Solitude

Time alone, in my thoughts, has always been sacred to me. A place to gather myself, to check in, to come back down when my mind is racing too far ahead.

I’m someone with a constant stream of ideas. They run quietly in the background, often all at once, which makes it hard to distill down, to choose which to pursue first. My most compelling ideas often come to me in stillness, but since moving to New York, they’ve been harder to catch. This city’s relentless energy, the overstimulation, the way your nervous system hums in fight-or-flight, I need a fat paper weight to bring me back to earth.

As life grows more demanding, time alone is a non-negotiable. Between my art, my friends, my relationship, my family, my work, and simply existing, there's always something that comes knocking. And if there isn't, I'm in a constant of anticipation that it's only a matter of time.

It’s also easy to overlook what you’ve already done, to forget to notice and appreciate the way you’re showing up for yourself in a way that feels true. Honoring that takes boundaries, which have been some of my most challenging work. I’ve always been a “yes” girl, not out of fear of missing out, but because I am endlessly searching for inspiration, for excitement, for spontaneity. These moments feed my work. They shape the way I see and capture the world.

I’ve also learned to be softer with myself. To give myself grace. It’s easy to think that stillness is unproductive, that relationships, responsibilities, and work should come first. But the truth is, and as cliche as this sounds, the most important relationship you will ever have is the one you have with yourself. It is the foundation for everything else.

When I think about purpose, about identity, about the influence we hope to leave behind, it feels even more essential. Especially now, in a digital world moving at an unforgiving pace, to protect the time needed for deep reflection. To ask who we wish to become, not only for ourselves but for each other.

And so, with solitude, especially in summer, when life should feel slower, even if it rarely does, I pause. I practice patience. I notice the smallest, most ordinary moments, knowing they hold more than we give them credit for. They remind me that everything I’m looking for, everything I’m becoming, is already here, quietly waiting.