Somewhere along the way, you learned to put others first. Maybe it was in the way you were raised, the unspoken lessons of love wrapped in sacrifice. Maybe it was the way people praised your selflessness, the way they called you reliable, kind, good. Maybe it was the fear—fear of being too much, fear of being not enough, fear that asking for more would tip the delicate balance of belonging. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, you felt undeserving. Undeserving of ease, of care, of wanting something simply because it called to you. Maybe you told yourself that joy had to be earned, that rest was for those who had done enough, that desire itself was indulgent.

In the quiet moments, when life feels heavy and uncertain, have you noticed how the presence of others can be a balm for the soul? Like sunlight filtering through a canopy of trees, soft and golden, community offers us a mosaic of warmth and light—a reminder that even when shadows fall, we are never truly alone. Within the embrace of connection, we find the quiet hum of life’s rhythm, as though the beating hearts around us create a symphony, inviting us to dance even in the face of doubt.

Self-care, as we understand it today, has often been stripped of its radical roots, diluted into fleeting indulgences or marketable trends. But its essence—when we return to the wisdom of those like Audre Lorde and adrienne maree brown—carries the power to transform ourselves and the world around us.

In A Burst of Light, Lorde reminds us: "Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare."

In times of unease, when the world feels fragmented and heavy with uncertainty, hope can seem like a fragile, elusive thing. And yet, it is precisely in these moments that hope becomes most radical—a fierce act of defiance against despair and resignation. Today, as we navigate the currents of a fraught political climate, I write to you about the power of radical hope: not as a passive feeling, but as an active, transformative force.

I write to you today about a word—a concept, a way of being—that has captivated my heart: philotimo. Though this Greek term has no direct translation in English, it holds a world of meaning. Philotimo speaks to a deep sense of honor, dignity, and love for what is good and noble. It is a compass for living, guiding one to act with kindness, generosity, and a sense of responsibility toward others. It is, in many ways, the soul of humanity distilled into a single word.

As the year bends toward its close, I find myself reflecting on the ways we gather. In homes warmed by laughter, around tables laden with food, in quiet moments of shared presence—we come together. There is something sacred about gathering, especially during this season when the air feels tinged with both nostalgia and hope. It is a time when we pause, however briefly, to connect with one another and with the essence of who we are.

I hope this letter reaches you on a day when the sun is shining just a little brighter or the rain is falling in a soothing rhythm. Have you noticed how nature has a way of calling us back to ourselves? Whether it’s the whisper of leaves in the breeze, the steady crash of waves on the shore, or the stillness of a forest, nature holds a mirror to the parts of us we often forget in the chaos of daily life.

I hope this letter finds you with a moment to pause and reflect, a rare gift in the whirlwind of daily life. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the ways art—music, books, paintings, poetry—has a way of bringing us back to ourselves and connecting us with others. Art, in all its forms, seems to have this inexplicable ability to meet us where we are, whether in joy, sorrow, or quiet contemplation.

I hope this letter finds you in a quiet moment, perhaps one where the world has slowed just enough for you to catch your breath. I want to tell you about something that has grounded me, something that feels as old as time itself: walking and hiking. There’s a rhythm to placing one foot in front of the other, a cadence that mirrors the beating of our hearts, the ebb and flow of our breath.

I hope this letter finds you in a moment of reflection, perhaps even in a moment of longing. I write to you today about something that ties us all together: the ache for connection. It is one of the most fundamental parts of being human, isn’t it? The need to feel seen, heard, and known.

I want to share something with you, something that has been sitting in my heart: You are art. The lives we create, the way we move through the world, the marks we leave behind—they are all strokes on the canvas of existence. And yet, how easy it is to lose sight of this truth. We get caught up in the endless push of productivity, the pull of survival, and we forget to pause and appreciate the artwork we are creating simply by living.

I want to share some thoughts with you about grief, something we all encounter at different points in our lives. When we think of grief, we often associate it with the loss of a loved one—death being the primary lens through which we’ve been taught to understand deep sorrow. My work as a therapist has shown me that grief’s presence in our lives extends far beyond that.

I want to share something with you that’s been on my mind—a conversation about language, specifically the language of therapy, and how it’s woven into our everyday lives. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Through the rise of social media, words once spoken in the quiet confines of therapy sessions have made their way into everyday conversations.