confessions from a high-speed train jostling me across europe
SEP 20, 2026
Outside, central Germany is wet pine forests and concrete overpasses, a landscape scrubbed of recognisable human history. The train does not rock so much as it vibrates, a low hum settling into my bones. I close my eyes and feel myself drifting, wondering exactly what I am running towards and what I am leaving behind.
People like to think that a transformation is an architecture of accumulation. That it is about adding more, acquiring more, stacking new habits like clean linen in a closet. They do not tell you about the wreckage. They do not talk about the sheer volume of inner infrastructure that has to fall away, the absolute erosion of the self, just for you to occupy the space you are standing in now.
I sit in the compartment and run through the inventory of the discarded. The old patterns. The worn-out defaults. The frantic, administrative courtesy of people-pleasing: a symptom of an advanced alienation from oneself, the terrible habit of tolerating the intolerable simply because you lack the nerve to imagine an alternative.
What we fail to understand about growth and evolution is its physics. We imagine the word leap as an act of grace, an upward trajectory, but in the immediate geography of the moment, it feels entirely like a fall. A trust fall into a clean, unblinking unknown. There is no safety net in true surrender; there is no guardian angel waiting at the trailhead with a legal guarantee that it is definitely going to work out. A quantum leap is a hostile act against your own comfort zone. It requires a cold, blind faith, a willingness to sit in a room and make the scariest decisions of your life without knowing if the floor will hold.
You have to become, if nothing else, best friends with the art of uncertainty.
I look at the grey blur moving past the window and realise how many limiting beliefs I had to systematically dismantle just to allow that uncertainty into the room without letting it consume me.
This unexpected European tour has been less of a vacation and more of a systematic dismantling. Athens, Valencia, Paris, Leipzig, London. Each stop a coordinate on a map of my own undoing, a series of safe houses run by the life-giving web of female friends who hold the perimeter while I allow myself to fall.
In this latest video, in the quiet sanctuary of a Parisian kitchen, come join me as I chop vegetables, make a slow lunch, and have a real, unvarnished chat with you about finding my way home.
Which brings me to the question people always ask: Where to next? What is the plan?
My most logical and elegant approach is always to follow the path of least resistance. In the language of alignment, that simply means following the threads that create a definitive, resonant yes in the body. Right now, that flow is directing me toward looking at apartments in both Paris and Marseille. Whichever door opens smoothly, whichever lease falls into place: that is where I will stay for a while.
But if I am being entirely honest, if I am willing to make a true confession on this high-speed train, the truth is that I am being haunted by California.
For over eighteen months, there has been a steady, golden-frequency yearning to spend three to six months in Southern California. Somewhere in South L.A. or Orange County. It makes absolutely no sense. I am acutely aware of the energetic, financial, and emotional investment a trial period in that part of the world would demand of me. Part of me is terrified.
Yet the pull persists, warm and blindingly optimistic, vibrating beneath the surface of my skin. It exists as an inconvenient, sharp intuition that my next expansion is waiting on that coast. That there are people I am meant to meet, a specific manifestation frequency I need to tune into, and literal land I need to touch.
I exist in the terrifying, beautiful friction of true surrender: planning for an apartment in France, but leaving my heart wide open for the opportunity to orbit under the Californian sun.
on substack (where these letters live)
When this platform first materialised, the pitch was simple: it was a newsletter platform. It promised an uncomplicated transmission from my mind to your inbox. Enamoured, I migrated all the emails I had systematically accrued over the span of a decade of working online, and I continued to send emails exactly as I always had. But the architecture of the internet does not stay static.
Over the past two years, Substack has engineered an evolution, shifting from a newsletter utility into a sprawling, long-form social media network.
I find myself loving it for two very specific reasons.
First, like any functioning social matrix, it opens a door for organic discovery; it is the most elegant way I know of right now to let new eyes find my words and naturally grow my ecosystem. That is a beautiful, expansive thing.
Second, and perhaps most importantly, it rejects the old internet economy of scarcity. Unlike traditional networks that demand you perform for free, this space actively encourages us to place a definitive premium on our labour. It allows us to assign actual value to the hours, the weeks, and the cumulative years spent honing our perspectives, our tastes, our expression and our internal alignment.
I think this is an incredible, almost radical milestone, particularly for women, who have been systematically conditioned by our culture to undervalue our output. We finally possess the agency to place a protective boundary around work that is meaningful, valuable, and precious. We call it a paywall, but it is actually an act of self-respect.
Based on this shift in the digital climate, two things are altering in this space.
- I will be paywalling more of my writing moving forward.Β
- A new, alternate space is emerging: one that will always remain entirely free.
The truth is that while this platform is incredible for generating a body of work, being discovered and sharing oneβs voice, it is no longer the most frictionless way to guide you directly toward my tangible offerings.
Because of that, I have made the decision to split the stream and build a brand-new email list. Four hundred of you have already followed the shift and hopped over. If you receive these letters purely as a reader and you have no interest in participating in another social network, I highly suggest making the jump now.
π π click here π π
on muses ~ a weekly creative container
For the past few years I have been repeatedly asked a specific question. You wanted a dedicated space where we could gather and continue the deep, structural labour we initiated inside my creative and business containers. I always possessed the desire to build it, but the internal alignment wasnβt there. The timing was off.
Until now.
muses is a weekly, ninety-minute creative co-working container designed for the explicit purpose of bringing your visions into concrete reality. It is a held space to write, think, make, dream, and systematically move the things that matter to you forward, alongside an ecosystem of others who are also forging their own distinct paths into the world.
We meet live on Zoom every Tuesday.
You show up on time, land in the space while soft music plays, state your intention, and then for the next sixty minutes, we put our heads down and we do the work. There are no weekly lessons, no homework, and no dense curricula to consume; it is a pure, unadulterated creative co-working space.
Maybe you have looked at your life and realised that your experiences, your obsessions, your half-finished projects, and your notes app full of brilliant thoughts are all pointing somewhere. That they are material. But they require a container to hold them so they donβt dissolve into the ether.
muses is for those building a body of work and for following that ephemeral project. Whether you dream, write, teach, think, create, or run a business, you do not need someone to tell you what to do, but need the time, the structure, the companionship, and a reliable sanctuary where you can bring the work and execute it. This is for you.
Upon request and because I want this container to remain accessible to different financial levels, it operates on a sustainable, sliding scale of β¬33 to β¬59 per month. Each option grants you the exact same, dedicated experience.
To protect the continuity and the organic frequency of our community, we only open the doors quarterly. Our next quarterly entry point is right now. If you are ready to stop putting off the creative life you keep saying youβll get around to, consider this your invitation into easy, co-creative consistency.
π§ββοΈπ§ββοΈ join muses π§ββοΈπ§ββοΈ
The train finally slows, its metal wheels grinding with a heavy, predictable finality as we pull into the Leipzig station. A drizzly German afternoon is waiting outside the window. I look at my hands, at the notebook open on my lap, and I realise that the person arriving on this platform is not the same person who left Bali four weeks ago.
The old defaults have been left somewhere, scattered across the continent as it insisted on my undoing, but the new foundation hasn’t materialised yet. There is no apartment lined up, no physical land beneath my feet, no guarantee of where the trajectory ends.
The fall is not over. I am still entirely in it, breathing inside the emptiness until the right frequency reveals where I am meant to land. But as the doors hiss open and I step out to meet a friendship that has survived two decades, the unknown is more than a vacuum of unease; it is also where the future is actively being made.