This has been a question that, admittedly, I dreaded.

It opened a door to having to explain a path that was not traditional. Nothing about the question made me excited to answer. First, I would explain that I struggled in high school so my grades did too, and I didn’t get into any of my top picks for undergrad that were far away from home. Then I would explain how I attended a small state school, but my time there was cut short, and I eventually finished my degree online through a university I felt very little connection to. Most of the time, though, none of those answers felt quite right.

Instead, I would simplify the story into something much easier to tell: “I wanted to stay close to home and then transferred to a different program online so I could graduate early and start working.”

It was a cleaner version of the truth.

The reality is that for years, I carried a quiet sense of disappointment about my educational journey and viewed it as something I had to explain. Not because I’m not incredibly grateful to have recieved an education, but because there were certain parts of the college experience I wish I had been able to take advantage of.

Now, I see it as something I get to own, and I never imagined that it would be continuing this fall when I start my Master’s in Leadership program at Boston College.

I found out I was accepted into the program in one of the least glamorous settings: a local sports bar during a Knicks game.

My roommates and I were crowded around a table, splitting an order of fried pickles and a pretzel the size of our faces. The bar was packed with Knicks fans, and between the game and a few rounds of SING-O, there was plenty happening to keep me distracted.

Just the day before, I returned from my solo trip to Canada, where I had intentionally avoided checking my personal and work inboxes. I wanted to be fully disconnected while I was away.

But for some reason, sitting in that noisy sports bar, I felt the urge to open Gmail.

Maybe part of me thought that if the decision wasn’t what I hoped for, being surrounded by my friends and a crowded room full of strangers all watching the Knicks during NBA Finals game 3 would soften any dissapointment.

So I opened Gmail.

Typed “Bost-”

Read the word “Congratulations.”

After immediately telling my roommates, and before I could fully process what this meant to me, the three of us were hugging in the middle of the bar.

I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way!

For the rest of that week, I found myself tearing up at the most unexpected moments. Walking to work. Sitting on the couch. Waiting for my coffee. Every time I thought about the acceptance, I started thinking about earlier versions of me, too.

I thought about the 16 year old girl who was struggling deeply and wasn’t sure she’d graduate high school at one point.

I thought about the 21 year old who finished college, but was carrying pain that became quickly covered by the safety blanket of a busy 9-5.

I thought about all the versions in between, just trying her best.

And, I thought about both of my parents who worked incredibly hard to further their own education, which inspired me to do the same.

I share this story because I believe it is so easy to measure our lives against someone else’s timeline. I still find myself doing this from time to time with other things. It’s human.

We compare schools, careers, titles, salaries, milestones. We spend so much energy wondering if our path looks impressive enough that we forget to ask whether it’s actually ours.

For a long time, I thought the value of my education was tied to the story I could tell about it.

Every setback shaped the person who worked hard on that grad school application. And without those experiences, I’m not sure I would have become someone who is now ready and SO excited for this next chapter.

If someone asks me where I went to college now, I’ll happily tell them. Not because the answer to the question finally sounds impressive, but because I’ve chosen to stop believing that my worth was ever determined by the name on a diploma.

Our lives aren’t meant to be compared side by side. They’re meant to be lived, learned from, and owned.

In my essay Timing, Happiness, and Your 20’s, I wrote about a practice I started during a particularly difficult chapter of my life: keeping a running list of little things I love.

It has become one of the most important tools I have for navigating periods of clinical depression, which is something I’ve spent much of my life learning how to live alongside and push against.

The easiest way I can describe depression, in my own experience, is a gray fog settling over everything. Sometimes it hovers for a few days; sometimes for weeks.

This list began as a way of remembering what is still true when the fog returns and tries to convince me otherwise.

Some of my entries are beautifully mundane. Others feel more meaningful. Walking to work, sitting at my desk, or moving through an ordinary afternoon, I’ll find myself adding another one: the construction worker who waves at me every morning, a warm towel fresh from the dryer, the rare moment when the milk-to-coffee ratio is exactly right.

None of these things are technically “remarkable” on their own. And this isn’t a new concept by any means. That’s the point.

Together, they remind me that a good life is rarely built from huge achievements or extraordinary moments. More often, it is assembled from small beauties, fleeting connections, and the feeling of being present enough to notice them all. When the fog eventually lifts, these are the things waiting on the other side.

As the list grew, I found myself becoming interested in what might be on other people’s lists.

Not because I was looking for recommendations, but because I had started to truly believe that the things we notice and cherish reveal something essential about who we are, as humans, without knowing eachother’s stories. They are clues to what brings us back to ourselves. Tiny pieces of evidence for what makes life feel rich, meaningful, and worth paying attention to.

Over the past month, I’ve started asking people I meet during authentic moments throughout New York City and along my travels a simple question:

What’s a list of five little things you’re loving lately?

The answers have been unexpectedly revealing.

I’ve learned that a person’s favorite things often tell you more about them than the questions we’re taught to ask by society. More than what they do for work. More than where they grew up. More than the polished version of themselves they present to the world.

What delights someone. What they notice. What they return to. What makes a heavy day feel a little lighter. Those things can tell a story!

This is the first monthly installment of The Little List Project.

If my own list began as a way of finding my way through the fog, perhaps these lists can serve as little lanterns for someone else.

Everyone featured here has kindly given me permission to share.

Here are the little things people I’ve met in June have been loving lately:

2026 was the first year I had a birthday party where everyone there was someone I considered a true friend. I rented a small loft space in Brooklyn, made brunch food for everyone, poured mimosas, and set up a flower bar so each person could leave with a bouquet of their own. Around ten girls were able to make it. In every possible way, the party felt entirely like me… but more than that, it felt like a celebration of them, and of finally having women in my life who love me fully and undeniably for who I am.

Because of how much change I experienced throughout childhood and teenage years, friendship (and maintaining friendship) was never something that came easily to me during that time. For a while, I convinced myself that maybe I was the problem. There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from opening yourself up to people you trust, only to have them abandon you, quietly root against you, or weaponize your closeness when it no longer serves them.

Transparently, it’s taken years for me to understand that who I am, and how I’m able to show up for others was never the issue. The reality was that I became deeply afraid of letting people in. I learned to keep parts of myself guarded out of the fear that if people saw me too clearly, they would eventually leave… just like when I was a teenager.

Pushing past that fear has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do while adulting. But I can confidently say that being in a place where you don’t have people to call your friends is even harder.

At my 24th birthday, were some of the girls who would answer the phone at 3 a.m. if I needed them, listen to me vent, laugh with me until I cry, and be there for everything in between. Some have known me since I was younger and stayed while I figured out who I was becoming. Others came into my life more recently, after I had already found that person.

For anyone who might be struggling with friends, I know how lonely and discouraging it can feel.

The right friendships won’t require you to shrink yourself, prove your worth, or constantly question if they even know who you are or who you want to become.

They’ll feel so safe. Reciprocal. Easy in the ways that matter the absolute most. And when you find those people, you’ll realize that maintaining those friendships will come easily as well because these will be people you don’t want to let go of.

If you’re in a season where friendship feels hard, don’t give up! Your people are out there, and it’s never too late to find them.

I believe that meaningful friendships don’t have to be people you’ve known since pre-school. Funny enough, some of my closest friends today came from Facebook groups full of women who were in the same exact boat - new to the city, looking for connections, and hoping to build a community. My two roommates and I also met through Facebook, and I adore them.

I’m not going to lie… agreeing to meet up with someone you met in a Facebook group is nerve-wracking. In a lot of ways, it feels like going on a first date. You’re showing up hoping there’s a connection, wondering if the conversation will flow, and taking a chance on a potential friendship with someone you barely know.

But I’ve seen firsthand how a temporary feeling of discomfort can blossom into something really beautiful.

I think that’s part of the reason I wanted a bouquet bar at my birthday. My friends are truly the flowers in my life. Each one is different, bringing their own personality, perspective, and beauty to the arrangement. Some have been with me through multiple seasons, while others are newer additions who have made my world brighter in unexpected ways.

Like flowers, they continue to grow, evolve, and bloom in their own lives. And they’ve created a garden of friendship that has added so much color, joy, and life to mine.

Every time I write something for my Substack, I feel proud of it for a quick moment and then I remember that I have no audience. So I stop writing for a while, and the cycle repeats itself.

The reason I write here instead of keeping everything tucked away in a journal or notes app is partly for myself, but also for the small hope that something I write might reach someone who needs it. Maybe it reminds someone they can make it through a hard season, inspires them to book the trip, take the risk, leave the relationship, start over, or simply feel a little less alone in trying to make sense of a world that often doesn’t make much sense at all.

At the same time, I have absolutely no desire to become any kind of influencer, and the fear of judgement has pushed down the idea of hard-launching my writing on my Instagram any time soon.

All of this is to say: I’ve been needing some inspiration lately. And tonight, I did something completely outside of my comfort zone that gave me exactly that…

A couple weeks ago, I got invited to an event in the city at Studiolo hosted by Ladibug and Orly Wellness and I almost didn’t go.

Ladibug is a NYC-based women’s health startup that sends out sustainable pads and tampons, paired with a science-backed wellness product designed to support cycle health. Orly Wellness is a cycle-synced meal delivery service that focuses on aligning food with different phases of the menstrual cycle. Studiolo is a nonprofit workshop and event space in New York that hosts community-driven events.

All three are early-stage projects founded by young women here in the city- still evolving, figuring things out, but already building some real momentum. So, to have been invited to this event was so special!

I didn’t know anyone there, and lately I’ve found myself retreating inward again a bit. But the second I walked into the space, I could feel that it was different and I was meant to be there. There was something incredibly refreshing about walking into a room full of thoughtful, creative, intentional women who genuinely cared about building community and connecting with one another in a real and raw way.

In the elevator, I met the founder of Orly! She was the most down-to-earth girl. She had prepared samples of some of the meals she personally delivers to women around the city. Everything was healthy, intentional, organic, and very much my kind of thing. I remember thinking how cool it was that this was her work.

I also met the co-founders of Ladibug, who were incredibly warm and open, sharing pieces of their journey and how things have been unfolding so far.

Throughout the evening, I found myself talking to different girls who were also interested in wellness, nonprofits, and women building thoughtful things.

We gathered around to listen to the founder of Orly talk about the connection between nutrition and women’s cycles. I learned so much about my own body in that short time, and how aligning nutrition with different phases of your cycle can actually support how you feel day to day.

At the end, one woman led a guided journaling exercise focused on setting intentions. She invited anyone who wanted to share what they wrote, and I was surprised by how many women spoke openly. I ended up sharing too.

The best part, though, was meeting someone who I immediately clicked with. I mentioned that I hadn’t explored much of Brooklyn before, and before the night ended, her and I were already exchanging numbers and making plans to get bagels and wander around together this weekend. I never thought a sweet new friend would come out of this night!

I left the event feeling inspired in a way I haven’t felt in a while. It reminded me how important it is to keep saying yes and to put yourself in rooms that reflect the kind of life you want to build, and the kinds of people you want to build it with.

Then I remembered something someone important to me once told me: one of the best ways to experience a place is through your senses.

So that’s how I’m going to tell this story.

Sight

The moment I landed at YYC Airport, I scrambled to grab my bag and figure out where the bus stop was for the two plus-hour ride into Banff. I barely made it onto the shuttle in time! It was small, simple, and no-frills but exactly the kind of transportation that immediately lets you know you’re in for an adventure.

As we left Calgary behind and headed toward the mountains, I watched the landscape slowly transform through my window. Then the peaks began to appear.

And I cried.

I’m not someone who cries often, especially not happy tears. But something about that drive cracked me open. Maybe it was the culmination of months of saving money to finally book this trip. Maybe it was the independence of knowing I had planned and taken this journey entirely on my own. Maybe it was the realization that I was finally on the edge of a place that was on my bucket list for years.

The trees stretched endlessly. Horses grazed in open fields. Mountains rose up from the earth in a way that hardly seemed real.

I’ve seen mountains before, but never mountains like these. I’ve seen lakes before, but never lake water those shades of blue. I’ve stood at trailheads before, but never ones that felt so respected, cared for, and preserved.

Every mile deeper into the Rockies felt like entering a postcard I somehow got to live inside!

Taste

Staying in a mixed hostel was an adventure in itself. The specific room I was in had six bunk beds filled with travelers from all over the world, all there for different reasons.

To save money, I packed plenty of snacks and didn’t eat out much at all during the trip. Most days I left very early and came back late, way too exhausted to think about restaurants in town.

I knew the hostel offered free breakfast, but I didn’t expect much from it honestly.

The first morning, I went downstairs half awake, wrapped in my rain jacket and hiking clothes. To my surprise, I walked into one of the most unexpectedly comforting parts of the entire trip…

There was a pancake station. A yogurt bar with fruit and granola. Fresh blueberry muffins. Orange juice. Coffee.

And playing through the speakers was a soundtrack that felt pulled directly from my own Spotify playlists. The Lumineers, Noah Kahan, Sam Burchfield, Joy Oladokun, Kacey Musgraves, and other indie folk favorites.

For a moment, I totally forgot I was hundreds of miles away from home.

Everything familiar was there: the music, the comfort of a slow morning, and simple joys of a good breakfast before a long day outside. Except everything just tasted better in the mountains.

.Touch

It rained during four of the five days I spent in the Rockies.

Not the occasional passing shower, but steady rain. Dark clouds hung low and a layer of fog masked nearly every view. At first, I thought, just my luck again. I had traveled all this way and got terrible weather.

But it didn’t take long to realize that the rain was actually one of the greatest gifts this trip gave me.

The trails were nearly empty. The famous Instagram spots weren’t crowded. The mountains felt quiet, intimate, and magical. The rain made everything feel a little more poetic.

I loved feeling it on my face and hands. I didn’t even mind when my socks got slightly damp. In a strange way, it reminded me of the whole reason I came: to do something uncomfortable.

There was no point in straightening my hair, either, which ended up being surprisingly freeing. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing my natural curls if I could avoid it. I wore very little makeup on this trip, and for one of the first times in a long while, I felt completely comfortable showing up exactly as I was.

The waterfalls left their mark, too. Mist from them was carried through the air and settled across my skin as I stood completely mesmerized. I’d never seen waterfalls with that kind of power. Watching millions of gallons of water carve through rock made me feel small in the best possible way. Nature has a way of reminding you how incredible this world really is.

Sound

Of course, there were the obvious sounds: rushing rivers, waterfalls crashing into pools below, birds chirping from the trees, and gravel crunching beneath my hiking boots.

But the sounds I remember most were the conversations.

As a child, I was incredibly shy. Social anxiety followed me through much of my life, and even now it occasionally finds its way back. Before this trip, I promised myself I wouldn’t let it take up space. So I challenged myself to talk to people whenever the opportunity presented itself.

And I’m so glad I did!

Albertans are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Souvenir shop clerks started conversations. Bartenders asked about my travels while I sat writing postcards and sipping a local beer. I chatted with many people.

One conversation in particular has stayed with me.

I wore my Goorin Bros. ladybug hat on the hike up to the Lake Moraine viewpoint. Along the trail, a much older man stopped me and told me that his mother, who had passed away years earlier, always said that whenever he saw a ladybug, it was her way of reminding him she was still with him.

He was visibly emotional as he shared the story and asked if he could take a picture of my hat to send to his family group chat.

I don’t know exactly what I believe when it comes to signs and symbolism. But I do know that moment filled my heart. A complete stranger shared a deeply personal memory with me because of a ladybug stitched onto a hat. It’s amazing how quickly human beings can connect when we allow ourselves to be open to one another.

Smell

Truthfully, there aren’t many specific scents that stand out from this trip.

But that’s what also made it so memorable.

Away from the city and all of its mysterious smells, the Rockies felt impossibly clean. The air was crisp, fresh, and untouched. Every deep breath felt special and different.

It’s funny that one of the things I remember most is the absence of smell, specifically, the absence of pollution, congestion, and a massive city.

For five days, the air smelled like rain, pine trees, and open space.

And it was exactly what I needed.

The Rockies gave me far more than beautiful photos and stories from a solo trip. They reminded me that I am capable of giving myself a big experience and navigating it (imperfectly) alone as well. As a young woman doing this, there were many moments when I felt proud of myself simply because I am at a stage in life where I trusted myself enough to go on this adventure and be completley okay with having these memories mostly kept to myself and not with a partner, family member, or friend.

Years from now, I hope to sit at a dinner table with kids of my own and tell them about the time Mom took a bus to the mountains, hiked through the rain, be-friended strangers, and watched turquoise lakes appear under fog-covered peaks. I hope they’ll understand that the story isn’t really about the Rockies at all.

It wasn’t something I saw online, a trend, wellness challenge, or hashtag. I made it up on the spot one night when I was asked to go out with friends. Saying “I’m actually sober this month” felt weirdly serious like it required some sort of explanation. There wasn’t some big reason behind it, and alcohol isn’t something I crave in my life, but I noticed that I tend to feel much better when I take long breaks from drinking every once in a while. Better sleep, clearer mornings, money saved, and more energy.

It’s funny how language can make things easier sometimes.

Saying “It’s mocktail march for me” made it feel light, casual and intentional at the same time. Just a little experiment I was running for myself, and the month has felt so good. A small label for something I really needed: a break, and time to rebuild all of the healthy habits that I let slip a little when I moved to Manhattan in the fall.

I was still invited out to every plan and event, and the pressure to drink didn’t exist. I have gone out a few times this month, and while my social battery definitely wasn’t as full as if I had a couple vodka crans in me, I still had fun with my girlfriends and realized that a lycee mocktail made me just as happy.

I’m really big on people taking time to reset whenever it feels wanted or needed. I’ve been guilty of sometimes thinking that a change has to be super dramatic to matter, like a whole new identity or lifestyle switch. But sometimes its quite simply just… Mocktail March.

A small pause. A little space. A reminder that you can step out of routine and into a different one whenever you want, even if only for a month or two.

And honestly? giving it a fun name might have been the best part.

“The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror…

Sit. Feast on your life.”

I was at a birthday dinner last week, catching up on college memories and joking about past relationships, when a friend said, “I feel like we never saw you while you were dating ___.” It landed heavier than I expected. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was.

It reminded me, again, of the contrast: how full my life feels right now, and how empty it felt during a past long-term relationship. And how I didn’t fully see that emptiness while I was in it.

There’s a kind of relationship dynamic many people sadly fall into where you look up one day and realize: yes, I have a person… but I’ve lost everything else. Your hobbies disappear, interests shrink, friendships take a backseat. You become smaller without noticing. Like a lightning bug in a jar that’s still glowing, just contained.

And then, eventually the jar breaks.

This season of being single has been the most expansive, grounding, life-giving season I’ve ever had. It’s made space for growth, joy, actually getting to know myself again. For loving myself in ways I used to wait for someone else to.

Now, when I want to travel, or try a new restaurant, or do something spontaneous, I don’t have to ask for permission or hear “we’ll see” or “maybe.” I just go.

And every time I do, it feels like reclaiming something and taking love that once had nowhere to land and pouring it back where it always belonged.

Back into my jar.

The most freeing part of all of that is now I have this genuine lack of rush or desire in needing to find someone. Like many people, I would love to experience it. But, I’m not desperate for it because I have put in so much work and learned exactly what I will never repeat again.

The unlearning, the rebuilding, the boundary-setting, the choosing msyelf over and over and over again even when it was uncomfortable is a kind of growth that doesn’t happen overnight and it’s not something I’m willing to compromise just to have the comfort of a boyfriend.

I think that’s also where the idea of “getting your sparkle” back comes from.

I’ve seen so much content recently on my feed of women leaving relationships where they dimmed and then slowlty, piece by piece come back to life. Laughing louder, dressing how they want, reconnecting with friends, trying new things, moving across the country.

Not because they’ve met someone else, but because they greeted themselves arriving at their own door.

When I think about my next relationship it looks very different.

It’s two people who already have full lives… our own passions, friendships, routines, hobbies, but are also excited to build something shared, too. Where independence and togetherness can coexist without one overpowering the other.

No jars in sight.

At her home, we’d enjoy a homemade ratatouille for dinner and cherry clafoutis with ice cream for dessert. If I was staying during Bastille day, we’d head to the annual fête at the French Embassy. Much of my extended family still lives in the mountains around Nice and on the island of La Réunion, part of the Mascarene Islands, which has kept that connection alive. Later on, working for a French brand and communicating regularly with employees in French Canadian provinces, has allowed me to continue nurturing that side of my identity.

In recent years, I’ve been lucky enough to discover one of France’s hidden gems, that my family and I had never explored before: Corsica.

Some destinations feel beautiful the moment you arrive, and Corsica is one of them… though it reveals itself in layers. At first, it surprises you.

The island is rugged and mountainous, with sharp peaks cutting through its center. The mountains then descend into the most stunning Mediterranean beaches and coves. Though it belongs to France, Corsica truly feels like it has this strong sense of independence with a perfect mix of Italian influence, local French dialect, and the slow pace of the Spanish Medetteranian.

On both trips, we’ve made sure to carve out an entire day for sailing. One of the things I love most about Europe (especially the smaller Mediterranean islands) is how easy it is to privately charter a boat for the day with a local skipper. You step on their boat as strangers, and by the end of the day, you’ve shared stories, learned something new, and glimpsed another way of life. For many skippers, their boat is both home and livelihood.

On our first sailing trip in Corsica, we met a young couple who lived on their boat as often as they could. They were a true team.

He steered while she prepared simple but delicious snacks. He navigated us along the coastline while she prepped the boat to anchor. He chatted with my dad in fast French while she told my mom and I stories about their life at Sea together. Sailing takes real skill and coordination, yet they made it all look so effortless.

Going from sailing and cove-hopping to a windy drive back through the mountains was the perfect way to gain new perspectives on the island during both stays. It’s been such a gift to have those experiences.

Corsica is now a place I hold close! Each visit allows reconnection to a part of my culture that I’m still discovering, and being there made something click for me when it comes to traveling more broadly.

Those summer visits in Trinidad at a young age have certainly influenced how I move through new places now. Corsica felt unfamilair on the surface, but not disorienting. It made me realize that early exposure to culture of any kind doesn’t stay tied to one place, instead it completley carries over… allowing a destination to feel both new and strangely familair at the same time.

latley I’ve been thinking a lot about trusting the timing of your life and the gratitude that comes when you pause long enough to reflect on it.

I do believe that sometimes life works out in ways that feel almost too strange to be coincidence. At the same time, I think we do more behind the scenes than we realize. We slowly open doors, set ideas into motion, change ourselves in small ways, and make decisions that don’t seem significant in the moment. Maybe it’s not necessarily manifesting everything, but I do believe that our outlook and the habits we create every day matter more than we realize.

The biggest example of trusting the timing of my life is my current job and the journey that brought me there.

After taking an antidepressant when i was 19, I developed Steven’s-Johnson Syndrome, a rare but extremely serious reaction to medication where the immune system begins attacking itself. Once the reaction starts, there’s unfortunatley no treatment to stop it. The body has to run its course and slowly heal with an unpredictable timeline. For me, it subsided at a stage that left severe hyperpigmentation across over 85% of my skin.

At first, I was angry! How could something I was taking to help me feel better do this to me? Why isn’t there more research being done on SJS? How am I going to rebuild my sense of self and confidence?

Something as simple as going to the grocery store with shorts or a t-shirt on in the summer time became a huge hurdle. I said no to plans with friends. I spent weeks upon weeks in therapy discussing all of my emotions and fears.

My healing was not at all linear and required patience and consistency, but mostly letting go of control and my concept of beauty.

Somewhere along the way, after a couple years of truly hiding myself, the process stopped being about my skin entirely.

As my spots and scars started to fade, I became more aware of how to manage mental health struggles without being medicated, began focusing on physical health, and started doing more of what shaped how I felt every day.

I also had to relearn how to find little joys. I keep a list on my phone titled “little things that I love” and jot them down whenever I remember to. Most are random and silly. Some of my favorites from this month:

• When strangers smile at you

• Smoothies with the perfect consistency

• A friend saying “im proud of you”

• First bite of a cinnamon roll or blueberry muffin

• Hearing birds chirping in the morning

• Watching someone pick out which flowers to buy

Building this list has grounded me when everything feels heavy. Happiness & Mental health is something that I have to practice daily, or else I do struggle. It’s like working out a muscle. Some days the workout genuinely sucks, and others it just feels easy. But it’s a consious effort that I make because I know that someday I am not going to only want to be happy for myself, but also for my friends, my life partner, my family.

My skin journey sparked a real interest in skin care and skin health. I started learning about ingredients, trying many different products for hyperpigmentation. Today I work for a brand whose products have helped me regain confidence, created with all natural ingredients and made by founders I genuinely admire. I also get to share bits of my personal story with new hires and collegues.

There is something incredibly full-circle about that.

When you’re in your 20’s I feel like there’s this quiet pressure to build momentum and become the person you’re supposed to be in a very short amount of time. When something interrupts that rhythm, it can feel like the momentum is ripped out from under you.

At the time, going through SJS felt exactly like that. While my friends were doing study abroad, enjoying the rest of their college experience, and contuning to build their social circles I was trying to feel comfortable leaving my house all while finishing my degree online as quickly as possible and jumping into work as early as possible. For a while, it felt like a chapter I didn't ask for and didn’t want.

But the thing about time is that perspective always catches up to it. I love the woman I am today because of the girl that went through SJS. I’m much more intentional about what makes me feel good (moving my body, meaningful friendships, & little joys that used to go unnoticed). The experience taught me that certain parts of life don't always make sense until years later when the dots begin to connect.

When my grandfather immigrated to the UK from Trinidad & Tobago to pursue his career as a jazz musician, he saved his money with intention and purchased a small casita in the town on San Luis, Menorca.

Our family’s town home sits in a small village of only about 7,000 people. It begins with white. Everything is wrapped in white, chalky limestone and almost all of the window shutters and doors are a deep emerald green. Every color feels nautical and rooted. San Luis doesn’t operate around tourism the way bigger islands do. It operates around its own habits which are agriculture, family, long lunches, early mornings, and restful siestas. The routine isn’t curated for visitors and it exists whether you’re there or not.

My dad spent time in his young adulthood living in Menorca by gathering his own rituals, befriending locals who are now our close family friends, perfecting his Spanish, learning which bars closed early and which beaches were worth a windy drive on his moped.

Menorca was my first taste of real travel and it set the tone for how I’ll always prefer to do it… slightly inconvenient.

• Harder to get to (new airports, unfamiliar bus systems, wrong platforms, figuring it out as you go, a walk, a wrong turn, a little hike)

• Reward of arrival (when you finally reach the destination, it feels SO earned!)

• Staying in a place that forces real conversations (with locals, and the people you’re traveling with)

The first time we went to Menorca as a family, I remember secretly loving the fact that there was no WIFI at Grandpa’s. My teenage brain needed that kind of forced presence.

So I paid attention and took note of:

Women of all shapes and sizes laying topless on the beach allowing their bodies to simply exist under the sun completley unbothered, without a trace of judgement.

Children being raised to appreciate nature, running between sand and water collecting rocks and shells…without an ipad in sight.

Couples walking through the narrow streets of Mahon, the island’s capital, holding hands and being present with one another while peeking into local shop windows.

Stone walls built during the Talyotic period that still stand as witness to those who carefully placed each perfectly uneven rock.

Horses and cows left to graze in open pastures, and olive trees cutting through the landscape that still produce the oil families use to press and pour into their cooking pans.

We’ve returned every other summer for the past ten years. We keep a running list: favorite coves, farmers markets, the bakery with the flaky ensaïmadas. Each visit adds something new, but also feels like reopening a well-loved book.

Menorca is where I am the happiest, most unedited version of myself and every time we return, the island quietly holds our place for us.

Life there is beautifully repetitive: wake up, walk to the market for fruit, swim, read, cook, wander. It reminds you that most of what we complicate in our lives doesn’t need to be complicated at all.

Lately, I’ve started thinking about what it would feel like to spend real time there (not just a week or two) but an actual stretch of life.

Maybe one day when I’m between jobs. Or if I landed a fully remote role that lets me take my laptop somewhere slower.

I imagine mornings working from the small kitchen table with the windows open. Taking a break to walk into town for coffee. Logging off in the afternoon and driving to a quiet cala to swim before dinner. figuring out which bars close early and which restaurants have the best paella.

I am endlessly grateful for that woman… and for that day.

The Marathon

In 2023, I signed up for my first marathon.

At the time, I was recovering from a medication reaction and navigating the diagnosis of a rare immune disorder. I hated how I looked. I hated how I felt. I had already run a couple of half marathons, and I convinced myself it was time for a new challenge. I told myself that I needed to prove I could do hard things.

If I’m being honest, I was also chasing the idea of a different body - the one I imagined would surely come after weeks of running and lifting through a grueling training block, right??

My relationship with food had never been perfect, but it had never been this obsessive either. I had never restricted, second-guessed or scrutinized my plate the way I did during that season of life.

Training demanded more than I even understood. My body simply could not keep up with the energy I was expending. I’d wake up early to fit in my miles, and before the workday even began, I had already burned hundreds of calories. I felt weak. I felt undereducated. Slowly, I began to dread the very process I had once been so excited about.

Yes, I ran the 26.2. I crossed the finish line.
But my body wasn’t strong. I hadn’t fueled during my training and I had very little muscle to help me get through that race.

The girl who ran that race proved she could accomplish something incredibly hard and at the same time, she felt miserable in her own skin. Still.

The Nutritionist

My nutritionist approached everything from a place of education, not judgment. Our sessions were never about shame.

We talked about what a healthy, functioning body actually needs to get through a day. Then we talked about what it needs to get through a day that includes a workout. She broke down carbohydrates, fats, proteins, fruits, sugars, vitamins… not as “good” or “bad,” but as necessary.

I relearned everything I thought I knew about food.

After several months of investing in those sessions, something shifted. I no longer felt confused walking into a grocery store. I no longer spiraled over a restaurant menu or a DoorDash scroll. I felt equipped & confident. Capable of making choices that supported my lifestyle and my goals without any stress involved.

The art of learning to cook for myself, at 22 …

I’ve never called myself a bad cook, but for most of my life, cooking simply wasn’t something I did!

I grew up with an amazing mom who kept our fridge stocked with beautiful groceries from Whole Foods and made almost every meal from scratch. In college, I didn’t have time for anything that wasn’t microwavable. Later, I lived with a man who loved to cook, and insisted on taking that role.

When that relationship ended and I moved back home something changed. For the first time, I prioritized feeding myself. Not just eating, but truly nourishing.

I took what I had learned from my nutritionist and paired it with the basic skills I already had, and became determined to do this for myself.

Somewhere in that process, cooking (nothing fancy) became more than a task. It became happiness and a form of self respect.

I fell in love with grocery shopping for fresh ingredients. With the act of mise en place. With the intention behind building a meal that would give my body exactly what it needed. (energy, strength, clarity) I LOVE seeing a colorful plate in front of me. I love knowing every component serves a purpose.

I even began romanticizing my breakfasts, as you can tell from those pictures.

Because how lucky am I to wake up and prepare something bright and beautiful for myself?

How lucky am I to nourish a body that carries me through hard things?

We’d leave our house in Grant Park and I’d spend the next hour watching the road pass by through the car window as we cut through the countryside. I loved seeing long stretches of trees, open land, and the smallest of towns that made me wonder if anyone actually still lived in them. When I began to hear the crunch of our tires above gravel and the sound of a mallet smacking against the polo ball, I knew we were there.

My father, a man of many unique hobbies, played polo there whenever he could. Watching him play was watching someone fully occupied. Polo is such a unique sport, in that it demands the awareness of another living thing, running at full speed, responding to you in real time. Even as a kid, I could see that the horse wasn’t an accessory to the game. It was actually the whole point.

Those Sundays were less about doing something together and much more about going home with different experiences from the same special environment. I’d wander, play in the creeks, walk amongst the tees, watch matches, sit quietly in the barn, and sometimes ride. There was no pressure to be entertained, and the farm set its own pace, which I naturally loved adjusting to.

Over time, horseback riding became something I leaned on to recalibrate. The first thing that I was taught about horses was that they respond to your energy. If you’re tense, they know. If you’re unfocused, they react. If you’re anxious, they will reflect it. I’ve always thought it was special how these huge, powerful animals learn to trust you just as much as you learn to trust them. Riding, and being around horses in general at a young age, taught me how to regulate myself without anyone explaining to me that’s what I was doing. A gift that has helped me in so many other aspects of life.

When I left Georgia, Polo Sundays stopped happening, but I’ve made an effort to replicate the feeling I got from them as often as I can because it truly resets something in me every time. I have gone on trail rides or taken a lesson while traveling and when I’m closer to home in Connecticut. Some with my dad, and some alone, but equally as rewarding.

In Chinese tradition, the Horse is often described as independent and resilient. What resonates most with me is its practicality. Horses move when they need to move. They stop when they need to stop. There’s no excess interpretation. Just forward motion built on trust, repetition, and awareness.

2026 is all about taking that approach with me.

• To return to the types of environments that have always grounded me.

• To recognize that some of the most formative experiences (like driving through Georgia back roads and ending up at a polo field every Sunday) don’t announce their importance while they’re happening.

• To trust my intuition.

• To remember that moving forward while pivoting along the way is all part of the journey of my life.