v. 67 No, It's Really Not A Coincidence
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
A quick note before the essay: I'm booking keynotes for Q3 and Q4. If you've been sitting on reaching out, consider this your nudge.
I am a person who believes in signs. If you've read Microjoys, you already know this about me. I don't need the universe to skywrite, though I'd love it if it would. I pay attention to the subtler things all the time: the daffodils blooming five days earlier than expected, the stranger who says exactly the thing I needed to hear, the dream I can't shake for days. I notice. It's kind of my whole thing.
So when both of the large framed pictures in my front hallway smashed to the ground on the same day, hours apart, after five years of perfect stillness, it was not a coincidence. I sat down and got very quiet.
We have two larger framed pictures in our front hallway on a picture rail. One is a portrait of my husband's family. The other is our wedding photo. They've lived in the same spot since we moved into this apartment five years ago. Through humidity and the door slamming in every conceivable weather event, they haven't moved. Not even once. We rarely have actual glass in our frames. Nearly every picture and piece of artwork we own has gallery plexiglass, even the ones in cheap frames, for exactly this reason. These two pictures were the exception.
That morning, my husband's family portrait hit the floor. The loud sound scared the hell out of me. There were shards of glass everywhere. I immediately cleaned it up, then rushed out to Home Depot to buy paper lawn bags to triple bag and dispose of the glass before putting them into double heavy-duty trash bags. (Clearly I have no idea how to dispose of broken glass.) And like multitasking women everywhere, I got on with my day.
Hours later, while I was on the phone with someone I'd just met, talking about my career and specifically what I want the next chapter to look like, I heard the second loud shatter. I excused myself, tried not to jump out of my chair, found glass across the hallway floor again, put our cats in the bedroom, shut the door, and got back on the call in a state of shocked calm. Then I had to explain to this woman I barely knew that this had already happened once today. On a day that was not especially windy.
Let me say the obvious thing so we can move past it: I didn't take this as a sign that our marriage is in trouble or that my husband's family is fracturing. That's not how I read signs and it's not how energy works, at least not in my experience. The pictures didn't fall. The frames did. The glass broke. The images are fine. What shattered was the container, not the content. That feels like a difference worth sitting with.
I went to the internet looking for context, as I do. And look, if you've been here for any amount of time you already know I've always been more than a little woo, so don't roll your eyes now. You knew what you were getting into with me. Okay?! Onward, friends. I found myself deep in the rabbit hole of numerology and feng shui, neither of which are my area of expertise but both of which gave me things to consider. In numerology, five is the number of change, movement, and transformation. It marks the completion of a cycle. Things move when they've accumulated enough weight that the current position is no longer sustainable. Which, honestly, is also an excellent description of what it feels like to be me right now. These frames fell when they were ready. It turns out ready was a random Monday in the middle of my workday.
The feng shui piece was fascinating, too. The front hallway isn't neutral space. It's referred to as the mouth of chi, where all energy enters a home, and what you place there sets the tone for everything inside. We'd placed the two most identity-laden images we own in the most energetically significant spot in our home. A portrait of my husband's people. The two of us on our wedding day. And they held that position, steady and still, for nearly five years. And then, in the same season where everything is gloriously mid-reorganization, they let go. Both of them. On the same day. I’m just not sure that I could call that a coincidence.
Here's also what's true right now: I finally have closure on a friendship that'd been unresolved for five years. (Super unremarkable, truth be told.) I shared my professional hopes and goals out loud, to a community of women I respect,. And if I'm being honest, my ego had to be dragged there kicking and screaming. My husband and I are seriously considering what a move back to New York City could look like. The container I've been living in since 2020, in almost every sense, is shifting. I'm shifting. The frames, apparently, noticed before I fully did.
I think about the people who'd dismiss all of this. It's just physics. Things fall. Blah blah blah. And yes, things do just fall. But why those things, and why then, and why twice in one day after five years of stillness? I'm not asking you to believe what I believe. I'm asking you to consider what it costs us not to pay attention. Because I think that cost is higher than we realize when we're busy being practical and ignoring signs.
When we're in the middle of transition, when we feel a little lost and between things, the temptation is to put our heads down and push through. Be practical. Make lists. And sure, go ahead and make lists. But don't close yourself off to the moments when the universe, or whatever you believe in, is trying to tell you something. They're not always subtle. Sometimes it's two picture frames and a pile of glass on a random sunny Monday.
For someone who prides herself on paying attention, it apparently still required two big-ass frames, a near-stranger on the phone, and a Home Depot run for lawn bags to actually hear the message. After the second frame fell I sat down, took a breath, and said out loud: ok, ok, shit. I hear you. And then I sat with the question I'm still sitting with now: what is the glaring thing you're trying to tell me that I'm obviously missing?
I still don't know. But I'm listening.
P.S. If you have the answer, help a sister out and tell me what it is. Thanks.
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: attending one of my oldest friend's daughter's quinceañera. (Literally, her mom and I met in kindergarten.) I don't show pictures of anyone else on my socials or Substack, so instead of seeing Bella Sofia in a gorgeous cake-topper purple ball gown holding court like the star she is, you get Ira and me instead. This party was more grand than our damn wedding. If you've never been to one, holy hell, what a spectacular. A Rolls Royce, a candle lighting, 60 teenage girls wearing matching black mini-dresses and the skinny adorable boys trying not to look while sitting at their own tables. Giant fresh bouquets of stunning flowers, dancing robots on stilts, a dance with her papa, and a beautiful letter to her mother. Happy 15th to our brilliant girl.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- repost, comment, share and spread the word.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
Want to support Life, Created?
🗣️ HIRE ME: When you (or a colleague) are looking for an amazing speaker for your next conference, gathering or event—the wait is over, you can book me. Here’s more info. And of course, pickup copy of my latest book, MICROJOYS.
🥰 ENGAGE: Share this essay and your (kind) thoughts in a comment below #BecauseCommunity
🙏🏽 SPREAD THE WORD: Forward it to your fave people. Share, Comment, Restack!
🧡 FOLLOW: over onInstagramand LinkedIn, too.
