimately reclaiming her sense of identity and agency despite the darkness of her past.

As I learned more about Crete, I began to understand its history as a crossroads of ancient artistry and myth. As the largest of the Greek islands, it’s known as the cradle of Europe’s earliest civilization—the Minoans—who left behind intricate frescoes, advanced architecture, and symbols that inspired Greek mythology.

It felt fitting to immerse myself in a place where creativity had flourished for thousands of years, and where an enduring cultural presence still lingered in the air.

Chania: A Venetian Pearl

With its rich history and vibrant atmosphere, the picturesque harbor city of Chania seemed like a good place to stay.

The Venetian harbor was breathtaking, with its iconic lighthouse standing watch over the azure waters. Originally built during the Venetian occupation in the 16th century, it’s one of the oldest lighthouses in the world—a symbol of guidance and endurance.

What Are the Chances?

After a full day of exploration, I returned to the harbor exhausted and in need of rest and reflection. I made my way to a restaurant with an outdoor terrace overlooking the water and settled in with a view of the lighthouse just as the sun was setting.

The music playing in the background was both relaxing and pulsing with life. I’ve noticed that both Greece and Türkiye share a musical vibe characterized by percussive rhythms and relaxing soundscapes that hover somewhere between 100-110 BPM.

This tempo range sits just above the average adult resting heart rate of 60-100 BPM, giving it an energized yet steady quality that mirrors the body’s natural rhythm.

I was soaking in the sunset when something unexpected happened.

One of my own songs started playing.

I froze for a moment, unsure if I was imagining things. Then I realized: This was the first time I’d ever heard my music completely randomly, in the wild. In the year and a half since the song's release, I’d occasionally heard it at a live show (when I knew it would be played), on a Spotify playlist or DJ mix, but never like this.

Never out in public, by chance.

Sitting by the harbor and staring at the sun, the salty air filled with my own words, my own voice—I couldn’t help but feel like the universe was winking at me, and reminding me of who I was and what I’m here for.

My waiter was slightly confused when I exclaimed, “This is my song!” He must have thought I meant that I liked the song, so I told him that I wrote and sang it. I had to tell someone.

(I’m still not sure if he believed me or not, but it was an unforgettable moment anyway.)

When I spoke to the DJ, he mentioned that he regularly plays the song at that venue. Hearing that was surreal—a strange, beautiful affirmation that my work can find a home even when I feel unmoored.

Lost & Found

All of this felt like a sign that, despite the doubt and uncertainty, my creative work had a life of its own—moving, traveling, and finding its place in the world. Even when I’m not sure where I belong, my work can somehow find the places it belongs (when I’m not looking, of course).

I was already glad that I had come to Chania, but now it felt certain: I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

My intuition came through for me, again. And it felt like the universe was rewarding me for trusting that instinct.

In a way, both Creta Kano and Odysseus represent the same duality we all face: the journey home (to oneself or a place) while carrying the weight of past and present struggles. Standing by the harbor that evening, I felt connected to that idea—of being both lost and found, of bravely holding pain while still pushing forward.

Not all of our struggles will be resolved before we can progress. Sometimes we carry them with us, finding strength in the journey—in the resilience, and in the process of building ourselves back up.

You don’t have to wait for everything to make sense before taking the next step; trust that movement itself can bring clarity and meaning.

Like the lighthouse at Chania’s harbor, creativity endures—offering light and direction when everything else feels uncertain. And sometimes, when you simply follow your intuition, you end up exactly where you’re meant to be.

TL;DR: Do more of what you love.

We’re absorbing more than we were ever meant to carry.

We’re surrounded by information, but starved for peace.

Doomsday headlines echo through our consciousness like a horror film on loop. Politics and angst seem to seep into everything—friendships, entertainment, celebrations, family dinners.

Outrage is the default. Silence feels like betrayal.

And yet…

I’m not here to tell you to disengage. I care deeply about this world, and I’m sure you do, too.

But I am here to offer a gentle reminder:

You can’t metabolize the world’s grief on an empty soul.

The news cycle doesn’t just inform us; it often depletes us. Social media rewards outrage and performance, not presence or perspective.

It floods our brains with urgency, steals our attention, and leaves us wondering why we feel so scattered and low.

We absorb tragedy after tragedy—things we often can’t do anything about. We witness strangers arguing in comment sections we never meant to read. We scroll past 30-second videos of pure despair, then jump straight to an ad for skincare or a meme about burnout.

We tell ourselves it’s good to “stay informed,” as if information alone makes us better, wiser, more moral. But so often, what we’re left with isn’t clarity, action, or direction. It’s exhaustion, disorientation, and a rising tide of rage with nowhere to go.

That’s why we have to nourish ourselves—intentionally, consistently, and without apology.

Before we burn out, numb out, or lash out, we need replenishment.

I call them soul vitamins.

They’re not productivity hacks. They won’t fix your life or pay your bills. But they will give you strength when everything feels heavy. They’ll help you remember who you are when the world tries to flatten you into a reductive persona or a crisis-response machine.

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What are soul vitamins?

Soul vitamins are the invisible nutrients that keep your spirit alive. They’re the things that remind you you're a human being before you're a headline reader, a content creator, or someone trying to hold it all together.

Soul vitamins are different for everyone, but they tend to have a few things in common:

1. They restore you—calming you, energizing you, or both.

2. They reconnect you to beauty, or inspire a sense of awe.

3. They make you feel more like you.

In short:

Soul vitamins are the things you love—that also nourish you.

Mine include:

• Carefully curating and listening to music playlists

• Writing music, songs, and lyrics

• Working on passion projects

• Having meaningful calls and meetups with friends who inspire me

• Absorbing art in some way (museums, galleries, films, etc.)

• Working hard at the gym (and taking my time)

• Watching planes take off and land

• Spending time with animals

• Planning trips and traveling

• Reading a few chapters of a book that I’m excited about

• Writing posts like this 😊

Sometimes these things are cinematic acts of intentional magic. Other times, they’re quiet and barely visible to others, like rituals and small acts of presence. But they always nourish something inside me the world might not see—but that I need to keep going.

Yours will be different. That’s the point.

Soul-starvation doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it creeps in quietly, like hours of mindless scrolling, or snapping at someone you love because you haven’t had a moment to yourself in days. You’re tired, but not in a way sleep can fix. You feel disconnected, uninspired, and brittle. The smallest things feel louder than they should.

You might lose your sense of humor, start ghosting people you care about, or catch yourself thinking, what’s the point in anything?—even when everything looks fine on the outside.

I’ve been there.

When we’re spiritually undernourished, we lose access to the best parts of ourselves. We default to reaction instead of reflection. Consumption instead of creation. Survival instead of soul.

That’s why soul vitamins matter. They don’t just help us feel better; they help us come back to ourselves—more grounded, more human, more whole.

It’s not about “treating yourself.”

I’m all for small pleasures—rituals, rewards, celebratory indulgences. But this isn’t that. It’s not a self-care slogan meant to justify zoning out, numbing up, or surrendering to inertia.

Soul vitamins aren’t about indulgence, escape, or checking out; they’re about checking in with the parts of yourself that are most alive, most curious, and most human.

Why we forget to take them

It’s easy to forget what nourishes us when the world feels like it’s on fire all the time. It’s not your fault, or mine. The information economy runs on attention, not wellbeing.

Culturally, we also tend to glorify postponing rest until the work is done. We confuse being overwhelmed with being engaged. We treat joy like a luxury, and exhaustion like a badge of honor.

So, we scroll instead of breathe. We argue compulsively instead of pausing to reflect. We look outward instead of inward. And in doing so, we miss the quiet signals that our spirit is asking for more—even when it’s begging us to listen.

But nourishment isn’t selfish. It’s not a reward for doing enough. It’s a requirement for showing up at all.

The world isn’t softening anytime soon. And the truth is, you may not always be able to opt out of the chaos around you. But you can choose to tend to your inner life with care. You can choose to be a little more nourished, a little more grounded, a little more you.

A gentle invitation

So here’s your reminder. Take a breath and ask yourself:

What’s one soul vitamin you’ve been neglecting lately?

Maybe it’s as simple as taking daily walks without your phone. Maybe it’s calling someone who makes you belly laugh, or listening to music that makes you feel like you again.

Let it be simple, honest, and yours—not because you’ve earned it, not because it’ll make you more productive.

But because you’re alive.

And that’s reason enough.

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I’d gone to the Minnesota State Fair nearly every year since I was a kid. It was one of my all-time favorite pastimes.

The festive energy of people soaking up sunshine and spending joyful time with family and friends. The fried food and just-about-everything on a stick. The live music. The neon-lit nights of dizzying rides.

It was a treasured tradition.

Growing up in Minnesota, the Fair was essentially our miniature Midwestern Disneyland—beloved by locals and one of the biggest state fairs in the United States.

A few summers ago, I went again. But this time, within just a few hours, I felt like I needed to escape.

The crowds, the noise, the overstimulation didn’t feel like fun anymore—it felt like panic. The greasy food I used to indulge in without a second thought now felt like an assault on my senses.

What’s wrong with me?

It caught me off guard. What once felt like a familiar ritual now felt like chaos.

So I left.

Shortly after, I found myself back at the park & ride, walking alone along the train tracks just to hear my own thoughts again. I’ll never forget that feeling: the warmth of the sun, the tall grass tickling my legs, and a subtle sense of worry setting in.

The whole experience stirred something deeper than just sensory overload. It unearthed a quiet, pressing grief:

What once lit me up no longer does.
And maybe it never will again.

Maybe that sounds silly to some. There are plenty of people who won’t relate to what I’m saying, and that’s okay.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe:

Nostalgia can be beautiful—until it holds us back from the life we’re living now.

And one of the hardest, most sacred things you can do in this life is outgrow your former self.

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The problem with “staying true to yourself”

In our culture, we tend to glorify a very specific idea of authenticity: Be yourself. Stay true to who you are. Don’t forget where you came from.

Those statements can be helpful, but they can also become cages, depending on the context.

What if the version of “you” that others remember simply doesn’t fit anymore?

I’ve lived away from home for years—in different countries, among different cultures. I’ve picked up new languages, friendships, rhythms, and philosophies. Between 2019 and 2020, I lost 90 pounds and overhauled my lifestyle.

All of this caused massive shifts in my mindset and preferences. In certain ways, I became unrecognizable to my old self. And for me, that was mostly a good thing.

But when you return home after big life changes, it’s natural to expect reunion. Reconnection. Maybe even celebration.

Sometimes, what happens instead is misrecognition.

Friends and family members might say, “You’ve always loved this, why don’t you want to go?”
Or: “That’s not like you.”
Or worse: “You’ve changed.”

Yes. I have changed.

Ultimately, we expect people to stay the same because it makes us feel safer. It’s predictable and familiar.

But that doesn’t mean it’s true to who they are now.

You’re allowed to let go of what you once loved

That might sound sacrilegious in a world obsessed with origin stories, but:

Growth isn’t betrayal. It’s transformation.

There’s a feeling of shame that can creep in when you stop loving the things that once defined you. Maybe it was a hobby. A role you played in your family. A tradition. A dream.

We cling to those things because they helped us make sense of who we were. They gave us structure, identity, joy.

But you're allowed to release them when they stop feeling like home.

Leaving the fair that day was my way of honoring myself. Not because I’ve stopped loving everything about it, but because in that moment, it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t helping me, and I didn’t feel connected or joyful.

And that was enough of a reason to walk away.

“Home is where the heart is,” you’ve probably heard.
But beyond a place, home becomes a feeling. A philosophy. A sense of alignment.

Sometimes we outgrow the spaces, routines, or roles that once made us feel at home—not because they were wrong, but because we’ve changed. And staying out of obligation, nostalgia, or pressure to “stay true to yourself” (read: your historical self) doesn’t serve anyone.

You can still honor your past without dragging it into your present.
You can still love your favorite things.
Growth is simply knowing when to hold on, and when to let go.

Nostalgia is a portal, not a place to live

Throughout my 20s, I was madly in love with nostalgia.

I’d go out of my way to revisit old favorites—places, people, music, meals, memories—anything that gave me a glimpse of the past. I relived it all like a song on repeat, until the magic wore off and it started to hurt.

Maybe I was looking for comfort in times of uncertainty. Maybe I was trying to hold on to a version of myself I was afraid of losing. Or, maybe it was just plain attachment.

Whatever the reason, I don’t think nostalgia is inherently bad.

Nostalgia is a beautiful portal into who we were, what shaped us, and what mattered. But it’s not a place to live.

There’s a fine line between honoring your past and being haunted by it, and I think a lot of us walk that line daily.

This is especially true for artists, creators, makers, thinkers, and builders. We live unconventional lives, move countries, pivot careers, and follow strange muses. We rebuild our identities again and again—sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of curiosity, and sometimes because staying the same would mean shrinking.

It’s not always glamorous. In fact, it’s often lonely. We feel misunderstood, our new selves rubbing up against old expectations.

Becoming someone new sometimes means disappointing the version of you others are still holding onto.

So what happens when the people closest to you keep trying to pull you back into who you used to be? That’s when a very peculiar kind of heartache sets in: Maybe they don’t know me anymore. Maybe they never really did.

I’m not saying the people around you automatically hold you back. If you have a support system that celebrates your growth, you’ve truly won the lottery in life. But not everyone’s that lucky—and for those who’ve had to grow beyond what others can understand, the path can feel deeply solitary.

The new conformity of nonconformity

Here’s a plot twist:

In 2025, being unconventional is no longer rebellious.

It’s almost expected.

Digital nomads, freelance creatives, location-independent entrepreneurs, alternative paths—it’s all become trendy and popular. And while that’s opened doors for a lot of us, it’s also created a new kind of pressure:

Be consistently unconventional. Be un-achievably unique.

The truth is, whatever becomes a trend, becomes just another mold, another role to play.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is simply not chase novelty.
Sometimes it’s staying home, or slowing down.
Sometimes it’s letting go of things that used to scream “this is so me”.
Sometimes, it’s simply loosening your grip on identity in order to make room for intentionality.

Real rebellion is choosing what fits right now—not what you used to want, and not what someone else has decided your future should look like.

You’re allowed to disappoint others.

You don’t need a dramatic reason to evolve. You can wake up one day and say, “This used to serve me and it doesn’t anymore.”

No grand explanation needed.

So where does that leave us?

Maybe I’ll go back to the Minnesota State Fair someday. I still love the animals, the art displays, the live music, the neon lights, and the adrenaline of a high-speed thrill ride (though I trust them less now than I did at 17).

Outgrowing something doesn’t necessarily mean turning your back on it forever. Sometimes it just means recognizing that what once fit perfectly now needs to be approached on new terms:

Where we carry our memories like postcards, not contracts.
Where we visit the past with reverence, not obligation.
Where we honor who we were, but don’t submit to anyone else’s image of us.

If you’ve ever walked away from something you once loved with a quiet ache in your chest, know this:

You’re not broken.
You haven’t lost your joy.
You’re simply becoming someone new.

That’s the gift (and the grief).
The letting go, and the becoming.
The portal—not the prison.

What’s something you used to love that no longer fits you? And what are you making space for now? Hit reply or leave a comment below.

Subscribe to New Renaissance Tribe and get weekly reflections on artful living, intentional travel, self-discovery, and the pursuit of a modern Renaissance.

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Your life is not just a series of days—it’s a canvas of living art.

There's a quiet shift happening. A growing realization.

Across the globe, people are waking up to the limitations of our connected-yet-disconnected modern existence. We're questioning the separation between work and art, between travel and home, between digital efficiency and soulful living.

I'm excited to announce a new project aimed at inspiring and supporting those navigating this shift.

Introducing New Renaissance Tribe

For the past six weeks, I've been quietly publishing a variety of personal reflections, essays, and practical insights related to creative purpose, intentional travel, and what it means to live a renaissance life in our digital age.

(Check out the archive here.)

Today, I'm officially inviting you to join this growing community.

Like the original Renaissance that responded to rigid medieval structures, today’s shift is a response to our hyper-specialized, algorithm-driven, productivity-obsessed culture.

It calls us back to:

• Living artfully, embracing beauty and creating everyday magic in our lives

• Learning expansively, cultivating knowledge across disciplines

• Traveling with intention, approaching places as both students and artists

• Working with purpose, building livelihoods that sustain both bank accounts and souls

• Connecting authentically, creating meaningful relationships that transcend digital convenience

• Creating courageously, valuing expression and exploration over algorithmic approval

• Embracing wonder, maintaining curiosity and awe in an age of information overload

What to Expect

Each week, you'll receive a thoughtful exploration of some aspect of the New Renaissance approach to living:

• Essays that celebrate beauty, meaning, purposeful pursuit, and interdisciplinary thinking

• Personal narratives from my journey as a musician, creator, world traveler, and digital entrepreneur

• Practical strategies for committed travelers, nomads, and creators building location-independent lives

• Conversations on a variety of topics geared toward people who refuse to live anything less than a beautiful, meaningful life

Subscribe now to receive these weekly letters directly in your inbox and become part of a growing community of modern renaissance souls.

Your life itself is your greatest creative work.

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This publication is a starting point, and the foundation for workshops, live events, a podcast, and more.

Who Am I?

Hi, I’m Mandy Jones. Let’s get acquainted! Here are a few fun facts to start:

• I am a professional vocalist, lifelong musician, and songwriter.

• As of 2025, I have been to 80 countries, and lived in 8.

• I was born in California and raised in Minnesota.

• Since 2016, I’ve been working remotely with a variety of specialties, including marketing, content writing, voiceover, video editing, podcasting, graphic design, web design, music production, and more.

• Everybody’s pets love me, and I love them, too. ❤️

• I’ve been known to nerd out on the MBTI and the enneagram (ENFP, type 7).

• I’m oddly obsessed with airplanes

There’s a bit more on the about page as well as my personal website.

Why I'm Creating This Now

After years of working in digital business, making art, and connecting with like minds around the globe, I realized something:

Those of us building unconventional lives often do it alone.

But we shouldn’t have to.

We need spaces that celebrate nuance, creativity, and nontraditional paths—places that feel like home in a society built for consumption, distraction, and surface-level connection.

The world is changing fast. Our possibilities, limitations, and cultural values are being rewritten in real time. In this fragmented landscape, many seek the connection we’ve lost, and it’s easy to be pulled into tribalist ideologies and narratives that stoke division.

What we need instead is a true sense of tribe: community rooted in shared values, inspiration, support, connection, and the belief that there’s a better way to live.

Does this resonate with you?

Join Us

New Renaissance Tribe is free to subscribe. By joining now, you’ll help shape the direction of this evolving community for creatives, entrepreneurs, explorers, and anyone seeking a life of beauty, freedom, and purpose.

⇣ Subscribe free & join us

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Let’s create a new renaissance together, and reclaim a life of beauty, meaning, creativity, connection, and freedom.

Mandy

P.S. If you know someone else who might feel connected to this movement, I’d be grateful if you’d share this with them.

Every time I've explored a new country, a version of myself has died. This isn't metaphorical—I mean it quite literally.

So, I guess that means I’ve died about 80 times (and counting).

The woman who rode colorful jeepneys through Manila's chaotic streets exists no more. The one who explored misty hills, stone towns, and tea rooms across the Scottish lowlands is just an echo.

From Bangkok to Barcelona, Tokyo to Tromsø, and Melbourne to Montreal, I’ve shed old selves and grown new ones with each journey.

What's left is somehow both more and less than what I started with: a mosaic soul assembled from fragments—one that feels increasingly, well, unrelatable.

I’ve existed perpetually in between, never fully at home abroad, nor completely belonging when I return to my own country. "Home" has become less a place and more a collection of moments, people, and sensations scattered across continents.

This is the reality for anyone who truly immerses themselves in new worlds.

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The Escapist Myth

Some believe travel is merely for restless, unsatisfied spirits, for those who cannot find contentment where they are (it's easy to dismiss what you haven't experienced yourself).

But I've found the opposite to be true.

The most profound journeys aren't attempts to escape from an unsatisfying life—they're extensions of a very curious one.

And curiosity is a very special part of human nature. It's what leads to art, expression, science, and knowledge—the beautiful human impulse that transforms both the unknown into understanding and the familiar into something extraordinary.

(They say curiosity killed the cat, but they rarely mention how it gave the cat nine lives worth of adventures first.)

In truth, it’s not really about running away from home (although some people certainly do that); it’s about discovering how many places can teach you to feel at home in yourself.

Identity's Many Facets

The traveler who experiences a foreign culture inevitably changes. Each place we inhabit transforms us, challenging what we once knew for certain and revealing new ways of being that we could never have imagined.

When asked where I'm from and who I am, I often hesitate. Which version should I present?

The one who learned to slow down for the Italian passeggiata, taming my hurried American pace to savor the art of leisurely Sunday strolls? The one who takes comfort in dark Scottish humor during life's absurdities? The one who found community with locals through worn-out karaoke machines in Manila's corner cantinas?

Or, the one who grew up playing in the streets like any other normal kid in suburban Minnesota?

There's a peculiar kind of loneliness in this—not just the occasional ache of isolation, but the understanding that we no longer fully belong anywhere. Thus, we find ourselves perpetually outside, watching but never quite fitting into the lives that others consider “normal”.

And yet, few committed travelers would trade this fragmented existence for perfect singular wholeness.

There's something sacred in these transformations. Each aspect of ourselves left behind makes room for something new—something we couldn't have imagined before travel broke apart and reassembled the very essence of our being.

This is the mosaic soul of the traveler: Beautiful not despite its fractures, but because of them.

Transformational Geography

Transformation tends to be a messy, complicated process.

Each journey strips away layers of self you once believed were immutable: default reactions, your inherited assumptions, the invisible cultural scripts that once guided you.

Some of our most deeply held beliefs are invisible—that is, until they collide with a different reality.

Unlearning Convenience: Pausing in a World of Instant Everything

Coming from a country of 24-hour convenience stores, endless flavor options, bizarre fusion cuisines, and specialized products designed for needs I didn't even know I had (if you've ever fallen into a late-night QVC rabbit hole, you know exactly what I'm talking about), I was completely unprepared for how differently other cultures approach time and availability.

Probably the most famous cultural difference between North America and the Mediterranean is how time follows a different logic—one shaped by millennia of agricultural rhythms, maritime traditions, and social interconnectedness.

I first understood this in Portugal, where (like Spain and Italy) the afternoon pause is a sacred social ritual. In small towns, the world literally stops somewhere between 2 and 5 pm. Shops close, streets empty, and an entire cultural ecosystem pauses to breathe.

Initially confused by this, over time I discovered a certain liberation in not having my every impulse instantly gratified.

It was rewiring my brain.

I was learning to sit with desire, and understand that not every whim needs immediate satisfaction, and not every problem requires an immediate solution.

I fell in love with many aspects of slow living.

After a collective four years immersed in these cultures, I found myself returning to the United States with a visceral unease, suddenly aware of the phantom urgency and frenetic emptiness that had once felt so normal to me.

But it wasn't just the Mediterranean; the Philippines taught me a few lessons in patience and tolerance as well.

From being crammed into jeepneys and sweating in the suffocating heat, to being constantly stared at as the obvious foreigner, discomfort was a great teacher.

I watched locals endure hours-long journeys just to visit a doctor who might not show up, navigate systems that seemed designed to test human patience, and maintain dignity in conditions that would break most privileged travelers.

This gave me an increased sense of gratitude and flexibility when it came to the comforts of home. Luxuries I'd previously complained about—a slow internet connection, a slightly uncomfortable chair—now seemed laughable in the face of the daily challenges I'd witnessed.

None of this is to say there’s something wrong with having a high standard of living (even now, a painfully slow WiFi connection can still test my patience). Everything is relative.

But in moments like these, it becomes obvious that transformation is not just about learning other cultures; it’s about unlearning our own (at least, to some degree).

The process reshapes how we experience time, comfort, and what we consider necessary in life.

Beyond Productivity: Learning to Savor Life

In Italy, I encountered a fundamentally different relationship with pleasure that challenged my American orientation toward efficiency and productivity.

At first, I was bewildered by the reverence given to seemingly simple experiences. A two-hour lunch seemed excessive. The meticulous attention to ingredients struck me as unnecessary perfectionism—pretentious even!

I was looking through the narrow lens of efficiency: Couldn't they just eat something quick and move on to more important tasks? Wasn't all this focus on food and leisure time wasteful?

But as weeks turned to months, I started to recognize the poverty in my perspective.

What I had labeled as "efficiency" was actually a diminished capacity to experience pleasure—a willingness to trade quality of experience for quantity.

The Italian approach to pleasure demanded presence, which meant that I had to unlearn the habit of mentally jumping ahead to the next task, the next goal, the next to-do list item. I had to break the belief that value came primarily from productivity.

(I've written more about the challenges of presence and how to overcome them in a separate post you might find interesting.)

Eventually I grew to love extended dinners without checking the time, slowing my pace for leisurely walks through the city center, and savoring every detailed step when cooking Italian recipes. In the process of learning Italian culture, I'd recovered my capacity for joy and deep satisfaction from simple things that my old cultural conditioning had slowly eroded.

I discovered a whole new value when it came to my concept of a well-lived life.

Make no mistake: I still appreciate efficiency and productivity (and many other things that make American culture unique). In fact, discovering Amazon lockers after struggling with cumbersome package delivery in Italy felt like a small miracle.

I’ll pass on the torturous bureaucracy, too.

And I did experience a genuine sense of relief when I returned to the US, once again surrounded by the company of fellow dreamers, go-getters, and people with “can do” attitudes.

But travel gave me the gift of perspective: Without experiencing these different cultural approaches, I would not have been able to recognize which elements of my own culture were choices rather than universal truths.

Unlearning Blind Optimism: The Scottish Perspective

In a culture where gray skies reign and harsh history has shaped the national character, I got to know a perspective that challenged my concept of optimism and positivity.

Scotland is known for its acerbic humor—something that, at times, seems more about survival than just entertainment. In addition to being absolutely hilarious, my Scottish friends had no issues brazenly confronting life's difficulties with this dark, self-deprecating humor.

What might sound like cynicism or pessimism to the untrained ear, I came to recognize as emotional honesty.

(No doubt there are plenty of people in all countries that fall into the ‘cynical’ category.)

As an American, I do think there’s merit to having a degree of delusional self-belief—isn’t that what the American dream is all about?

But the reality is that confidence alone can’t overcome every obstacle. There is such a thing as toxic positivity, and it can be just as damaging as toxic negativity, with the capacity to invalidate real human experiences.

You know, those statements like "Everything happens for a reason," "Stay positive," and "Good vibes only."

With these phrases, well-meaning people who are simply uncomfortable with negative emotions hope to offer comfort in the only way they know how. They might even call themselves "optimists", which isn’t inherently a bad thing, however:

Sometimes, what we call "optimism" turns out to be a comfort blanket of willful self-deception.

The Scottish gift was the permission to face reality and connect with others through shared acknowledgment that life isn’t always positive, and pretending things are better than they are isn't optimism—it's avoidance.

So, perhaps finding humor in darkness is really just an authentic form of hope. Maybe confronting pain doesn’t mean surrendering to it.

Dark humor has become part of my mosaic, and it has led to more sincere connections and depth of experience. Paradoxically, it has also given me more strength than forced brightness or relentless positivity ever could.

…and the Mosaic Begins to Form

As all of these realizations accumulate, each cultural collision becomes another fragment in our mosaic soul. The best part?

It’s a choice.

We get to select which pieces to integrate, creating an identity no longer bound to one place but composed of fragments from many. The resulting mosaic may never fit perfectly anywhere, but carries the richness of everywhere.

And that's when we truly find our way home.

Coming Home to Yourself

For many of us, the true purpose of travel isn't actually what most people assume. What we're seeking through our journeys isn't something external that exists in distant places, but rather something internal that we already possess but haven't yet recognized.

The mosaic that forms isn't foreign to who we were; it's the fullest expression of who we could become.

The sacred journey of breaking apart and reassembling leads us closer to a true home—a home not limited by geography, but expanded by experience. A home that exists within us, composed of all the places that have taught us something about ourselves and the world.

Ironically, it was only after experiencing different ways of living that I could truly appreciate what I had taken for granted in the United States. The efficiency, openness, and bold, entrepreneurial spirit—these aren't just cultural quirks but strengths I value with newfound clarity.

Travel didn't diminish my appreciation for where I came from; it deepened it by giving me the perspective to see its unique virtues rather than merely accepting them as the default.

Perhaps this is why the journey was never just about going to other places. The point was always returning (wherever home turned out to be) with eyes newly opened, perspectives broadened, tastes acquired, and self transformed.

My conclusion? We travel outward to ultimately journey inward.

Mainstream outsides, rogue insides.

When a friend first described me this way, the phrase struck a chord so deep I couldn't shake it.

In those four words, she captured something I had felt but couldn't articulate about my journey as a musician—and, really, as a creative human being navigating this increasingly confusing world.

I've never had tattoos or much in the way of piercings. I don't usually wear eccentric clothes or quirky hats. I don't "look the part" of what many expect from a musician (a memorable one, anyway). And for years, I felt the weight of those expectations—the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) questioning glances when I would mention my profession.

The countless times I felt invisible within circles of musicians, artists, and ‘alternative’ people. The unspoken "Really? You?"

As a saxophonist who eventually found her way as a vocalist in electronic and dance music, I haven’t really matched people's preconceptions of either role. Plus, being a versatile, curious person led me to try on many different hats, metaphorically speaking.

I was never content to stay in just one lane.

But no matter how I've presented myself externally, within me lives a spirit that has always charted its own course, often in directions that surprised even me. That internal compass has proven far more reliable than any external validation.

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The Authenticity Paradox

We live in an age where the pressure and temptation to craft a perfect image has never been greater, yet there seems to be a growing hunger for authenticity at the same time.

What’s the deal with that?

There’s no denying it: We are navigating new digital landscapes where reality itself feels increasingly malleable, with artificial intelligence, deep fakes, filters, and curated personas blurring the lines between genuine and manufactured.

So, it makes sense that the courage to simply be yourself could actually be revolutionary.

Authenticity isn't about blindly rebelling against expectations, though. It's really about having the courage to listen to your own voice when everyone else is telling you who you should be. It’s the resolute commitment to being you, regardless of external factors. And that is something that requires continuous effort in a world that profits off of your insecurities.

Finding My Voice

My journey began conventionally enough with studying at Indiana University's Jacobs School of Music. The education was traditional, rigorous, and invaluable, giving me a foundation that supports all of my creative work to this day.

But while I was gaining technical proficiency and theoretical knowledge, something inside me was always a little bit restless.

Deep down, there was a singer and storyteller that I hadn't yet acknowledged. I had no background in vocal performance, no childhood in choir, no experience as a front woman. I had never written a song—at least not one with lyrics.

But there was a quiet voice inside saying: I’m here. There’s more. Please listen.

For years, I pushed that voice aside. After all, I was a musician—part of the band, in the background, playing a supporting role most of the time. That was my identity, my training, my place in the musical world. Stepping away from it felt not just scary; it felt somehow inauthentic, as though I was trying to be something I simply wasn’t, or like I was abandoning what I “should” be.

The irony, of course, is that by clinging to that limited definition of myself, I was actually denying my authentic musical identity.

Low Stakes, High Growth

My breakthrough came in the unlikeliest of venues: cruise ships. From 2010 to 2014, I worked as a saxophonist on various cruise lines, playing in bands and entertaining guests.

It was there, in performing for crowds more interested in their cocktails than critical listening, that I found the perfect low-pressure environment to experiment.

The stakes couldn't have been lower. Most passengers were there to have a good time, often several drinks in, caring more about the energy of the performance than technical perfection. In this space, I could try out singing with the band—tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence.

I could test what it felt like to be a front woman, to connect directly with an audience rather than being in the background.

I’ll tell you this: Even for a seasoned performer, being center stage can be terrifying. I was scared, but I did it anyway—as much as I could, whenever I could. Admittedly, I stepped on some toes and ruffled some feathers along the way, managing to annoy a few people who were actually hired as professional singers (obviously I wasn’t).

I learned through all this that people don’t like boldness all that much unless it benefits them, but they do really like giving you their opinions—just like the Hungarian dancer on my crew who, after one set, told me bluntly (and very confidently), "Singing isn't for you. Stick to the saxophone."

Had I been seeking external validation, that comment might have sent me retreating back to the safety of what I knew. But by then, I had connected with something more important: the joy and fulfillment that came from developing the strength to express my complete musical self, regardless of how it looked from the outside.

I constantly pushed myself, experimenting and throwing myself into the fire, far outside my comfort zone. I crashed and burned a few times, felt constant anxiety, but continued.

This period also coincided with enough life experience (and yes, heartbreak) that songwriting suddenly began to flow naturally. Words and melodies that had been locked inside started finding their way out, like they'd been waiting all along for permission to exist.

It felt inevitable.

Some of my most precious memories are from late nights after the sets were finished. When the lounges emptied and the passengers retreated to their cabins, I would find myself at the backstage piano in the bow of the ship, with nobody around. In those quiet hours, with only the gentle rocking of the ship for company, I'd write piano melodies, motifs, and fragments of song ideas, soothing my loneliness.

I remember tinkering on the keys as the velvet stage curtains swayed to the sound of a creaking hull and crashing waves—my private creative ritual, complete with the most atmospheric accompaniment.

Later in my cabin, I'd listen to the recordings I'd taken, ideas swirling in my head as I drifted off to sleep.

A Very Unglamorous Path to Progress

Between these months-long cruise ship contracts, I found myself at karaoke bars, practicing songs I wanted to master. I sometimes felt embarrassed: Was I even a "real singer" if I was doing karaoke?

Whatever, I’d tell myself. Gotta improve somehow.

I was eventually offered a gig running karaoke shows at some bars in Minneapolis. Over many months, I’d try out songs, fail spectacularly at some, nail others, and return home in the early morning hours, when I’d work on my own songs to wind down before finally sleeping.

(This was not a particularly healthy routine.)

By the time my cruise ship chapter was over, I had made a pivotal decision: I would treat myself as a singer and songwriter, no matter what anybody said. It didn't matter if I wasn't as good as I wanted to be yet, or if I wasn't performing often enough to feel like a "legitimate professional."

I was a singer and a songwriter, and that was that.

This simple choice—to claim my identity regardless of external validation—became the foundation for everything that followed. It wasn't about waiting until I felt 'ready' or until others recognized me. It was about taking ownership of my authentic self first, and letting the external world catch up.

I simply persisted.

From Karaoke Nights to Global Recognition

After running karaoke shows for a while and searching everywhere for opportunities, I connected with a business owner in the U.K. who was looking for singers to create vocal samples. You know, the short vocal snippets you hear in dance music, or those memorable hooks that populate otherwise instrumental tracks.

It was the perfect entry point into the recording industry (specifically, dance music) and a great opportunity to build credibility while having fun in the process. So, I started releasing vocal sample packs.

This strategic move got my name circulating globally, enabling me to claim authority in a surprisingly short amount of time. People began using my vocals all over the world, including renowned artists like Armin van Buuren. My voice was appearing on popular radio shows like A State of Trance, Above & Beyond's Group Therapy, and at major dance music festivals like EDC, Ultra Music Festival, and Dreamstate.

Suddenly, I was a vocalist—professionally. Nobody could argue with that.

Over the next few years, I kept fine-tuning my craft through constant repetition, building vocal and writing skills like muscle. Despite mixed feedback—both criticism from strangers and touching messages about how my work inspired listeners—I found the reach and impact exhilarating.

Yet something was missing.

Despite this new level of what I perceived to be 'success', I wasn't releasing complete original songs. Even my collaborative work remained fragmented—short phrases, single verses, hooks—never a full song I could call my own.

A turning point came in 2022, when I decided to make a move and contact an artist I had listened to and admired for years: Satin Jackets. No stranger to rejection, I didn't expect to hear back. But to my surprise, he responded and expressed interest in working together on an original track.

Since then, I've written and released two songs (and their remixes) with him, which has opened doors to a whole new level of audience and artistic growth. To date, those songs have garnered over 3 million streams.

It makes me wonder what that Hungarian dancer is up to these days.

The Liberation of Incongruence

There's a peculiar freedom in embracing the incongruence between how others perceive you and who you know yourself to be. When you stop trying to align your outside with others' expectations, you create a lot of space for your authentic self to emerge.

"The fastest way to succeed is to look as if you're playing by somebody else's rules, while quietly playing by your own."
Michael Korda

This philosophy has unconsciously guided my approach. Not because I'm trying to deceive anyone, but because I've noticed how fixated people can be on whether you've followed the conventional path. So, there’s a certain delight in bypassing bureaucracy, creating solutions on your own terms, and stepping outside hierarchical boundaries.

At least, if you’re like me.

I didn’t get formal training for voice. I waited for no gatekeeper, or blessing, or approval. I simply assumed the role I wanted, no matter how much naysaying ensued. But it wasn’t easy, and I feel for other creative people who are searching to reinvent themselves, or find parts of themselves that have laid dormant.

Please remember this: Your creative identity isn't fixed. It's fluid, expansive, and entirely yours to reshape. The greatest limitation is often your willingness to reimagine yourself.

There's freedom that comes with being visually adaptable, while remaining creatively authentic. So, if you’re rather mainstream-looking like me, own it. Trying too hard to look ‘artistic’ ends up being its own kind of conformity, anyway.

Regardless of outsides, embracing my "rogue inside"—that part of me that refused to be confined by training or expectation—led me to music I never would have created otherwise. Songs that wouldn't exist. Performances that wouldn't have happened. Connections I wouldn't have made.

I’m not going to say that presentation doesn’t matter, but at the end of the day, your inner compass is going to guide you toward your best and most authentic expression.

The Era of Radical Authenticity

As we move deeper into an age where artificial and augmented realities become increasingly sophisticated, real human expression is more important than ever. In fact, the ability to recognize and value what's real, in ourselves and others, may be one of the most important skills we can develop.

I’m not suggesting that we reject technology or progress, but rather, maintain our humanity within it.

Buried in the algorithms and expectations are our complex, contradictory, and gloriously unpredictable beings.

So, whether your outsides are mainstream or not, take this as an invitation to go rogue—an invitation to question the masks we wear, to listen to the quiet voices inside that point us toward our truest expression, and to have the courage to follow them even when they lead us in unexpected directions.

Because in a world increasingly filled with perfect illusions, your authentic self—contradictions, incongruences, and all—is a precious gift.

It’s never been more difficult to be present. Our attention is constantly pulled in a dozen directions—notifications, breaking news, endless content streams, the hum of a world that never seems to quiet down.

Even in our moments of rest, distraction lurks, keeping us from fully sinking into the here and now.

I’ve personally struggled with this my whole life. As a creative person, being highly attuned to my environment can be both a gift and a challenge. In the right setting, I can become obsessively focused and completely absorbed in my work—but in other situations, that same sensitivity makes me highly distractible, my attention constantly shifting and fracturing.

It’s a constant push and pull.

No matter how many overused self-help slogans we hear, presence isn’t something we can just flip on like a switch. It takes effort, practice, and sometimes, structure.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the power of rituals—tiny, sacred acts that have the power to slow time and make life feel more artful.

Rituals and small practices create pockets of stillness, moments where life softens and deepens—and as someone who craves depth of experience and relief from an increasingly anxious, chaotic world, I’ve come to depend on them.

Maybe, just maybe, they hold the key to that elusive sense of presence that internet yoga moms insist is merely a choice.

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What Are Rituals, Really?

Rituals are often thought of as grand or ceremonial, but in reality, they can be small, personal acts that carry meaning.

Ritual, Routine, or Habit?

Rituals, routines, and habits are often used interchangeably, but they’re not quite the same. The key difference lies in intention.

Habits are automatic behaviors—things we do without much thought, like brushing your teeth or instinctively checking your phone in the morning. They’re built through repetition and don’t necessarily carry meaning.

Routines are structured sets of actions, often done in a specific order. They help create consistency, like a morning workout or a bedtime wind-down. While routines can be meaningful, they’re often practical—ways to get things done efficiently.

Rituals, however, transform the ordinary into something meaningful. They are acts infused with presence and intention. Making coffee can be a habit, but preparing it slowly, savoring the aroma, and fully experiencing the moment turns it into a ritual.

Habits and routines can become rituals when approached with mindfulness, but rituals aren’t necessarily habits or routines—they’re about presence, not just repetition.

Rituals ground us in the present, offering a sense of connection—to ourselves, others, or something greater. For me, rituals are something to return to in any moment, whenever I need stillness and presence the most.

If you're looking for inspiration, here are a few of my favorite rituals.

Simple Rituals for Stillness

These are small, sensory-rich rituals that bring a sense of calm and presence—meditations, in my book.

Making Coffee (or Tea) with Love

I’ll admit: Living in Italy for several years changed me. I don’t know how I ever lived without the Italian moka pot before, and my old coffee habits are history.

Using the moka is a rhythmic process that engages touch, scent, and sound. Rinsing it (cleaning it with soap is basically illegal in Italy), filling the bottom chamber with water, scooping the grounds and leveling them, twisting it all together, and waiting for that first bubbling whisper—it feels downright artistic.

But even if you don’t use a moka, bringing a little extra care and intention to preparing your coffee or tea can be a grounding ritual.

Morning Reading Sessions

I don’t know about you, but I rarely read at night. Instead, I love to savor a few chapters first thing in the morning (with my coffee). At the very least, this makes me feel like I started my day with something peaceful and meaningful before dealing with life’s demands and responsibilities.

Replacing Noise with Calming Audio

I tend to get overwhelmed easily by too much sensory input—especially sound. Noise-canceling headphones are a lifesaver, and binaural beats help me shift into relaxation, ease anxiety, or simply tune out the world when I need to.

I usually turn to one of the Binaural Beats playlists on Spotify, but I also love Weightless by Marconi Union—a track designed with sound therapists and known as ‘the world’s most relaxing song’.

Playful and Quirky Rituals

Rituals don’t have to be serious—they can be lighthearted and fun, too.

Smiling at Dogs

I can’t help it at this point—I always smile at dogs when I see them. It’s an instinct, and a little moment of shared joy. Dogs exist so effortlessly in the present, and for a split second, locking eyes with one feels like a reminder to do the same.

It’s a fleeting exchange, yet somehow, it slows time and sharpens the colors of the day.

Taking Photos of Your Feet (No, Not Like That)

There have been various times in different countries that I’ve found myself floating blissfully in a body of water (one of my favorite activities). In those moments, I’ve noticed my feet against the backdrop and wished that I could capture the euphoric feeling in a photograph.

A handful of times, I have (much easier in a pool than the middle of the sea).

While it most definitely sounds silly, it’s a small act of presence—a visual reminder: I’m alive, I was here, this was real, and it was beautiful.

Creating Memes in Art Museums

I’m a big fan of the arts and love spending time in museums—but my sense of humor often takes over. It’s become a ritual of mine to turn classic artwork into memes whenever I visit.

Rituals to Romanticize the Everyday

Rituals that transform ordinary moments into something beautiful.

Stopping to Photograph (and Smell) the Flowers

Flowers are everywhere, inviting us to pause, breathe, and experience a moment of awe. For years, I’ve made a ritual out of photographing them wherever I go. What makes it feel sacred isn’t just the act of taking a photo—it’s the noticing. The colors, the delicate details, and the lighting.

Cooking Romantically

Preparing a meal can be a beautiful ritual. I love slowing down and savoring the process, playing some music, pouring a glass of wine, and plating the food with care. All of this turns cooking into an act of love—whether it’s for myself or for others.

Bringing Your Own LED Lights

Maybe I’m a bit over-zealous about LEDs, but in my experience, they can transform even the most simple space into a warm, inviting sanctuary.

Whether it’s fairy lights in a hotel room or a portable mood lamp in an Airbnb, lighting shifts the energy of a place, heightening the experience.

Finding Stillness and Depth in a Restless World

Rituals may not quiet the chaos of the world around us, but they can change how we experience it—bringing us peace, pulling us into the present, and deepening the colors of our days.

Whether it’s the warmth of a morning coffee ritual, the quiet magic of pausing to photograph a flower, or the simple joy of smiling at a dog, these small acts remind us to be here—fully, intentionally, and with a little more wonder.

Maybe presence isn’t something we need to force, but something we nurture, one ritual at a time.

One of the greatest joys of travel is the freedom it brings: the open road, new landscapes, and the thrill of discovery. But what’s often left unspoken is what we lose along the way.

For those of us who live a life in motion—frequent travelers, digital nomads, creative wanderers—community can become an afterthought.

We say goodbye more than we say hello. We form deep but fleeting connections, only to move on before they can fully root. And while we collect experiences, we risk losing the steady presence of people who truly see us.

And for creative people, that loss is even more profound. Community isn’t just about companionship; it’s about finding those who understand our unconventional paths, who fuel our inspiration, and who push us to grow. Without that, it’s easy to feel unmoored, drifting between beautiful places but missing the deeper sense of belonging that keeps us grounded.

Solitude can be wonderful—essential, even. I’ve been my most creative and inspired while on planes, or trains, or during extended periods of alone time. But my inner explorer is always at odds with my deep need for meaningful connection.

Maybe you feel the same.

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The Challenge of Connection in a Nomadic Life

Unlike traditional communities where proximity fosters relationships, nomadic life demands something different: intentionality. It’s not enough to assume community will form organically—we have to actively create it.

Without that effort, we can end up feeling untethered, despite being surrounded by beauty and adventure.

I’ve felt this many times firsthand. I’ve met incredible people all over the world, but sustaining those connections long-term has been its own challenge. I make the effort to stay connected digitally—checking in with friends, sending voice notes, and scheduling calls—but people are busy (and so am I).

Plus, for those of us who don’t want to spend our days chatting online, striking a balance between deep connections and ambitious goals can feel especially challenging.

Whenever I can, I plan my travels around reconnecting with international friends. It’s always worth it, but trying to fit too many reunions into a single trip can be exhausting.

At the same time, there’s something different about friendships that exist primarily online versus those nurtured in person. No matter how many messages we exchange, some connections only feel real when shared face-to-face.

Offline, maintaining friendships usually feels more natural. You can walk down to a café, share an hour with a friend, and still move on with your day. But when your lifestyle is fluid and your friends are scattered across the world, that kind of effortless connection is harder to come by.

And I know I’m not alone.

So, what can be done? How do we build a sense of community when our lives don’t fit within the usual structures? How do we create lasting, meaningful relationships when we’re always on the move?

More importantly, how do we make sure that in chasing freedom, we don’t sacrifice the deep connections that give our lives meaning?

Cultivating Community as a Nomad: Practical Tips

Building and maintaining meaningful connections while living a nomadic life requires intentional effort. Here are some ways to create a sense of belonging, no matter where you are:

1. Prioritize Deep Connections Over Constant Networking

It’s easy to meet new people while traveling, but real community isn’t just about accumulating contacts—it’s about fostering deeper relationships. Instead of spreading yourself thin, focus on nurturing a few meaningful friendships.

• Stay in touch regularly, even with a simple voice note or occasional video call.

• When possible, plan reunions in places you love or cross paths intentionally.

• Consider slow travel to spend more time in one place and truly integrate into a local or digital community.

2. Engage with Local Communities to Create a Sense of Home

It’s easy to stay within the familiar bubble of fellow travelers, but some of the most meaningful connections come from engaging with locals. Building these relationships can transform a destination from a temporary stop into a place of belonging.

• Take the time to find your favorite spots—cafés, markets, local shops—and return to them regularly. Familiarity creates connection.

• Learn a few words of the local language, even just greetings, to show respect and open the door to deeper conversations.

• Attend cultural events, support local businesses, and participate in neighborhood gatherings to experience the rhythm of daily life.

By weaving yourself into the fabric of a place, even briefly, you create a sense of home wherever you go.

3. Be Intentional About Building Your Own Community

Whether you’re staying somewhere for a few weeks or a few months, being proactive makes all the difference in finding meaningful connections.

• Join co-working spaces or creative hubs where like-minded people naturally gather.

• Seek out niche meetups, hobby groups, or skill-sharing events that align with your interests, rather than broad, general social gatherings.

• If you prefer online spaces, replace endless scrolling with engaging meaningfully in small, curated communities.

4. Create Rituals That Keep You Connected

Nomadic life can feel unpredictable, but small habits can ground you in community, even from a distance.

• Schedule a regular call with close friends or family each month.

• Join a group that meets regularly in person (book clubs, mastermind groups, artist collectives).

• Establish personal rituals that remind you of your purpose and help you stay connected, even if it's as simple as sending postcards from every place you visit, sharing themed posts on social media, or sending out regular email updates to family and friends.

5. Invest in a ‘Home Base’ Community

Even if you don’t live in one place year-round, having a core community—a “home base” of people you stay connected with—can create a sense of stability. This could be a city you return to frequently, a group of fellow travelers who check in regularly, or an intentional online space.

The goal is to cultivate a sense of belonging, no matter where you are physically.

Consider:

• A local anchor point. If you have a favorite café, co-working space, or even a specific neighborhood where you feel at home, returning to familiar places can help create a sense of belonging—even as the people around you change.

• A core group of friends. Instead of relying on random encounters, keeping a small, close-knit circle of people you intentionally stay in touch with (even if they’re also nomadic) can create a steady sense of community.

• A structured way to stay connected. Whether it’s a private group chat, a monthly virtual meetup, or a shared project, having a structured reason to reconnect makes maintaining relationships easier.

6. Seek Out Values-Aligned Spaces

Beyond socializing, community is about shared values and purpose. Finding (or creating) spaces where people align on creativity, growth, and meaningful living makes connection effortless.

I created New Renaissance Tribe because I needed it myself. Like the kindred spirits in my life (other nomads, creatives, and seekers), I’ve always longed for a sense of belonging, even while moving from place to place.

That’s why I built this space—for those of us who strive to live artfully, travel with intention, and embrace everyday magic. It’s a community meant to inspire, connect, and remind us that we’re not alone in our pursuit of a meaningful, creative life.

✨ If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to be part of it. Subscribe to New Renaissance Tribe on Substack for reflections, ideas, and conversations that keep us connected—no matter where we are.

Final Thoughts: Community as an Anchor

Travel gives us the world—new perspectives, inspiration, and experiences we might never have found otherwise. But no matter how far we roam, the need for belonging remains.

Community isn’t just about proximity; it’s about shared meaning, support, and a sense of being truly seen.

For nomads, creatives, and seekers, building that kind of community takes effort, but it’s worth it. With intention, we can create spaces—both online and offline—where connection thrives.

We can build friendships that last beyond fleeting encounters. We can find our people, even in a life of motion.

Join the conversation: What are your biggest concerns when it comes to staying connected while traveling? Do you have any tips for cultivating community as a nomad? I’d love to hear them.

Besides my budding artistic interests in cinematography and storytelling, I was drawn to the mystery of these films, each one a window into exotic philosophies, ways of life, and far-away worlds I longed to explore. But Amélie was something else entirely, bringing together several profound elements that greatly influenced me.

There was the soundtrack, of course. But that deserves its own post.

As someone whose natural exuberance is balanced by moments of deep reflection, I was romanced by Amélie's uniquely introverted-yet-bold character. I actually think that her charming qualities and the lessons of the film inspired a whole new level of introspection for 16-year-old me.

But one of the things that moved me most was her unshakeable self-knowledge—Amélie knew exactly what delighted her, from the satisfying crack of a caramelized crème brûlée to skipping stones across the Canal Saint-Martin.

She never questioned whether her pleasures were too small or her interests too strange. She simply was who she was, and she indulged in it fully.

I found this sense of courage and depth of meaning infectious. How beautiful could the world be if we all approached life this way?

I began channeling this inspiration into a variety of creative pursuits, including my own black and white short film Francesco, a whimsical tale where the heartbroken main character finds unexpected love with a teddy bear.

The bear, for what it's worth, was an excellent listener and never once complained about Francesco's emotional baggage.

Jokes aside, even then I was searching for any way I could create joy and beauty—something that has been my saving grace again and again.

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Paris Calling

Despite being a seasoned world traveler (80 countries and counting), I had somehow never made it to Paris. But in 2023, the end of a traumatic relationship had left me worn out and unrecognizable to myself.

I needed to rediscover my romantic nature, to fall in love with myself again. So, I decided to book a three-day trip to Paris, not to escape, but to remember who I was.

From the moment I arrived, I set the tone for how I wanted to move through this city: with intention and artistic grace.

After checking into a small boutique hotel in Montmartre, I made my way to Chez Papa jazz club, where I enjoyed a candlelit table for one, complete with a glass of Bordeaux and one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

No phone to distract me, no conversation to maintain. Just the art of being present.

Many people shy away from dining alone, but I've always found solitary meals to be very special moments. They invite creativity, and give us a chance to notice the subtle details that conversation might otherwise eclipse.

After dinner seemed like the perfect opportunity to see the Eiffel tower at night. So, I grabbed a taxi and headed over there, arriving just in time to see the hourly light show—a sparkling hello from this iconic piece of Paris.

As I explored the full extent of the tower (in heels, no less) and marveled at its magnificence, I smiled to myself through windswept hair: Paris is overrated, they said.

I took in the view of the city from the top: the maze of zinc rooftops stretching to the horizon, chimneys puffing gentle clouds into the twilight sky, the Seine cutting its graceful ribbon through it all. Any city can be ordinary if you let it—but standing there, I knew I'd never understand how anyone could find Paris anything less than magical.

A Cinephile in Montmartre

The next morning, I wandered through Montmartre to Café des Deux Moulins (the Two Windmills Cafe), where Amélie worked in the film. No doubt I must have looked like quite the tourist, examining every recognizable detail that had been painted in my mind for over 20 years.

I didn’t care.

The coffee, as it turned out, was some of the worst I've ever had—a comical and somehow imperfectly perfect discovery for my pilgrimage. Undeterred, I moved on to sweeter things, treating myself to an absolutely gorgeous brioche before passing by the Moulin Rouge (yet another symbol of my early artistic inspirations).

From there, I made my way up to Sacré-Cœur, the gleaming white basilica that crowns Montmartre. Fresh air, sunshine, and breathtaking views surrounded me as I looked out on the city and thought about the scene where Amélie leaves mysterious clues for her love interest Nino, leading him on a playful treasure hunt through the crowds on these very steps.

In my own small tribute to Amélie's spirit of playfulness, I made my way down to the iconic 18th century carousel at the base of the steps, bought a ticket, and claimed a sturdy-looking horse, finding myself the only adult among a chorus of children.

There was something quite fitting about this.

After a quick lunch and a kir royale at a nearby cafe, I set out on an epic walk through the city. Starting down the Champs-Élysées, I eventually wound my way back to Champ de Mars park and briefly rested in the grass before boarding a sunset river cruise down the Seine.

As evening settled over Paris, I continued walking along the river until I stumbled upon a vibrant barge-turned-bar. Drawn in by the multicolored neon lights (I’m a sucker for those), I found myself entering what felt like a secret party.

I found a perch by the window and watched the lights shimmer on the Seine, reflecting on the day. If the energy is rich, I will find it, I said to myself.

When I returned to Montmartre that night, I came across a karaoke bar (an opportunity I rarely turn down). Down in the basement, stone walls glowed under pink neon lights while young Parisians sang their way through French classics.

I soaked in their enthusiasm—music is the universal language, isn’t it—and then, gave them an energetic rendition of the theme song from Dirty Dancing, as they became my impromptu backup singers.

La vie est belle.

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Little Ceremonies

My final day in Paris became an exercise in curating and celebrating beauty. After seeking out an exquisite croissant, I had one priority in particular: Monet.

I had a feeling I’d be back in Paris soon enough, so I forewent the Louvre and decided to spend the morning at the Musée de l'Orangerie—which houses Monet’s Water Lilies murals, as well as a distinctive collection of other impressionist and post-impressionist works.

It felt like I was inside some kind of church. I reveled in this solitude, gazing at the art in front of me, while musing on nature's eternal dialogue with human creativity.

The true scale of these paintings is impressive, and their beauty is overwhelming. The rest of the museum was a delight as well.

Afterward, I went to a flower shop and asked for a small bouquet to carry around with me. The florist seemed surprised, but charmed—she understood me.

Earth laughs in flowers, wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson. “Haha,” said my bouquet, I guess.

As it started to rain, I moved to a sidewalk cafe. Here was my tableau: a glass of champagne and crème brûlée, my bouquet resting elegantly on the table, afternoon light playing across the scene. Soft rain, golden bubbles dancing.

Each moment a small ceremony in the art of living.

My good friend, baker and sourdough expert Mykola Nevrev had informed me about a must-visit boulangerie, so it was now mission baguette. As I finished my champagne and paid the waiter, gentle showers turned into a rainstorm.

Having forgotten my umbrella, I ended up running through the downpour until I found the bakery, securing one of the last baguettes of the day. Protecting my precious bread from the rain like a newborn baby, I headed back to Montmartre, drenched.

Nearing my hotel, I found a fromagerie, where I stopped in to select a piece of truffle brie and some thinly sliced ham—the final elements of a quaint late lunch (and photoshoot, apparently).

I arrived back to the hotel, opened the balcony doors, and laid my treasures on the bed in artistic fashion. I took some photos, had a few bites, and finally stretched out with a satisfied yawn.

Outside, pigeons danced across wrought iron railings, and a cool post-rain breeze played at my feet. With its overcast mist, the quiet expanse of the late afternoon beckoned. An epic nap followed.

I had another artful dinner later that evening. Then, I decided to pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge—if nothing else, just for the historical poetry of it all.

For some reason, they seated me in the front row, where I was able to fully admire the opulent velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and the lavish Belle Époque decor that seemed to breathe with the ghosts of Paris's most legendary cabaret.

Touristy? Yes. Entertaining? Yes. Worth it? Yes!

How appropriate that my whirlwind journey would end here, in this shrine to Parisian spectacle, having crafted my own love letter to the city, the universe, and myself.

To the Everyday Romantic

Life is rich with possibilities for romanticizing, though it rarely presents perfection on a silver platter. I’ve always told myself:

If you don’t see the beauty you seek, create it.

People often wait for magic to happen to them—for the perfect moment, the right person, the special occasion. But I've learned that sometimes, the most meaningful magic is the kind we create ourselves.

Intentional magic isn't about grand gestures or elaborate plans; sometimes it's as simple as making a reservation for one at a beautiful restaurant, or buying yourself flowers for no reason at all. Other times it means running through the rain for a perfect baguette or watching champagne bubbles dance while the world gets drenched around you.

There's a common misconception that self-romance is somehow selfish or indulgent. But I've found it to be quite the opposite—it's a form of self-preservation, a way of keeping your sense of wonder alive.

When you nurture your own capacity for finding beauty all around you, you become more capable of sharing it with others. We must learn to express our joy (or happiness, sense of meaning, or whatever else), even when we're alone.

Perhaps especially when we’re alone.

The real art lies in finding the balance: knowing when to orchestrate beautiful moments and when to let them unfold naturally. Yes, I deliberately chose the museum, the flowers, and the cafe, but I couldn't have planned finding the neon-washed bar along the Seine, or the young Parisians who sang along with me.

In the end, while we can’t curate everything, we can become our own Amélie—heightening our experiences and turning ordinary moments into magical ones. And sometimes, when life has dimmed our light, these small acts of intentional magic become more than just beautiful moments; they become breadcrumbs leading us back to ourselves.