I have thoughts.

Everything changes. You have always been enough. A slow Sunday scroll.

Nov 09, 2025

Friends, this is winging its way to your inbox. Most of you read this in your inbox or in the app. It would mean the world if you’d take a moment to tap the 🤍 emoji and/or share this post to help it get seen by more people. I have a dream of growing this space into the kindest corner on the internet, something that supports your creativity, connection, and courage even more in the days we are in. I can only do what I do because of you, and I am so grateful you are here. 💛

I’ve been quieter here for a while. The light leaves earlier now. What got us here won’t get us to where we’re going. I’m back writing again.

The trees are letting go of their leaves. The canopy is becoming compost for next year’s growth.

The world I started this Substack in no longer exists, at least not as it did 2 years ago. Yes, we could say that every year. For me, it just feels truer this time.

November is a month, at least in the northern hemisphere, where the fog rolls in and the natural world slows down. So can we.

But can we take a beat to appreciate what a world we live in? That the earth can hold every season all at once. There is always space for who we are growing into.

November feels a little like a long hug in the quiet dusk of the year. Wrapped up in the quilt I thrifted. Sipping mulled cider while the stars dance above.

At least that’s how I imagine it.

My confused little patch of earth is registering 81ºF today. The raw November audacity.

Our word for the week in Prompt and Ponder™ (our paid subscription) is linger.

If you’ll indulge me, I want to try something new. I hand write reams of notes each week for the prompts I send out. But there is always overflow.

Stories. Snippets of memories. Musings. Wild mind maps. Ideas that are just premonitions of what they will become. I’d like to write some of the overflow here.

You have always been enough.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Sometimes we are called to stay in the room with what aches. To trace the perimeters of our pain. To linger when everything in us wants to leave.

There are many ways to leave. Work harder. Scroll more. Numb with Netflix and ice cream. I bet you could name quite a few more.

Wonder doesn’t live in what’s next. It lives right here, right now. Even in the painful emotions that ask us to listen to them.

I’m of an age to remember when there were answering machines with literal cassette tapes. I was thinking last night what a gift it would be to have the messages spoken in a loved one’s voice after that person is gone.

The next thing I did might have been sorely ill-advised.

I scrolled all the way down in my voicemail on my phone, wondering… could there be? And there was.

I found a singular message my mom left two months before she died in 2020. I have not heard her voice in over 5 years.

Dang it, I’m tearing up again just thinking of it. I sobbed through half a roll of paper towel on my studio floor at 1 AM. Yes, I am fine. Grief just feels closer and heavier this year.

Here’s the thing. Wonder doesn’t mean fluffy clouds and fairy dust. Though I am opposed to neither.

Wonder lives in the dark, hard places just as much as, and maybe even more than, the bright, beautiful ones.

I wish I had recorded her talking more. This recording is the most complete sound I have of her voice.1

One minute and three seconds of her checking in on me. I had non-Covid double pneumonia at the time.

Honey, I called the imaging center. Here’s how you can get your test results. Let me know if I can help. Call me. Love you, bye.

The most mundane of words. The words we say every day and don’t give a second thought to. I got to hear her say them one more time.

And you know backed up that recording on every backup account and device I own.

It’s the normal words and times I miss the most. Maybe you do too.

We can find beauty in the tiniest of moments. We can stretch time like pulled taffy, refuse the tyranny of the urgent, and choose depth over speed. At least those are goals I’m thinking about for next year.

The magic isn’t in moving fast. It is in lingering long enough to see what we almost missed.

I think we’re afraid we will lose out if we slow down. The exact opposite is true. The best way to miss the moment we are in is to rush through it.

The world tells us to hustle and consume our way to a more meaningful life.

The truth: we are already and have always been enough.

Right here.

Messy floor. I know a floor lives under there somewhere.

Dishes in the sink. Laundry piled up. To-do list swallowed by the sagging couch cushions.

Unsettled. Struggling. Beautiful. Becoming. All of it.

You are already enough. And here you are wildly loved.