Been thinking about how we present ourselves lately, not just what we wear, but how we show up.

The energy we bring into a room, the way we move through a conversation, the things we choose to notice (or ignore!), are all the parts that people actually feel. Because you can say all the right things, play the part perfectly, but there’s something underneath all of that that communicates louder than any of it.

Your vibe? Presence? Whatever it is, that state you’re in when you walk into a space. And I’ve been realizing how much of that is shaped before we ever get there.

Not in some abstract, philosophical way (although yes, get you a spiritual practice and rack up some karma points), but in really small, practical choices.

Did I sleep enough?
Did I rush through my morning?
Did I give myself even a few minutes to just exist before jumping into the day? (see
Did I do anything that actually feels like me?

All of that…it shows up right along with you, in a way people can feel.

Which is why I keep coming back to this idea that happiness—however you define it—is probably the best thing you can put on.

And I no, not the “everything is perfect” version that is loud/performative. Just that steady, grounded feeling where you’re a little more at ease in your own life. For me, that happens when I’m a little more myself and not pulled into ten different directions.

I’m not sure this is something you can force tbh, although I do believe we can make space for it.

Through the way you spend your time.
The people you’re around.
The things you say yes to—it all adds up.

Quietly.

So maybe that’s the move this weekend. I want you to do a few small things that help you feel a little more like you. And yeah, def report back.

I’ll be over here, quietly rooting for you, giving snaps for the best look in the room, because happiness is the best thing you can wear.

Happy Friday!

You know that feeling you get when everything is…cool?

Nothing dramatic happened. It’s just that life sort of settles into place for a second and you realize—oh, this is actually good.

I had a moment like that yesterday.

I went on a walk with a local walking group, and It was my first time going, and I only knew a couple of people. Acquaintances really. Def the kind of thing that could easily feel a little awkward at the start. But then it didn’t. I ended up talking to a handful of people I’d never met before, just walking, being outside, letting conversations happen without forcing them anywhere.

And there was something really nice about that, about being around people who all showed up for the same simple reason: to move a little with other people without needing it to be anything more than that.

It also reminded me how easy it is to get used to the same circles. We have our roles, our same ways of being. And how, when you meet someone new, there’s this small, quiet reset. You get to present yourself again and answer, in real time, okay, who am I right now?

What do I actually share?

What do I care about?

What kind of energy do I want to bring into this conversation?

Not like adorning a new mask or anything. Really just a chance for a recalibration.

Anyway, the whole thing felt easy. It started in my neighborhood, so I walked there, and then walked home after. And somewhere in all of that—walking, talking, not checking my phone, not thinking about what was next—I caught that feeling.

That everything was just cool.

Which is easy to miss, I think. Because it doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t feel important while it’s happening. It feels more like a quiet stretch of time where nothing is pulling at me, and I’m out of this mode where I don’t need to fix anything or improve anything. I’m just there, and it’s enough.

And then it passes.

So that’s what I’m taking into the weekend. Not trying to create anything big, just being available enough to notice when that feeling shows up again.

I hope you catch a few of those moments too. They’re easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, so be on the the lookout for when everything is cool.

Happy Friday!

I read a line the other day:

“I love you like 20 tyrannosauruses on 20 mountaintops.”

It made me pause. Because it’s ridiculous, obviously. But also kind of perfect?

There’s something honest about love that doesn’t try to sound elegant. It just goes all the way, almost like the way a child would distill it down. Which doesn’t make it simplified at all. Just…unguarded.

Anyway, I wanted to share that here in case you needed a reminder that this kind of feeling exists.

Happy Friday!

Umm this week felt like five minutes. Which is always a little disorienting. Like time moved…and I just kept up?

It makes me wonder if I actually lived any of it, or if I just moved efficiently from one thing to the next and called it a week.

So I’m taking that reminder into the weekend with me—trying to slow down enough to notice what’s already happening. Because apparently, the Japanese maple in my backyard came back.

Fully. Quietly. And without me noticing a single step of it. I just looked up one day and there it was again.

Anyway, I hope you get a little time outside this weekend. Or at least one moment you don’t rush past.

A woman walked her pet rooster past me this morning like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She inspired me to say, you know what, be weird & be unconventional. I’m passing that energy along.

Happy Friday!

I went to the gym today and, before I could even get to the part where I pretend to enjoy cardio, I was presented with a small, unexpected decision. At the check-in counter there was a glass vase filled with jelly beans. You know the kind of setup: guess how many are in there, win the jar.

As I scanned in, I looked down at the sheet and saw there were already quite a few guesses written down. Numbers ranging from 89 to somewhere in the 800s, which felt less like estimation and more like people just picking numbers that felt right and hoping the universe would meet them halfway.

The guy at the desk—Matt—asked if I wanted to take a guess. You know me, responding to a question with a question, so I asked him if he knew how many were in there. He gave me one of those vague, non-answers that told me he either didn’t…or definitely did.

I told him I’d pass.

He smiled and said, “Why not? It costs you nothing to guess.”

“Not my thing,” I said, and traipsed off to the locker room like someone who had just taken a very principled stand on grave matters.

And I don’t know why, but Matt’s line stuck with me more than I expected.

Because on the surface, it’s true. It doesn’t cost anything. No money, no risk, no downside. Just be a normal, socially cooperative adult for three damn seconds to pick a number and keep it moving.

As I settled into my workout, I kept coming back to that interaction—because the little neurotic analyst in my brain had found something to chew on and refused to let it go. It costs nothing, huh?

But that wasn’t true, I realized.

It costs a moment.

It costs a bit of attention.

Yes, I know—it’s a small decision. A few seconds of mental energy which probably wouldn’t tally up to much by the end of the day. But I think that’s the part we tend to overlook, not just with jelly beans, but with a lot of things.

We’re pretty aware of what things cost financially, aren’t we? We compare prices, look for deals, decide whether something is “worth it.” But we’re much less precise when it comes to time.

And time is the thing we’re constantly spending.

Not in big dramatic chunks, usually, but in these small, almost forgettable moments. A lil bit of a doomscroll here. A conversation we didn’t really want to have there. And, most importantly, a task we said yes to out of habit more than intention.

Individually, none of it feels like a big deal, but that’s kind of the trap.

I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten better at filtering pretty aggressively as I’ve gotten older. Enter: armchair, grandpa Alvin. Okay, not in that kind of rigid or joyless way, but just in the sense that if I know something doesn’t feel suited to me, I’m less inclined to give it my time.

Not because it’s objectively unimportant. Just because it’s not important to me.

If the prize had been a trip somewhere, I would’ve guessed immediately. A thousand times. That’s something I care about. I’d happily spend a few moments on something for the chance to travel.

But jelly beans? I don’t even really eat candy like that.

So that felt like enough of a reason.

Now, not everything has to be optimized or intentional or deeply meaningful. But I do think it’s worth noticing how easily we accept the idea that something is “free” just because it doesn’t cost money.

There are only so many minutes in a day. Only so many decisions you get to make before you’re tired. And once it’s spent, it’s spent.

So maybe that’s the quiet practice to take away from this. You don’t have to guard your time perfectly, but it is worthwhile being a little more aware of where it’s going.

Just asking, every now and then, is this something I actually want to spend my time on?

And being a little more honest about what it’s costing you.

P.S. I did realize that instead of guessing the jelly beans, I ended up writing a whole philosophical rant about it…which feels like a different, slightly more elaborate way of spending time on the jelly beans. Make of that what you will!

Happy Friday.

And a gentle reminder to surround yourself with whatever helps you feel how you want to feel this weekend.

For me, that looks like camaraderie. I’ve got a hang planned with some friends I’ve known since we were teenagers. And I might go see a travel documentary with a group of people I’m just starting to get to know.

So, yeah, old connections and new ones. But the same thread.

And it made me realize something simple: we have more say than we think in how a weekend feels.

Not always in the circumstances (b/c life), but in what we move toward, who we spend time with, what we give our attention to, and the environments we place ourselves in.

Before the plans and the stories we tell ourselves about our lives…there’s the feeling. And sometimes, you can build toward it on purpose.

So this weekend, whatever it is you’re craving—rest, connection, joy, solitude, a little bit of everything—see if you can shape your time around that.

Even in small ways → Send the text. Take the walk. Make the plan. Say yes (or say no).

I am an anxious person frequently experience anxiety. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found ways to quiet that voice, although I suspect anxiety will always be there, always be part of my lil chorus of crazies.

One thing that’s helped to dampen that voice is to run a concierge service. For future-me.

Sometimes that looks tiny → Setting up my water bottle with electrolytes before bed so morning-me wakes up hydrated.

Sometimes it’s bigger → Like doing the workout I said I would. Or actually making time to connect with family and friends.

When I started thinking this way, something interesting happened: a different voice came online.

One that looks toward the future with care, and later gets to look back with gratitude when those small acts pay off. It turns out a lot of good decisions are just small favors we do for the person we’re about to become.

Anyway, little Friday thought:

I hope this weekend you do one small thing for your future self.

And if you feel like sharing, tell me in the comments what small favor you’re doing for future-you.

Rooting for ya!

Six years ago I started writing a novel.

Today I finished editing it.

There are still little things to tweak, of course. Edging closer—always—to a more apt word. Tracking down that comma that will try and betray me somewhere.

But the book is done.

And my god, when I tell you life has been lifing through all 12 drafts, I mean it:

• Covid

• A divorce

• More therapy than I expected

• Job loss

• Moving countries

• Walking away from writing entirely

• Even more therapy

• My dog dying

• And eventually...finding my way back to the page

The first thing I did when I finished this morning was to take a shower. Standing there, under the water, it hit me just how many versions of me it took to get this book done.

This is the part we don’t talk about often enough. All the tests that come with trying to build something meaningful. I lost track of all the moments where it would have been easier to stop (and for a while, I did).

Getting here was littered with extinction points, barely avoided.

For anybody working toward something you care about, anything at all, keep going. Sometimes the person who starts the dream isn’t the one who gets to finish it.

P.S. if you’re curious about the book, I’m posting the first part on my other Substack:

Mythic Matters

The Art of Killing Gods - Prologue

Author’s Note…

Read more

2 months ago · Alvin

Quick Friday PSA:

You know how when a friend tells you their idea you’re immediately like:

“Yes. Incredible. Do it. I believe in you.”

But when it’s your idea suddenly you’re giving this vibe:

“Hmm…but what if I’m secretly terrible and should sit quietly forever?”

Yeah. That. Let’s flip the script.

Root for yourself the way you would root for someone you love.

Whatever you’re working on right now—writing something, building something, trying something new, etc.—consider this your reminder to back yourself.

And if you feel like sharing, drop the thing you’re working on in the comments.

I’ll be in the background yelling:

“LET’S GOOOO!!”

Happy Friday.

Every time I sit down to write, there’s a small test.

It doesn’t matter if I’m excited about the idea, or if I’ve been mulling it over all day. The moment I sit down, suddenly there are a dozen other things that feel urgent.

I should probably check my email. And I definitely need to research that one idea a little more before I start. Also, the dishes could use doing. My brain becomes incredibly productive the moment writing is involved.

For a long time, I thought this meant something was wrong. If writing was really “my thing,” shouldn’t it feel easier to begin? Shouldn’t the words just kinda…show up?

But over the years I’ve realized the resistance is just part of the ritual.

Writing, at least for me, asks for a kind of devotion. Before the words come, I have to prove I’m willing to sit there anyway. I have to choose focus and ignore all the little escape hatches my mind keeps offering.

I know this sounds a little woo-woo, but I’ve always imagined there is a writing god somewhere who demands a small offering of attention before the connection opens. And if mystical notions aren’t your thing, you can think of it more simply: writing requires you to cross a threshold.

You have to arrive.

Understanding this has made the process easier. Don’t get me wrong, I still fail sometimes. I still occasionally convince myself that some random item on my to-do list has suddenly become extremely urgent.

A rogue sock on the floor can easily become a project to change all the air filters in the house somehow. But giving in to those moments happens less often now. I recognize the pattern. And as a dedicated lay worshiper at the altar, I know there’s always a moment of friction before the work begins. If I sit through it long enough, something eventually shifts. I fall into whatever it is I’m writing about.

And the best thing? Minutes melt away.

Because there is a beautiful reward waiting on the other side: writing introduces you to yourself.

When you sit with a thought long enough to articulate it clearly, you begin to understand what you actually believe. Writing becomes a mirror. Ideas you thought were simple turn out to be complicated and nuanced. Feelings you couldn’t quite name suddenly become visible. You start discovering connections between things you didn’t even realize your mind was holding.

And slowly, piece by piece, you begin to recognize your own voice.

That’s why I think it takes a long time to become a good writer. The craft can be picked up relatively quickly. Learning yourself, however, takes longer than you think.

What are your instincts?

Your obsessions?

What patterns keep appearing in the way you see the world?

You try different advice, different techniques, different rhythms, slowly shaping the writing self you’re becoming. A lot of things won’t stick. Eventually, though, the work starts to carry your fingerprint.

The other thing this introduction to myself has taught me is trust.

My writing process is more organic, which means it’s rare that I know exactly where a piece is going when I begin. Earlier in my life, that uncertainty made me nervous. Now it feels normal.

I know that if I stay with the material long enough—if I keep shaping it, turning it over, coming back to it from different angles—eventually the piece reveals its structure. That confidence only came from repetition. I passed the test enough times to realize the process works.

So if you’re somewhere on the writing path, whether you’re just starting or many years in, keep going.

The small act of sitting down anyway is where the magic begins. And over time, if you get decent enough attendance, writing will give you something back.

A clearer understanding of who you are.

Life can feel like rush rush rush.

But! Whatever you’re doing this weekend, I hope you catch yourself at least once and dig your toes a little deeper into the good parts of it. Really be there.

It’s your life, ya know? And we don’t get long.

Happy Friday!

For someone who yaps a lot about presence, I’m surprisingly uncomfortable with it.

In a previous post, I wrote that the in-between isn’t a pit stop. That I probably shouldn’t sprint through the ordinary parts of my life as if they’re just the hallway to somewhere better.

So I decided to test it. And for the past week, I stopped trying to optimize the in-between and just…be there.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that things took longer.

Monday is laundry day. Normally, I barrel through it in between work calls. Wash, dry, fold, finito. As I write this, two days later, it’s still sitting in a half-folded pile behind me on the guest bed. Also, the house is a little less tidy. I haven’t been meal prepping while vacuuming and taking out the recycling. I did one thing at a time.

And every time I felt the urge to speed it up, I had to bring myself back. It actually reminded me of meditation.

In my practice, the goal isn’t to eliminate wandering thoughts. It’s to notice when your mind drifts and gently return to your breath. Again and again. The returning is the work.

This felt similar. I would notice the impulse to multitask, to shave off minutes, to get ahead. Then I would consciously slow my roll and bring my attention back to what was in front of me.

One. Task. At. A. Time.

Le sigh.

It was harder than I expected. Because I realize I have a forward-leaning center of mass, at least when it comes to daily life. I like to get shit done. I would rather do it now than tomorrow.

But when it comes to the larger questions, I suddenly have all the time in the world. Where do I want to live? Am I all in on not having kids, or is that quietly shifting? Those can simmer for years.

To-do list? Immediate.

Life direction? I’ma get back to you in 2030.

When I slowed the small things down, something inverted. The ordinariness of chores created space. Yeah, I felt the warmth of the metal cutlery as I put away freshly dried dishes. Sure, I also breathed in the earthy sweetness of cocoa butter when I moisturized. I let the moment be the moment instead of a bridge to the next one.

But in that quiet, other thoughts surfaced.

What do I want to build with my writing?

What does it mean that my parents are moving slower now, more gray threading through their hair?

If I don’t have kids, what shape does legacy take for me?

When I stopped stacking activities, I couldn’t dismiss those questions as easily. I didn’t have a a podcast episode filling every silence. There was no breathwork practice layered over chores layered over responding to texts. Just space to contend and think about things more deeply.

From what I understand, this is when the brain’s default mode network comes online, which are the parts of our brains responsible for meaning-making. That system connects dots and wanders into bigger questions when we aren’t actively consuming or performing.

I’ll bet that, subconsciously, that’s why it’s so tempting for me to hover at max capacity. Speed gives the impression of progress. I’m moving, so clearly I must be advancing. But you can run very fast without ever asking where you’re headed. Busyness can definitely function as avoidance.

The takeaway here isn’t that slow(er?) living is superior. I’m not trying to live my best monk life. Not yet. I still like efficiency. One of my favorite drugs is crossing things off. What this experiment showed me is that speed shouldn’t be automatic. Many of us are culturally conditioned toward acceleration. I certainly am. I mean I’m a kid of capitalism, brought up by two born-and-raised New Yorkers. There will probably always be a slight forward tilt in me. Chuck in AI, productivity culture, and constant innovation, and the pressure to keep up feels justified. I’ll admit, exciting even.

But who decides the direction we’re accelerating toward? And have we actually agreed to it?

The deeper shift for me wasn’t about becoming slower. It was learning that I need to become more adept at modulating. There are moments that demand speed. Deadlines. Emergencies. Creative surges. And then there are seasons that demand something else entirely.

I was wrong in my previous post. The in between is a pit stop. But it’s a proper one you have to pull into, so you can stretch your legs and check the map. Ask why you’re driving in this direction at all, and double check you’re not flooring it out of habit.

The bigger questions are already waiting for us.

We just have to ease off the gas long enough to hear them.

Sometimes I think about how statistically ridiculous it is that we’re here.  

Parents -> Grandparents -> Great-Grandparents. All the what ifs that didn’t happen so that this could.

Whatever you believe (God, gods, simulation, etc.), life still hands us the usual mix of joy and nonsense. But it feels worth pausing to say, it’s pretty wild that you exist at all.

And maybe even wilder that, out of all the timelines and variables, you’re here reading this right now, our lives overlapping on this strange corner of the internet.

That feels rare.

Anyway.

Strap in. This ride is kinda unhinged, and there’s a lot more to see. Glad you’re here tho. Truly.

Happy Friday!!

I’ve realized I rush through a lot of my life.

Even something as small as going to the grocery store can turn into a whole tactical operation. They got me speed-walking past the produce, mentally stacking errands, and treating the whole thing like a pit stop before the “real” part of my day begins.

There’s this quiet urgency humming underneath it all:

Get it done → Bundle it up → Keep it moving.

I tell myself I’m doing this to maximize my free time later in the day. But do I really need to unload the dishwasher while listening to a podcast while doing box breathing while planning my next task so I can transition seamlessly into the next chore all so I can finally…rest?

Prolly not.

And here’s the part that stings a little: even when rest does come, I don’t always take it. It can’t just be sitting on the couch watching an episode of Scandal. It’s, oh, I can also use this time to check emails. Make next month’s budget. Respond to texts. Be productive-adjacent with my rest time backgrounded.

So much of life quietly turns into a stepping stone.

It’s even pervasive in digital life. This platform, for example, is full of posts about increasing subscriber count. Scale. Growth. And sometimes it feels like they drown out the quieter joy of just writing. Of just sharing something because it feels true. You know, I’ll come clean, I feel that pull too. I obsess over check my stats and think about how to increase them. I have four subscribers right now, and sometimes, when I look at that number, I hear that unhelpful voice that whispers to me that I’m failing or behind. That I should be further along.

But the fun part? It’s writing and connecting. Also—four real humans choosing to read this feels kind of miraculous when I actually stop and think about it.

And I only realize that when I slow down long enough to notice it.

Because if I move through every experience aimed at the next milestone—always optimizing, always bundling, always scanning for “what’s next”—how much of here am I missing?

I have a sneaking suspicion there is something inside the boring bits. The dishwater? Maybe. Hovering in the produce aisle long enough to actually choose the fruit that calls to you, the slow traipse back to the car? Could be.

But I don’t think I’ll find it if I dedicate my entire experience to efficiency.

There’s that Annie Dillard line:

Well...if how I spend my days is how I spend my life, I’d like at least some of it to feel like I was actually there. I don’t want to treat each hour like a holding pattern until I reach some future place. Not only because that place may never arrive, but because I’m starting to suspect joy isn’t stored there anyway. I think it’s scattered. Quietly. Everywhere. And it’s hard to notice if I don’t leave space open in my experiences.

So, I’m going to try something.

For one week, I’m not going to rush my way through the “in-between” parts of my day. I’m going to move a little slower. Like I’m walking through water. Even typing that, I can feel my body tense up and my leg rebel by bouncing under the desk.

We’ll see what happens.

If you want to try it too, meet me here next Wednesday. We’ll compare notes.

And if you see me standing still somewhere, don’t panic.

It’s on purpose.

Happy Friday, gang!

I hope your weekend is heavy on fun. Or peace. Or those tiny, ordinary things that make you grin for no real reason.

Oh, and light on everything that doesn’t actually matter.

Carry on.

There have been weekends where the most social thing I’ve done is chat with the trainer at the gym.

I didn’t think I’d become a cliché, but here I am. Just another lonely male in America.

It’s hard to admit that. And I don’t fully fit the statistic (read: could def be in some denial). I have friends. I have love. I have family. But I don’t have a circle where I live. There are weeks where no one reaches out to me, and that’s a strange thing to feel when you were born in the 1900s.

A couple of years ago, I moved back to the States to be closer to my family. And I don’t regret it. I got to hold my newborn nephew and watch him tilt his head with wide curiosity whenever I sang to him. I got to celebrate his first birthday in person. I get to help my parents set up their smart TVs and fix whatever WiFi thing isn’t working. I get Sunday dinners—my mom’s saucy, sweet, yet smoky baby back ribs—and proximity and a kind of steadiness that didn’t exist when I was living abroad.

But what I left behind was something extraordinary too.

Picture this: a field somewhere in the Netherlands. Lowlands music festival. Someone teaching me and my crew how to vogue, badly at first, dramatically by the end. Later, groovin to Anderson .Paak like nothing in the world mattered. Because at a four-day music festival the only worry is what to wear that day and which set we’re catching next.

My friends and I danced as a cluster of bodies who knew each other well. Just shared rhythm. Sweat. Inside jokes. And that smile. That knowing smile when their favorite part of the song comes on and you catch it at the exact same second and all you can do is belt along with them and dance. Just dance.

Then there were the ordinary nights. Piled on a couch binge-watching Insecure or Common Side Effects, half-watching, half-talking about life. Fully focused on what snacks we collected for the viewing event. The kind of friends who are just…in your life. Several times a month. Effortlessly.

I didn’t just leave friends. I left chosen family.

Now, it’s different.

There are Fridays where I find myself checking my phone like it owes me something. Hoping for an invite to go hiking or just a “hey, what are you up to?” Only to remember…oh right. I don’t really know anybody in this city like that yet.

I’m trying. Slowly. I’ve joined a social club. I’ve gone to a few of events. I’m saying yes (more than I want to tbh). But it’s humbling to introduce myself again and again. It’s strange to walk into a room alone and realize everyone else arrived with someone. People are in their pods. Their parenting rhythms. Their long-standing group chats.

I don’t blame them. I just feel the gap. And I want in haha!

I think that’s the part of the statistic we don’t talk about. Not the dramatic loneliness or the total isolation. Just the slow narrowing. The subtle shrinking of your social world without you fully noticing. Until one day you look up and wonder where the f*** did everybody go?!

I’m not the lonely man with no one. But I understand how someone becomes him.

I can reread all the philosophy about seasons and chapters of life. It gives hope, but it sure don’t fix Friday night.

Still, I know this isn’t forever.

My life has moved in chapters before. Seasons of no money but partnership. Seasons of partnership but little stability. Seasons of deep friendship and light responsibility. You can’t have it all. Or at least not all at once.

Right now, I think I’m in a chapter of rebuilding. It has given me time. I write more. I reflect more. There is something steady about that. Something intentional.

But boy do I miss having friends.

I miss the ease of knowing who to call. I miss being in someone’s Tuesday, not just their quarterly rotation.

If you’re in this chapter too—starting over, circling rooms alone, checking your phone a little too often—I see you.

I’m building again. Awkwardly. Saying yes. Showing up. The hardest part is challenging the social anxiety that whispers it’s easier to stay home. I know that one day my cup will be full again. Not the same cup, of course. Not the same people. But something new (with it’s own issues to gripe about then).

For now, I’m in the in-between.

And it’s harder than the quotes make it sound.

This week, I wrote a letter to someone from my childhood who gave me something rare: a place that felt warm and safe.

Growing up is messy, as we all know. But their house is one of the few places I look back on with real gratitude. A home full of learning and kindness. I told them I never really thought of them as just a neighbor, more like family. And that’s still true.

They’re probably in their late 80s or early 90s now, and I realized this wasn’t one of those things to get around to. Which was…clarifying. It reminded me how easily we postpone saying what matters. How often we assume there will always be more time to say thank you, or I love you, or you mattered in ways you probably never realized.

So as this week begins, consider this a small invitation to notice who shaped you, even quietly. And if you can, let them know. A note. A call. Some sort of moment of acknowledgment.

And while we’re here, let me say this too: I’m grateful you’ve taken the time to read this. It means a lot.

Happy Friday, peeps!

If you’ve got any good energy to spare today, let it radiate out in small, ordinary ways this weekend.

The world notices more than you think (and needs it too).

I am my own best friend first.

That sentence took a long time to become true.

There were long stretches of my life where I was mean to Alvin. At war with myself. I had a real talent for saying the most hurtful thing possible and calling it “just the truth.”

Unsurprisingly, being brutal with myself made it easier to be brutal with other people. When you live under constant internal critique, sharpness starts to feel like a personality trait instead of a defense mechanism. People will even compliment you for the brusqueness if you garner a few laughs out of it. It has fans.

These days, I move differently.

I dance by myself. I laugh with myself—often at myself (which: fair). I talk to myself like someone worth listening to. And I’ve learned to appreciate my experience in the world, not as something to fix, but something to inhabit. Aloneness, it turns out, can be a form of intimacy. I like to think of it as building kinship with my soul.

Getting here has been a journey. But I had help: practices, people, & spaces that taught me how to sand down my edges. And even then, this is a relationship that I still tend to. It is by no means a finished state.

I believe everyone has to find their own way into self-friendship, often times through some sort of lived-in, daily practice.

You know there’s that old saying: if you want to change the world, start with your house.

I’ve come to realize that it begins even earlier than that. Before you can show up differently in your home—or with the people you love—you have to learn how to live gently inside your own internal walls. How you speak to yourself becomes the blueprint. From there, it’s a series of concentric circles as you move through your relationships, your community, and the world beyond your door.

Everybody’s path is going to be personalized, probably littered with a series of honest experiments. But what matters is noticing what makes you softer instead of smaller along the way.

I hope today you look at yourself in the mirror and give yourself a hug, maybe even a high five. Hype yourself up, if only for a moment! There is real power in being on your own side and discovering the version of yourself you don’t have to brace against. The one who makes the ride feel a little lighter.

Be gentle with the soul strapped into this strange, beautiful ride called being alive.