about NYC being a place of contrast requiring inner stability, and the quiet strength of being well-resourced
When I stepped out of JFK airport and followed the signs to the subway, I braced myself. New York is known for its edge, its abrasion. I am soft. I tend and protect that softness like a flame cupped in two hands. I wasn’t sure how it would survive here.
I tapped my phone at the turnstile and joined a tall young man in the elevator. He wore headphones and held himself like someone accustomed to noise. Still, I turned to him, map pulled up on my phone, unsure where to go. He removed one earbud, glanced at the screen, and said in the gentlest voice, “You can’t get the F from here, but if you take the K, you can transfer in three stops.”
I blinked. He had such a kind presence. His softness mirrored mine. Maybe there’s space for gentleness here, after all.
I followed his directions toward the Lower East Side. A few minutes into the ride, the unmistakable smell of urine filled the carriage. A man down the carriage—middle-aged, Chinese descent—had wet himself and begun swearing loudly. Slurring. Angry. A different kind of edge.
This city, I’m learning, holds everything. Softness and despair. Precision and chaos. A young man with headphones offering quiet directions. An older man unravelling in public. Here, opposites coexist, unapologetically. New York is a city of contrasts, and that is, perhaps, its defining trait.
The days have spilled into one another like rainwater pooling in uneven stone. Time behaves differently here. Moments stretch. Then vanish. Weeks slip past before I can grab hold. What I’m learning is this: I cannot tether myself to the outside world. It’s too volatile. Too fast. Too much.
Instead, I tether myself inward. I return to a still point inside me — a quiet place I cultivate through ritual and self-devotion. I nurture it like a small garden: feeding it with breath, rest, laughter, water, movement, music. A daily act of remembrance. Of protection. Of belonging to myself.
Sometimes, it’s as simple as walking to Whole Foods alone, sending a few voice notes to the women who hold me in their hearts. That ten-minute walk fulfils two needs: solitude and connection. It’s imperfect. But it’s enough.
Work is another tether. Returning to it each day — whether I want to or not — grounds me. I write. I build. I teach. I remember who I am. Even when the city pulls me in every direction.
Last night, friends made homemade pizza and poured glasses of white wine. We ate slowly, talked about art, about cities we’ve loved. And then, walking home, we passed a man with his trousers around his knees, bare bottom exposed, head buried in a trash bin. Of course. That’s New York, too.
Right now, I’m writing this during a live co-writing session for The Art of Noticing. Eight of us are here, silent on Zoom, warm orchestral music in the background. Earlier, we spoke about a line from one of my recent essays about being a well-resourced woman. We explored how writing can teach without instructing. That sometimes, the lesson is simply in the living.
In Her Way Club, this here community I lead, that’s what I teach: how to listen inward. How to find your way—not the right way, not the perfect way, but yourway. In writing. In loving. In parenting. In creating. In becoming.
And to find your way, you must first be resourced. You need space. You need softness. You need access to yourself.
Being resourced is a privilege, yes. But it’s also a practice. A skill we build and rebuild. I see it as the art of tending to our inner ecosystem. Of becoming our own safe haven.
It means expanding your capacity to meet life without collapsing. Learning to sit with discomfort. Making choices from groundedness, not panic. It doesn’t mean you never need others. It means you’re not uprooted every time the wind blows.
How do you become that person?
You start small:
You build a daily rhythm that supports your nervous system.
You learn to breathe when you want to scream.
You create a home that feels like a hug.
You save a little money, even when it’s hard.
You learn to cook a meal you love.
You reach out and you know how to be alone.
You keep learning. Keep listening.
This is what I’ve brought with me to New York. Not just clothes and books and dreams, but tools. Practices. A soft heart and a solid core.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
We have always been curious about the lives of others.
Long before television and tabloids, we craned our necks at windows, imagined stories behind closed doors. That impulse to know, to glimpse, to understand is ancient. We are, all of us, secret witnesses, seeking reflection, seeking difference, seeking the tender knowledge that we are not alone.
“Ah,” we think, “so this is how another human moves through the day. How strange. How ordinary. How marvellous.”
Most of us, if asked, would call our days unremarkable. We would point to the routines, the errands, the silences, and shrug. But presence alters the lens. What once seemed plain is suddenly flooded with texture:
The amber glow of morning through the blinds. The brief pleasure of a spoon against the roof of the mouth. The idle reaching for a book, for a thought, for another hand.
A life, it turns out, is made not of milestones, but of minutiae.
It was this quiet revelation that shaped this week’s assignment in The Art of Noticing, the six-week writing club I am leading. The prompt is borrowed, with gratitude, from Aisling Marron of Notes From New York, who herself was inspired by a podcast of the same name.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
No digressions. No rewinding or fast-forwarding. Only the bare, shining truth of a single day, as it unfolded.
Here is mine:
7:00am My boyfriend’s alarm goes off, the buzz slicing through the heavy fog of my sleep. I roll onto my side, eyes gritty, my head thick and stuffed with cotton wool. Regret clings to me immediately. Regret for the ambitious plans I agreed to, for not protecting the softness of this morning. But I am an adult and adults honour their commitments, so I climb down the ladder from our loft bed, bare feet pressing onto the cool wooden floor. I pull my aligners from my mouth, soak them in their cleaning agent, put the kettle on, and drop an ‘immune support’ Yogi tea bag into favourite mug. I find my tiny jar of Egyptian Magic and bring it and the tea to the sofa. My face aches, pulsing with the imprint of too-little sleep and the too-salty dinner from the night before. I settle into the cushions and begin to massage my lymph nodes slowly — chest, neck, jawline, cheeks, scalp — coaxing the fluid back into its pathways, feeling the swelling subside little by little. These small, tender rituals make me grateful for everything I’ve learned about how to tend to myself.
7:30am My boyfriend finds me curled up on the sofa, kisses me. “How did you sleep?” he asks, and I reply “Fine”. I stretch my arms overhead and yawn, “The problem with making plans ahead of time is you never know how you’re going to feel when they arrive.” I splash warm water on my face, wipe off the leftover balm with a soft cloth, and brush my teeth, waking myself up bit by bit. He laughs and mixes creatine into two glasses of water — one for each of us. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder as I quickly scroll through my social apps, answering urgent messages and uploading the next The Art of Noticing lesson for my writing club. “Let’s go for coffee!” he suggests, and I peel myself away to dig through drawers in our little walk-in wardrobe, finding black leggings, a soft, sky-blue yoga tank, and my favourite Free People fleece that still smells of Portugal.
8:15am As we descend the narrow staircase of our building, he tells me in hushed tones about how he heard someone fiddling with our lock in the night. A chill prickles up my spine; New York feels wild and unpredictable. We agree to tell the landlord, unsure how concerned we ought to be. Our favourite coffee shop is tucked just under our building, but he’s craving a vegan croissant, so we detour to Essex Market, the morning still crisp and pale. When we arrive, the market is shuttered, the gates still pulled down. Even New York, it seems, has its limits. By the time we return, the coffee shop has filled with people; there’s a queue spooled inside. We squeeze in, order two coffees and a few treats: a tahini cookie and oat cappuccino for him, a flat white and buttery croissant for me. I’m still hollow from yesterday’s hunger and bite into the pastry peeking out of the paper bag before the coffees arrive.
9:00am I log onto Zoom for a meeting with an alumna from The Mentor Training. As we speak, my sluggish mind lifts into a higher orbit, buoyed by the energy of possibility. I remember — oh yes — I have built things, beautiful things. I have made worlds out of ideas. It’s so easy for me to forget, to always chase the next horizon without pausing to admire the view. Having it mirrored back to me reignites a quiet fire inside.
9:45am We end the call with a plan and a few fresh objectives, and I scramble around our tiny LES apartment gathering keys and my phone, throwing back a glass of water before running to yoga class. I arrive breathless but just in time. The teacher welcomes me warmly: she’s tall, with a fluid grace, long stretchy limbs, and a soft accent that feels instantly soothing. She gestures for me to grab two blocks and a strap, and I find a space right at the front. A man plops down beside me at the last moment. Round-bellied, bald, but adorned in a pink ballerina-style outfit, bright red lipstick and nails to match. I smile to myself: we’re all girls here today.
10:00am We begin on our backs, breath deepening, bodies sinking into the earth. The teacher’s style is light and casual, her voice weaving through the room like a ribbon. As we move into slow sun salutations, I feel the two decades of practice unfurling in my muscles, a familiar dance. Movement practices like yoga are an anchor for me, a home I can return to no matter how much the outer world shape-shifts. By the end of class, every inch of me feels stretched and rinsed clean. I thank the teacher quietly, wipe my mat with a lemon-scented towelette, and slide my Birkenstocks back on, feeling the earth a little closer beneath my feet.
11:30am A 10-minute voice note from my bestie is waiting, so I pop my headphones in as I wander home, the city buzzing around me. I duck into a small beauty boutique and marvel at the rows of glass bottles and creams before finding my beloved Italian leave-in conditioner. $42, I am willing to invest in. As I browse, I send her a stream-of-consciousness voice reply, not to inform but to process; our sacred girlfriend ritual. It’s therapy in miniature, given and received without expectation.
11:45am By the time I get home, I’m ravenous. I find my boyfriend deep in work at the tiny kitchen table and ask if he wants to share a picnic. He nods silently as I pull guacamole, purple corn chips, and baby carrots from the fridge. I slice tofu, arrange everything on a big plate, and pour coconut water into tall glasses. We carry it all to the coffee table and sit cross-legged, eating with our fingers and laughing about nothing in particular. I love how easy nourishment can be when it’s shared.
12:30pm The shower is in the kitchen, a relic from the building’s pre-plumbing past. The hot water washes the morning away: tea-tree scented soap, a razor across my legs, a shampoo bar in my hair and afterwards my new leave-in conditioner combed through and coconut oil slathered on my skin with slow devotion. Fridays are for beauty, for romance, for the small Venusian acts of pleasure. I leave my hair to air dry, slip into shorts and a loose lounge top, and tidy the apartment, vacuum humming underfoot. I can’t sit down to work until my space feels clean and peaceful.
1:00pm I curl into child’s pose on the sofa to write emails, tucked into myself. Eventually, my legs go numb, and I unfold with a sigh. I tick through admin tasks for The Mentor Training, refilling my water glass now and then. Around 3pm, I hand my boyfriend a glass too, scolding him lightly for not drinking enough. We giggle about something small and silly, and suddenly, at the same time, blurt out, “I love you.” He pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly. “I love this,” he says, forehead against mine. “Working quietly together. Laughing. It’s precious.” I press my palm to his heart, and we both turn to admire the little pot of spring flowers blooming vibrantly in the window, as if blessing the day.
4:40pm He has plans to meet a friend at 5:00pm, and I decide to tag along, craving fresh air more than another minute of screen time. I waste most of my twenty-minute warning scrolling, then throw on a dress and sneakers, and wipe a lip tint on, and we’re out the door. We meet his friend at Essex Market and order drinks — matcha latte for me, iced decaf for them — and wander through the golden slant of late afternoon. I find myself distracted by the light bouncing off the buildings, the life vibrating in the streets. We wander through hidden galleries, a park filled with wildly competitive ping pong matches, and a tiny poodle who decides to befriend me. On a tucked-away corner, I discover Casetta, the sweetest wine bar, and instantly decide we must return for date night.
Casetta
6:00pm We stop at a market to pick up a baguette, some hummus, pico de gallo, and tiny, perfect avocados. Bread in NYC is standard stale (why?) but we take our bounty home for a second, casual picnic at the coffee table, layering pesto and arugula and salt on thick slices. We eat quickly, laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates, knowing we have to leave soon for our night at the Whitney.
7:50pm The Whitney is alive, packed with people, more than we expected. It’s a little overwhelming trying to see the art through the thick crowd. Still, some moments shine. I overhear a girl say to her boyfriend, “You have marathons, I have stairs,” as we climb to the rooftop, and I laugh in solidarity. And at the top the whole city stretched out in luminous twilight. He pulls me close, kisses me with a rare, wild tenderness, and I feel something invisible and important shift between us.
8:45pm We meander back downtown through SoHo and into LES, the streets thick with nightlife now, music spilling out of bars and windows flung open. New York shape-shifts after dark, but I don’t feel the pull to join it. I feel full already — full of the day, of the hours stacked like soft, golden bricks inside me.
9:30pm We tumble onto the sofa and watch the latest episode of Severance, my body warm and heavy with tiredness. Afterwards, I move through my nighttime rituals: wash my face, brush my teeth, click my aligners back in. We climb the ladder into our loft bed. He wraps himself around me protectively, and I sink into his warmth, into the safety of our tiny kingdom, asleep almost before my head touches the pillow.
Was it a good day? (They always ask that on the pod.)
Yes — it was an excellent day. A day stitched with small joys: pastries and coffee, sunshine on skin, a body stretched long and sweet in yoga, easy laughter shared across a tiny kitchen table, a museum kissed by sunset, the heavy, sore satisfaction of a life well-lived inside an ordinary Friday.
This is a story about my cat who is the love of my life and if it’s not your thing I suggest not reading it but it’s the only way I can process my broken heart right now.
MAR 28, 2025
I wake at half past six in the morning with tears. I try to brush them away but they quell under my closed eyelids and start to wet my face. I get up and go to the bathroom to dry them and blow my nose. Not right now, I think to myself and get back into bed, chest rampant with grief.
Half an hour later the alarm goes off and my boyfriend stirs. He’s leaving for New York this morning. I curl up into his arm and we cuddle in silence for a while exchanging few words. I can tell he is distracted with his day ahead. I don’t mind.
I have my own inner world to tend to.
He gets up, dresses and places the final things into his already-packed bags. We embrace and kiss a few more times, and I ask him to keep me updated on his journey. “I’ll get everything ready for you for when you come”, he smiles tenderly. “Ok,” I reply, “I’ll bring all the fun”. We kiss one last time, and he walks out the door.
Finally, alone. I can grieve.
I can’t believe I let go of my baby!!! I sob out loud to myself. The waterfall of sadness that has been pressing against the edges of my body begins to pour out. I had cried, but in more restrained ways, up until now.
My baby, I keep saying between waves of tears. I’ve lost my baby. I start to clean the house. A well-meaning friend sends a photo from when he really was a baby, and it sets me off again.
I take the rug off the floor, put it in the washing machine and cry. It’s full of cat hairs. I wipe the surfaces, move the furniture around, and vacuum the remnants of cat litter sprinkled on the floor and cry. I strip the linen from the bed, mop the floors and cry.
I clean to move the emotions through my body. I clean to change the energy of my space after a week filled with big feelings. I clean for self-care to help stage my own letting go process. I clean, and I cry big, loud, ugly, sobbing tears.
We met almost exactly 6 years ago in Mexico.
There was a construction site where a big resort was being built between the old town and the jungle where I lived on the Pacific Coast. Walking home one day I heard high-pitched cries coming from inside the site which was taped off. The tape read ZONA DE PELIGRO. Danger Zone. The tiny squeals continued so I ducked under the tape and followed them. Between tools and sheet metal behind concrete bags, there was a tiny paw poking out.
“Hello, little baby”, I said softly as I crept closer and squatted down to see a tiny cat, ginger and white, with a bloodied nose and an injured front leg. I couldn’t leave him there like that, so I wrapped him in my sarong and placed him inside my basket, holding it closed to prevent his escape.
At home, I let him out where he carefully inspected the perimeter. A habit he kept every time we arrived somewhere new. I called a friend of mine who knew a vet. While I waited on the sofa, this tiny furry being jumped up and curled up into my arms. I’d never had a pet before, and I wasn’t planning on having one. I was too nomadic. It didn’t make sense.
The vet came almost immediately with cat supplies and food, and every day after, for seven days. Repairing his sprained leg and giving him protein shots and antibiotics to help him mend. I planned to let this little creature heal and then find a home for him. I named him Danger Zone for fun in the meantime in ode for where he had been found.
That first night, I put him to bed on the sofa, kissed him good night, went to my bedroom and closed the door. Moments later, I heard his tiny baby cries and paws pawing at the door. I laughed and let him in, surprised. Do cats normally want company this much? I thought to myself. We both settled into bed, me on my back, him wrapped around one of my legs and fell asleep.
Weeks passed, and then months.
I haphazardly looked for a home for him but in a country filled with stray cats, no one was particularly interested. Also, I was falling in love.
He had this endearing need, always wanting to be close, our bodies always touching. His presence was a gentle balm, softening a part of my heart that had calcified after my last breakup. His love was unfiltered and unconditional.
Separation triggered anxiety in him, his cries echoing up the street as soon as I turned the corner. I reshaped my life around him, trading some personal freedom for care, time together, and presence. My maternal instincts, once dormant, found new expression through him, one of nurturing and connection. Men I dated bristled at my devotion, struggling to compete with a bond they could neither understand nor replicate, a connection that prioritised his needs over theirs.
A year later, I knew it was time to leave Mexico.
I had career ambitions and dreams that couldn’t be met in the humid jungles I resided in. And I had him. Danger Zone Honey Bear. More Honey than Danger.
For a while, I toyed with finding him a home. Again. One day, on the phone with a friend who had noticed that I had become sullen and sad in our calls, he pointed out that I was likely depressed because I was thinking about separating from my cat. He was right, though I did not want to admit it.
Defying all logic, a decision born of pure emotion; impractical, perhaps even selfish, I decided to take him with me. I don’t regret that decision, even for a minute. I don’t think I would have survived what happened in the past five years without him.
We moved to Brighton in the UK for eighteen months and then to Mallorca, Spain, for another eighteen months, and then back to the UK for another eighteen months, where we toured the country for a while before settling in a cute little village in the forest. He loves being outdoors and having space to roam, so when the opportunity came to live in a cabin surrounded by nature, I jumped at it to give him a home that made him happy.
But I was not fulfilled.
There was so much more life I wanted to live and experiences I wanted to have, and being tied to a home for a cat made those things impossible. Though I tried. There is something in my makeup where my external environment and my internal journey are inexplicably intertwined. They always have been.
Different places activate different parts of my being, and I cannot access them without this key. I read so many articles on people judging this way of being as if I am seeking happiness in someplace new. But I am under no such illusion. I know that ‘better’ and ‘happier’ don’t exist out there.
That’s not what this is about. It’s that the essence of my soul is made up of everything on this earth, and to access those parts, I need to collect them in all the different places.
And so I tried to do it with him. Because I wanted to. Because however hard it was it was worth doing together. I put him through so much. Including a terrifying two weeks on a sailboat in an attempt to get to the other side of the world, together.
Because every time he is in my arms, he’s good. I’m good. Everything is good. Nothing else matters. Together, we were always fine. We have a secret language, this invisible thread that connects just the two of us.
In our six years together, he was my greatest teacher.
He taught me how to be present no matter what else was happening in and around us. He helped me heal my inner child by teaching me that his needs — for routine, for comfort, for affection, for attention, for safety and for stability — were also myneeds. He taught me boundaries by modelling a no-f~*ks-given attitude towards what he likes and doesn’t. He helped me heal my unhealthy patterns in romantic relationships by being so securely attached and available for love that anything less was no longer accepted.
When we ended up in Portugal, I was content for life to show me the next steps, as I always do. And it did. I met a man, fell in love and chose to build a life with him. Paid subscribers know the intimate details of this story so I won’t go into it here. Danger and I sublet a friend’s apartment, he grew fat because he had no outdoor space to run around in, and we were happy together.
When my boyfriend invited me to join him in New York I had to make a decision. In February, when I decided that, yes, I would go, I revisited something I had thought about before but wiped from my mind.
I went to work to find him a foster family. I posted on local community groups and asked friends to post on theirs, and a few weeks later, I met a lovely Mexican woman who was enamoured with taking him in as he, too, is Mexican. We met, and he met her and hated every minute because, of course, it was a strange new person in a strange new environment, but nonetheless ideal. She agreed to take him. Happy and relieved, I booked my flight.
Two weeks later, late at night, she sent me a text. She had gotten cold feet and wanted me to find him another home. My heart sank. I understood. Accepting an animal into your life is a big responsibility. I appreciate not taking it lightly. But it meant that I had less time to find something suitable.
I tried all the same methods, reached out to every friend I could think of, and asked everyone I knew locally for help, but no solution materialised. Stressed by both the decision and the process, I started looking up local organisations that could house him and found an animal protection agency in Lisbon with a promising reputation.
We email back and forth, have a phone call, and they offer to take him and find him a home and agree that I would bring him the day before my flight. A few hours later, an email landed in my inbox that said that if I wanted their help, I had to bring him the next day. Something about having space now and not later. When I read those words, I fell apart. It was too fast and too soon. I want as much time with him as possible. But I also need their help.
My boyfriend offers to go with me several times, gently reminding me that I don’t have to do this alone. I love him for wanting to be there for me, but this thing, I have to do alone. This is between Danger and me.
That afternoon I pack up his toys, put his favourite food in a plastic container and cuddled with him as much as I could. That night I hold him in my arms and try to imprint every detail about him into my memory.
His soft, silken hair. The way he places his paws on my hands. The way he sneaks up and puts his face on my face. The way he closes his eyes with pleasure every time I kiss him. He soft mews when he wants something. The quiet purrs when he’s nestled into my body. Every sweet gesture breaks me and makes me grateful for the time we have had together.
The next morning I get up, call an Uber, kiss and hug him one last time and silently put him in his carrier. I can’t speak. I cry the 45-minute drive to the agency. Once there, they get me to fill out some forms, pay for his medical requirements, and take him away. The process is sharp and painful. I hear him cry in alarm in the back somewhere, and my heart shatters. Empty and distraught, I walk out on shaky legs, sit on a concrete block and weep deeply. A woman comes down from a nearby building and touches my shoulder to comfort me. I am beside myself with grief and unable to remain composed. I call an Uber and cry the 45-minute drive home.
It’s been three days. Waves of grief bring me to my knees. I wonder if I made the right decision. I feel so much shame and doubt. But mostly shame.
It’s the little things that destroy me now.
The little flutter of excitement to see him that I get in my heart when I’m heading home. The little cat hairs he has left as souvenirs on every item of clothing. The little pitter-patter of his paws that followed me from room to room. The way I leave the bathroom door open a little because he always demands to come in. Sitting down anytime, anywhere, and immediately becoming his human cushion. Getting into bed and waiting for him to jump right in after me. But now he doesn’t.
Noticing is my favourite art form. It’s how I find beauty in the ordinary, meaning in the messiness, poetry in the in-between moments.
Writing has always been my way of capturing it all… of making sense of the world, of holding onto the fleeting magic that might otherwise slip away.
Starting on Sunday, April the 13th with the Full Moon 🌝 I am leading a 6-week writing club as an invitation into that practice. EB prices end on Sunday.
a note 📝 on why trying to do life alone is not a vibe, and how the right people make everything easier, better, and way less confusing
The first marker of growth is realising that your parents are not all-knowing guides but imperfect humans navigating their own paths.
The second is recognising that while life may have handed you challenges, your power lies in how you choose to play the hand. Whether you stay stuck in your stories or rise to meet your own becoming.
The third is understanding the art of connection. How presence, warmth, and authenticity shape the way the world responds to you, weaving influence and possibility into every interaction, every moment, every version of yourself that you step into next.
This morning, I woke up feeling like a half-formed thing. My bones, my skin, my memories had melted overnight into something unrecognisable. My heart, my lungs, my thoughts, all swimming in some liminal space between what was and what is becoming.
I wanted to do everything at once. Crawl out of my skin, burrow deep inside myself, grasp at the illusion of normalcy. That fleeting sense of steadiness that comes and goes like sunlight through moving clouds.
But that’s not the life I chose.
I throw myself headfirst into new things. Willing myself into expansion, into shedding, into becoming, and then — wide-eyed, bewildered — curse myself for it.
This is what it means to be alive.
A continuous rhythm of unravelling and reassembling, of losing myself and finding my way back home.
Human transformation is peculiar in that way. We appear mostly unchanged on the outside while, internally, our very foundation liquefies and reforms, shifting us into something both familiar and unrecognisably new. Some metamorphoses take years. Others happen in a single breath. We are forever mid-wifeing ourselves through cycles of undoing and recreating.
And yet, we don’t do it alone. Evolution, growth, becoming: the process demands others. Those who have walked the path before us, showing us what’s possible.
People who, by simply existing, illuminate the shape of our own becoming. They are proof that what we long for isn’t just a dream. It’s a direction. A gravitational pull toward who we are meant to be.
There was a time when I felt so disillusioned by who the world was telling me to be. And then, a woman entered my life. She embodied a grace, clarity, a way of moving through the world that felt like poetry in motion. She didn’t hand me a map. She didn’t give me step-by-step instructions. She simply lived in a way that whispered to something deep inside me: “This is possible for you, too.”
I learned to echo her grace in my way.
We are not islands, shifting and reshaping in solitude. We are ecosystems, intertwined with those who expand us, who stretch our perception of what’s possible. The ones who have already created, built, or become something that stirs something deep within us.
A silent recognition. A quiet knowing: this is meant for you, too.
Expanders are not accidental.
We are drawn to them because they reflect what already lives within us, waiting to be awakened. They show our subconscious that the path we crave isn’t just a fantasy—it’s real, and it’s attainable. Their existence cracks open the walls of our own limitations, permitting us to step forward, to believe, to act.
A few years ago I met a woman who made big decisions without over-explaining or second-guessing. She laughed easily, moved boldly, and showed me — without ever meaning to — that I didn’t need to agonise over every choice or justify my desires. By being in her orbit, something in me softened.
I started letting things be easier. I started trusting myself more.
Who we surround ourselves with matters.
Our communities shape our possibilities. The people in our orbit either reinforce old versions of us or pull us toward expansion. Without realising it, we are always absorbing, mirroring, and becoming.
So this morning, as I sat with the discomfort of my own evolution, I asked myself:
Who is showing me the way? Who expands my world? And am I allowing myself to follow the pull?
It is impossible to avoid the challenges, aches and pains that come with life.
True community emerges when we surround ourselves with those who understand that meaningful relationships are born out of action.
Love is a verb.
We need to be the people willing to witness vulnerability without flinching.
Our emotional lives mirror the natural world’s cycles: darkness and light eternally embracing one another. Each experience of sorrow carries within it the seed of joy; each moment of connection bears the imprint of our separateness. When we touch one state deeply, we become intimate with its opposite.
This is authentic connection embodied.
Recognising that friendship and community require us to honour the completeness of human experience, to practice presence in both suffering and celebration and to build relationships that nurture our collective well-being.
This is where expanders come in.
An expander is someone who has created or achieved something in their life that we desire to also have or create. This concept is based on simple neuroscience and the creation of mirror neurons.
It’s not that expanders are perfect beings who have mastered life. They are everyday people, like you and me, who have flourished in certain areas, and because of this, they can expand us on our own journeys.
One of my closest friends is a woman nearly a decade younger than me. Her emotional maturity and dedication to skillfulness in relationships astound me. I watch the way she approaches difficult conversations — not with avoidance or defensiveness — but with curiosity and care.
Being in her presence taught me to be a better friend, lover and human.
Every single one of us inhabits the full spectrum of humanness. Those very aspects of these people that are bringing you so much inspiration are actually a reflection of aspects of you that have gotten lost due to societal, media, parental, or peer programming.1
The beauty of expansion is that it doesn’t require perfection. Only possibility. We expand one another simply by existing in our truth.
To provide access to the expanders and community that will walk alongside you as you navigate the transitions and transformations of your own becoming. Because you are not meant to do it alone.
ALIGNED is more than a course. It is an incubator for expansion, for transformation, for meeting the people who will hold you in both strength and tenderness as you step into the version of yourself you know you are meant to be.
Enrolment closes in 5 days. Learn more here: ALIGNED
Client Receipts
real stories, real impact 💫
“I’ve been following you, Vienda, for years on Instagram long before Plannher, and will join whatever community you create because I know it will be fostered in an energy of growth, acceptance, and soul.”
“I loved having someone in my court, to have someone waiting for me and knowing that would be a resource, a thing that wasn’t mine to solve, but someone I could collaborate with on solving or discovering things. That was a really lovely feeling.”
“Having a group of people to get to know helped me feel like there was a community of like-minded people and feel supported even if we had different areas working through and on.”
“I love the way you always include accountability partners and listening partners into your courses. I have always found it so valuable. I also do feel you attract interesting and powerful people to your courses that have so much value and I’ve stayed in touch with people in the past afterwards and supported each other’s businesses/visions which have been really special.”
If you are curious about finding your own expanders, choose something in your life that you would like to make real and then ask yourself these questions:
Who do I know that I feel drawn to almost instantly?
When I look at this person, what do I find appealing about them?
What is this person’s vibe that draws me to them? Is it something about their personality? Their career? Their spiritual approach or practices? The vacations they go on? Their relationship? The way they talk or how they dress?
What characteristics about this person resonate with me/remind me of myself?
What is their life story: are there any overlaps or similarities with my story?
How can I learn from this person? Do they have a book, podcast, or course? Can I spend time with them? Can I reach out and learn more about how they got to where they are?
Can this person help me become super clear on my desired manifestation? Do I realise details about their life that I would really like for my own?
kind of, maybe, not really…? I really wanted to write that to see how it feels in case it turns out to be true
FEB 18, 2025
I’m sitting on the Ikea sofa in his living room, laptop balanced on my knees, pretending to work. Through the open door to his office down the hallway, I can hear his voice, steady and methodical, as he speaks with the electricity company to cancel his contract. Each call makes his impending departure feel more real.
The day we met he told me he was moving to New York in the new year. At the time it meant nothing. I was talking to a stranger on the wooden bench outside a cafe window.
But as coffee meetings evolved into sunset walks through cobblestone streets, as dinner dates transformed into intimate evenings on his sofa, as casual conversation turned into “Will you be my girlfriend?” – that once-insignificant sentence took on a weight I hadn’t anticipated.
He’s preparing to leave the country at the end of March. I’m not built for long-distance relationships – I’m either fully present or completely absent. So I am joining him a few weeks later.
One day, a few months after meeting, he was excitedly speaking about New York as we wove our way through the alleys to our favourite Saturday breakfast spot for coffee and cinnamon rolls. In my luteal phase, my emotions already simmering close to the surface, when tears welled to the surface.
We had discussed it before.
He had asked me to join him with such natural ease as if it were the most obvious next step. I had always dreamed of spending three months in New York – to live there permanently? I wasn’t certain. But to discover its hidden corners and explore its endless possibilities? Absolutely.
But that morning, as my hormones conspired against me and left me feeling raw and vulnerable, all I could focus on was how this was his adventure, his dream. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might be merely a footnote in his story. In that moment, I grieved for something I hadn’t yet lost.
I tried to compose myself in private, but the wave of emotions was too powerful to contain. Through tears, I confessed that while I was genuinely happy and excited for him, hearing him talk about New York made me feel like an afterthought. Unused to and ill-equipped for such feminine displays of emotion, he panicked, genuinely confused – because in his mind, there had never been any question. We were going to New York, together. That was the only version of the future he had envisioned.
I needed reassurance, more than I wanted to admit. I found myself losing an internal battle between soaring excitement and crushing doubts.
Now, as our departure date approaches and our relationship has deepened with time, I feel more secure in the future we’re creating together. Today, when he looked at me with bright eyes and said, “I can’t wait to see what we create together!” I felt my heart lift with joy.
Still, I oscillate between hopes and fears. Perhaps you, dear reader, if you’ve made New York your home, can offer some guidance.
My excitement and hopes bloom:
I dream of losing myself in the halls of the Met, discovering hidden galleries in Chelsea, hunting for treasures at Brooklyn flea markets, and immersing myself in the vibrant, multicultural tapestry that is New York City. Every corner holds the promise of inspiration.
The thought of the connections waiting to be made sets my heart racing – the artists, writers, dreamers, and doers all within reach. I plan to approach each day with intention, cultivating a diverse and inspiring circle of kindred spirits.
I envision this new chapter expanding my creative horizons, opening doors I never knew existed, and forging connections that could transform my work and life in unexpected ways.
Each morning will bring new possibilities – a different neighbourhood to explore, a new face to become familiar, another layer of the city to uncover and make my own.
I believe in a kind of magic that happens when you’re perfectly aligned with your path. I’m curious to discover what shape that magic takes in a city of eight million stories.
Yet my fears and doubts cast shadows:
As a highly sensitive extroverted introvert, I quickly become overwhelmed by excessive stimulation. When surrounded by too much input – noise, movement, energy – I need a quiet space to decompress and reset. I worry about finding that sanctuary in a city that famously never sleeps.
My soul craves warm sunshine, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the rhythmic sound of waves – none of which New York is particularly known for. Where will I find those moments of natural peace that keep me grounded?
In a city consistently ranked among the world’s most expensive, I fear financial pressure might force me into a “hustle culture” I’ve intentionally avoided. I believe in working with purpose and alignment, not from desperation.
The heaviest weight on my heart is finding a new home for my cat, Danger. This separation might be temporary, or it might be permanent – the uncertainty makes it even harder. He’s been my constant companion, but I can’t bring him with me, and I can’t let his needs become the anchor that holds me back from this adventure.
If you’re reading this in Europe and have space in your heart and home for a loyal ginger cat who gives his affection selectively but completely, please reach out. He needs a peaceful environment, ideally with a garden, and he’ll reward you with unwavering devotion.
Life has a way of surprising us with unexpected turns. Moving to New York after my lease ends in April wasn’t part of my plans (though a psychic I’d quickly dismissed had predicted exactly this last August). But I love to embrace life’s kismet redirections.
I don’t live by carefully crafted plans but by my unwavering belief that “something will happen.” Something always does.
The Magicians Way
A very wonderful friend of mine actually gave me this book to read and quite serendipitously it was exactly what I needed at the exact right moment. I finished the book quite quickly and then wished it had lasted longer so perhaps I need to go back and read it again! Every single page gives me one of those aha! moments that clarify certain things I have been thinking, wondering or experiencing but not yet been able to put it into words myself or have it reflected back to me. The book outlines the 7 Secrets of Magic and is a novel type guide on how you can manifest your life through positive thought, focus, feeling good and listening to your intuition by staying in your heart. An excellent and entertaining read which I would recommend for the men/ man in your life who is interested in taking charge of his life but gets disgruntled by all the woo woo self help books out there.
You Can Create an Exceptional Life
It is no secret that I have a mega girl-crush on Louise Hay. She is my absolute idol in every single way and I admire here so deeply. She is the mother, grandmother and wise counsellor that I dream of having in my life. So when I heard she was publishing a book on her own practices in living the life of her dreams, I knew I must read it. The book is very sweetly and simply put together, with Cheryl Richardson very humbly interviewing Louise on certain areas of her life. My favourite part is when they meet at Louise’s house in San Diego and Cheryl briefly describes Louise’s sanctuary of a house….. it sounds absolutely gorgeous! Ok, so maybe that’s not my favourite bit but I certainly did fall a little bit in love with the home she has created! Many of the practices I know of and use from time to time but haven’t been doing as a daily practise which I actually want to incorporate back into my life. It was a good reminder, one which I really needed and the book itself left me feeling all warm and happy and full of hope anticipation for the future and gratitude for my life.
Kafka on the Shore
My sweet friend Rachel has started a book club and the first book for us to review is Kafka on the Shore. I friggin’ loved this book and as you can see it was the only novel in the stack beside my bed so it had to to be fun and lighthearted as well as entertaining. Murakami writes like a poet, full of vivid imagination and shades of every colour in emotional prose. You fall in love with every single character and are entranced and find it quite believable when fish fall out of the sky and a human has conversations with cats. The book contains quite a lot of depth, and being set in Japan explores modern culture which is inextricably intertwined with ancient folklore and spiritual beliefs. Every page has a little bit of a philosophical tinge to it leaving you wondering about life in a beautiful, mystical and mysterious way. Gorgeous, gorgeous read! Just go ahead and buy it if you’re looking for a good book.
Opening Our Hearts to Men
I was recommended this book by Tom Starke, the quantum physicist that gave the workshop on Understanding Men which you can read about here. I….. hmmm, let me be honest. I find this book really wordy, boring and kind of obvious but I can see how it would be very helpful for women who actually have issues with men. I haven’t finished it so I can’t give a full review just yet, but I think perhaps the book would be essential for women who have a lot of anger and resentment around men and don’t believe in their own ability or desirability to attract and keep the type of partner in their life that they want. It’s about releasing your negative beliefs around men and moving onto higher ground as well as seeing things from all perspectives and improving and widening your communication skills. A great book if that’s the sort of thing you are looking for in your life right now.
The Art of Earning
I bought this e-guide at least 6 months ago, which I read straight away, and then stumbled upon it when I was doing a clear out a few weeks ago, which was one of those subtle reminders that perhaps it’s time to review this beautiful and important message written by the clever and intelligent Tara Gentile again. If you are an artist, a creative, an entrepreneur or dabbling with making money in a different way, then this is for you. Tara clearly and carefully demonstrates how our beliefs and thoughts around money affect our ability to throw ourselves into the prosperity stream. Often we restrict our ability to make more money by believing that the only way we can get paid is from a salary or even by under-estimating our own worth. She gives simple and clear guidelines on how to get out of your money rut and start being the prosperous and financially abundant person that you deserve to be. Hurrah! (I sent this e-guide to my mum who loved it and all her neighbours asked for copies of it too which made me laugh when she told me; clearly this fabulous fabulous e-guide became the talk of the town in their little neighbourhood!)
The 4 Hour Work Week
This book has been sitting on my bedside table for about a year and for some reason we seem to have this on again, off again relationship. Tim Ferris is brilliant and every single page is jam-packed full of very succinct and practical advice on how to make running your business or managing your work time most efficiently and effectively as possible. It is well written and for me I think, almost too direct with TOO MUCH practicality, which is why it’s taking me such a long time to get through it. Every few weeks I pick it up, open it randomly and read a chapter or two, nod with enthusiasm and valour, am whole-heartedly inspired and then have to leave it for some time to allow my mind and heart to digest it all and take the relevant parts out to practise myself. This book is definitely for left-brainers who would appreciate the way Tim writes and essential reading for anyone wanting to get more time for themselves from their workday. It’s not about working harder, it’s about working smarter.
Vienda Maria 