There’s a curtain I’ve been hesitant to pull back.
This week, I did. And this photo is what’s behind it.
Not a curated wellness space. Not a minimalist studio with fresh flowers and filtered light. But the very real room where I write, think, plan, teach, unravel, regroup, and begin again.
This photo tells a more honest story than a perfectly tidy desk ever could. It reflects the tension I’ve been living—the tension many of us live—between care and chaos, duty and desire, clarity and overwhelm.
This past week held a particular kind of weight: mounting grief in the world, exhaustion from hospital work, and a sharp pang of reckoning—realizing I’m still working when I had hoped to retire. I found myself spiraling into familiar patterns: busyness, clutter, avoidance. And in the middle of it all, I froze—and decided to watch The Quiet Girl, a haunting, tender film that cracked something open in me.
Its gentle unfolding helped me soften the harsh inner voice that was berating me for the state of this room (and of myself). It reminded me of the quiet child inside who still longs for presence more than perfection, tenderness more than order. And so I softened—and began to befriend the mess. Listening to what it reveals.
This space, cluttered as it is, holds the evidence of becoming. A thousand moments of showing up, preparing offerings, printing handouts, gathering notes, tending to what matters. It’s a reflection of a life that’s more than one thing at once.
And maybe that’s the invitation I want to extend—to you, and to myself:
What if our healing doesn’t require a tidy desk?
What if the real work is learning to stay present—right in the middle of the mess?
What if compassion, not perfection, is the gateway to meaningful change?
So here I am, pulling back the curtain—not to impress (haha, clearly!) but to connect.
To say: I’m here too. Still learning. Still loving. Still believing that presence is powerful medicine.
If you're navigating your own thresholds—between burnout and renewal, clarity and clutter—I see you. And you're not alone.
Let this be a gentle reminder: even here, transformation is possible. Creativity and healing can be messy and chaotic.
This is the room where I forget and remember,
Where the papers pile and the breath returns.
Where the clutter speaks of care,
And the dust carries the shimmer of dreams.
— A room with a heartbeat