🥳v. 50 — A Life, Rewritten in 50 Essays Subtitle: This is the 50th essay of Life, Created!

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ANNOUNCEMENT: On Monday, I’m launching something special. I haven’t created anything for women outside of corporate or brand work in a long time, mostly because I don’t work with folks directly anymore. So when I do, it’s because it truly matters—and this does. This is different. Just me. And a few of you. For three months. No awkward webinars, no performative urgency, just honest work and a short window to join if it feels like a fit. I hope you’ll come along. Stay tuned…

Now on to today’s essay…

Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.

Fifty! This is the 50th essay of Life, Created, and honestly, that feels worthy of a shit-ton of confetti (and maybe a cupcake or three). 🥳

When I sent the very first Life, Created essay last October, I had no idea if anyone would read it or if my mailing list even remembered who I was after years of silence and neglect. (To be clear, the neglect was mine, not yours.) Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely sure I remembered who I was either. Grief and disconnection have a way of slowly blurring the edges of who we used to be.

What I did know was that I needed to feel something again, and writing was the only way I knew to get there. Life, Created became a kind of digital diary, eventually moving to Substack, and turned into the one place I could tell the truth without trying to perfect it first.

Fifty essays later, I’m both surprised and proud. (Because honestly, I’m never this consistent.) What began as a quiet act of self-remembrance turned out to be the most important step in finding my way back home.

In v. 4, Child-Free and the Awkwardness of Belonging in the ‘Burbs, I realized that belonging doesn’t arrive in neat packaging. It begins when you stop pretending to fit into someone else’s version of normal. I started to rebuild community by saying out loud, “I don’t belong. And maybe that’s exactly why I belong here.” In hindsight, that moment became the spark that led to Dinner With Strangers, the gatherings we now host in our home, born from a hope to create connection without pretense.

There was also v. 9, Unfriended in Real Life, by far the most widely read essay from those early months, where I wrote publicly for the first time about the end of a 17-year friendship. It ended without warning or explanation, in the midst of my grief after losing my mom and nephew. Her shutting me out with no conversation was another loss, one that I couldn’t easily define. More than anything, it rattled my sense of who I was in the world. Eventually, I realized this loss was never mine to carry. It was hers. After a lot of soul-searching, I got very clear that my integrity and who I am is no longer defined by who is, or is not, a part of my life. A hard but necessary lesson.

In v. 23, The Exhausting Game of Being 'Nice', I wrote about how, after so much loss, I found myself being overly nice: afraid, I suppose, of losing anyone else. I realized that softening my words to protect someone else’s feelings often meant erasing what was actually mattered. Honesty is not unkind. And sometimes a clear “no” holds more care than a half-hearted “maybe.”

In v. 26, Feast, Famine, and the Mindf*ck of Creative Entrepreneurship, I wrote about the unpredictability of building a creative life with no roadmap, no safety net, and no boss to tell you when you’ve done a “great job.” Some days overflow with opportunity, and others are so quiet I wonder if everyone has forgotten I exist. That quiet felt especially heavy in the years after I left a well-paid job in fashion to create something different. For a long time, I carried guilt for those slow seasons. Eventually, I understood that guilt was learned—and I could unlearn it. The nontraditional life I’ve built works because I’ve defined it for myself. And if I could walk away from certainty to build something truer, maybe you can too.

In v. 30, The Beauty and Heartbreak of Moving Forward, I wrote from deep in the thick of grief. I already knew that moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting, but I had to remind myself of it again. For me, it looks like remembering my mom’s awkward FaceTime angles, laughing at my brother’s never-ending texts, and holding on to the pieces of love that still make me feel like myself. Grief and joy sit beside each other. Both are proof of how much I’ve loved —and how much I am loved.

In v. 35, What Fashion Taught Me About Surviving America Right Now, I wrote about how chaos can swing so far in one direction that it feels like it’ll never come back. But balance has a way of finding its footing. In fashion, hemlines rise and fall, colors go in and out, and trends that seem gone forever reappear like they never left (oh hey, skinny jeans...) Life works the same way. The pendulum may take its time, but it always swings back. The harder part is holding on during the arc, trusting that equilibrium will return. It always does.

In v. 39, Proximity, Privilege, and the Truth in Between, I reflected on how my life sits at the intersection of grit and grace, effort and access. I have worked hard, and I have also been given openings that others never received. Owning that truth is part of my responsibility to others. Sharing the full story, in all its complexity, is how I stay accountable.

In v. 42, It’s Not Their Loss to Remember, I acknowledged that some losses belong only to the one who lived them. We can’t expect everyone to remember the anniversaries or feel the weight the same way we do. That is the nature of grief. It is deeply personal, even when shared. We carry the memory because it matters, because it shapes us, and because keeping it alive feels like keeping part of them alive, too.

In v. 45, No, I’m Not Going to Say Something, I reclaimed quieter activism and care. Silence online is not complicity, my care is not performative, and my action is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like sitting with someone in their grief, giving without announcing it, donating to causes that desperately need financial support or volunteering locally. Turning grief into a public performance might be loud, but it is not the work that I can be a part of right now.

And in v. 47, A Complicated Goodbye: On Visiting My Aunt Before She Died, I embraced the ache of what isn’t neat. We are all broken in ways we can’t simplify. Saying goodbye to someone unresolved doesn’t feel tidy, but tenderness can still exist in the complexity.

Finally, v. 49, On Race and Identity: I’m Done Explaining reminded me that exhaustion can be a boundary. My truth does not need to be dressed up or softened to be valid. The flood of direct messages I received (rather than public comments) in response made it clear that many people still do not feel safe saying or admitting these things out loud. There is more work to be done and more conversations to be had.

And then there is the heart of my work: One Fine Microjoy, the section that completes every essay. Microjoys are what bring us back to ourselves in all kinds of weather. They are the daily lifelines: the smell of coffee, the warmth of sun on your face, the belly laugh with a stranger that reminds you joy is still possible, even when life is not okay. Joy is not frivolous, it is the scaffolding that holds us steady. It is how we find our way back—again and again—no matter what the day brings.

So here we are, 50 essays, and these are the truths they taught me (and maybe you?):

• Sometimes the moment in front of us matters more than ​the one we’re trying to hold onto.

• If belonging costs you yourself, it’s not belonging.

• Absence does not diminish worth.

• Honesty is love.

• Quiet seasons are part of the process, not proof you’ve failed.

• Grief and joy can coexist.

• Balance always rebounds.

• Truth comes with responsibility.

• Quiet activism can also move the world forward.

• Endings won’t always be tidy.

• You owe no one a performance.

• Microjoys are what keep us rooted when everything else is shifting.
  

  From the bottom of my patched-up, wildly expanding heart: thank you. For reading. For every “this is me.” For the microjoys you’ve sent back my way. Writing these 50 essays has been a way home to myself, even on the days it felt like I was just talking to the void.

  And in the kind of timing you can’t plan, this 50th essay lands just days before I open applications for the first small group work I’ve offered in SIX years — an intimate, 12-person experience I’ve been quietly shaping behind the scenes. Full circle? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just another reminder that some seasons take their sweet time to bloom. (I don’t work directly with folks anymore and this is a very small group, so I imagine it won’t stay open long. Stay tuned if you’re interested.)

  Here’s to the next fifty, whatever they turn out to be.

Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.

This week’s microjoy: Vivian (yes, we have a cat named Vivian) has a little skin situation, so we bought her one of those ridiculous donut collars to keep her from over-grooming and causing an infection. She refuses to wear it properly and looks absolutely betrayed when she has to. And somehow, watching her shuffle around in protest is still a microjoy. Sorry, Viv. 🐈‍⬛

Welcome to Life, Created.

With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx

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