he tragedy isn’t that all questions have answers—they don’t. The tragedy is that we teach children to stop asking the questions that matter most, the ones that keep the world alive and mysterious and full of possibility.
The adults—those mythical beings who seemed to possess a secret manual for navigating existence—were just as lost as everyone else. They were improvising their way through mortgages and marriages, pretending certainty while feeling anything but certain.
Adult life desperately needs the conviction that change is possible, that help is coming, that we are part of something larger. Maybe adult magic isn’t about believing in fairies, but about staying open to surprise and serendipity.
Why do we reserve our harshest judgment for people who are living our unlived lives? Our judgment serves a function: it protects the careful architecture of limitation we’ve built around our own lives.
This is the loneliest kind of love: being cherished for a performance so convincing that even you sometimes forget you’re acting. They’re in relationship with my best intentions while the rest of me remains invisible, unwitnessed, unknown.
Why does authenticity feel like the most dangerous thing we can attempt? Perhaps it’s because we live in a world that rewards certainty over honesty, confidence over authenticity, the polished lie over the messy truth.
I realized I had become a method actor who had forgotten they were acting. The role had consumed the actor so completely that I could no longer remember who existed before the performance began. Perhaps authenticity isn’t a destination but a practice—the daily choice to retire our characters.
What if the person they love is just the gift shop version of who I actually am? The fear is ancient, probably cellular—this terror that love is conditional, that it can be revoked upon closer inspection.
Why does proximity to our own suffering make us cruel? We are fluent in the language of compassion—but only when speaking it to others. Perhaps the problem is that we’ve forgotten the stranger in the mirror is actually a friend.
In the moment I most needed an ally, I became my own interrogator. There is a peculiar cruelty in the timing of our self-sabotage. Being your own worst enemy when you need yourself most is not a character flaw—it’s a learned response that can be unlearned.
Curated insights, thoughtfully delivered. No clutter.
