I used to look away. Whenever Sam Altman appeared on a screen or another story about artificial intelligence surfaced, I’d skip it. Change the channel. Dismiss it. There was a quiet hope that if I ignored it long enough, it might pass. It didn’t. One afternoon, sitting in a Starbucks trying to work on a novel, I found myself distracted by an AI course inside Mindvalley. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, I didn’t look away this time. I opened it. And stayed — not for

This afternoon I harvested holy basil from my indoor garden and steeped it in a pot of simmering water. The steam rose slowly, fragrant and slightly sweet. I sat at the counter sipping it like this was something I’d always done. I hadn’t meant to grow a tea garden. The hydroponic system was supposed to be practical — super greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, fruit. Winter survival. A hedge against the slump that usually arrives when the light disappears and the days narrow. But some

I’ve been thinking about repetition lately — what it feels like to build pressure without knowing where it’s going to land. I sent out my twentieth submission this week. Another rejection came back. Polite. Brief. Efficient. At the same time, a new business I launched — something playful, something that felt like me — is still quiet. No orders yet. No proof of traction. Just the hum of effort waiting for response. This is the part no one romanticizes. The stretch where you ke

It’s late morning and I’m sitting on the balcony of our hotel, the ocean stretched out in front of me like it has nowhere else to be. The light is sharp. The air is already thick. Everything feels startlingly clear.