Picture this: a person is so convinced that losing their shadow would make them happy, they spend their whole life running from it. But no matter how fast or far they run, that shadow sticks around like it’s glued to their heels. Eventually, they run themselves ragged and just can’t go anymore.

What if there’s a better way? Imagine if instead of running, they just stopped, found a nice tree, and chilled out in its shade for a while. They might see that their shadow isn’t something scary to outrun, but a part of who they are—something to sit down with, not sprint away from.

I think a lot about my internal drive for achievement, and my unconscious drive for fame.

I suppose I shouldn’t say it’s unconscious, because here I am, writing it down.

I heard Arthur Brooks talk to Dan Harris about the four idols: money, power, pleasure, and fame.

The most dopamine comes from these not very satisfying rewards.

But, they are so satisfying, aren’t they?

My idol, fame, isn’t quite the conventional construct. Truthfully, I don’t aspire to traditional fame; I believe it would overwhelm me. Given my chronic illness, my body could not withstand the constant demands.

'Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you're supposed to be?' is often credited to Charles Bukowski, though it’s not certain he actually said it. Let’s assume he did, or someone like him did.

These days, a big part of my creative life involves shedding layers of cultural conditioning to rediscover the joyous creator I was at ten years old, who made things just for the sake of making them.

In theater and comedy, being great means being bold. This is often described as "taking a big swing."

What does it mean to take a big swing?

It refers to those crucial moments where you put everything on the line with a bold move. This isn't about playing it safe; it’s about risking it all for the chance to make a significant impact. When you take a big swing, you could indeed fail—I've been there, experiencing the sting when the expected laughter doesn't come, and the room falls silent. Sometimes, what you try might not work, leaving your efforts unnoticed.

I could spend all day, every day, listening to stories about people discovering their purpose. Chances are, you feel the same way.

We humans are perpetual seekers, endlessly asking ourselves, "What is my purpose?"

I'd welcome any medium—be it a YouTube channel, a blog, a book, a podcast, or even a message delivered by pigeon—that could offer insights into finding my life's purpose.

Time and again, I find myself searching for guidance from others on how to uncover this elusive quest.

Dear Creative Friend,

You have something within you.

Something that needs to be said.

Is it a lyric?

A painting?

An essay on love?

A melody that wants to be shaped?

Is it just something as simple as sharing a truth for the first time?

It is waiting for you to release it from inside you.

The phenomenal Netflix series "Baby Reindeer" first captured audiences' imaginations as a one-person show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2019.

As I near the conclusion of this captivating series, I am continually reminded of the journey I am on—crafting my own one-person show that pushes the limits of what live performance can be. This show not only entertains but also inspires, reaffirming my commitment to innovating within the theatrical space.

But here's the crux of my journey: I embarked on this creative path many years ago, despite the skepticism. A few voices, though well-intentioned, expressed doubts. "Hmm...I don't think that'll work," they said. Their comments were mild, yet they lodged in my mind, sowing seeds of uncertainty about my vision.

On this day 25, a poem.

I wish people were better

I wish people would let go

Drop the act and simply be

As the world spins, it spins and spins

I feel a blanket of anxiety has turned us all into zombies that are just waiting

Waiting for you to fuck up

But you cannot say how you really feel

You must make it better for others

Instinctually you make them feel better about their own anxiety

Because you want to be better

And it’s exhausting.

Finding what is uniquely yours demands more than mere rationality; it requires learning to understand the language of your body. As Boyd Varty suggests, "You have to learn how your body speaks."

Much of my current work revolves around breathwork, embracing a slower pace, and tuning into my inner experiences.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I spent the first half of my life doing quite the opposite.

Instead of looking inward, I pushed forward, completely ignoring the signals my body was trying to send me.

Even with a plan in place, a new kind of anxiety often emerges: the pressure to deliver. My strategy for managing this stress is to set what's known as a stretch goal—an objective that's challenging yet achievable, pushing my boundaries without leading to overwhelm.

A stretch goal should be just out of your comfort zone, enough to spark growth and learning. For instance, you might challenge yourself to perform at an open mic night, sign up for a local TEDx talk, or host a calligraphy workshop at a community maker’s event. Each of these goals requires courage but remains within the realm of attainable.

Choosing to push our limits inevitably brings us face to face with our deepest fears, such as the anxiety of public reception and the daunting prospect of actual execution. Currently, I find myself wrestling with the decision to add a Wednesday night performance to my solo show—a notion I've been contemplating for two weeks, yet hesitating to finalize.

Imagine the moment of surprise when a tracker raises their head to find that the familiar has faded away, replaced by the unfamiliar. Such moments, often unsettling, are chances to see one's surroundings—and oneself—with fresh eyes.

Sometimes, trackers find themselves so far off the known paths that they feel utterly disoriented, unable to discern up from down. This 'Path of Not Here' is a poignant analogy for those times in our lives when traditional markers of progress and direction fail us.

The key for me is in taking short creative strides, mixed with longer moments of rest. Rest could mean anything: doing the dishes, taking a nap, dusting the piano, reading a blog article. Rest, medium warm up again of something inspired, and then a short creative sprint again.

Some mornings, it feels like I wake up with a mind overflowing with thoughts.

On these days, I find myself caught between the desire to tackle everything and the overwhelming urge to do nothing at all. My mind becomes a blizzard of scattered thoughts.

This is the opaqueness of the mind.

When a torrent of thoughts, fears, and mundane tasks cloud the lightness of being, it’s tempting to give in—to dismiss the day as uncreative and uninspired.

I'm creating my own understanding of spirituality that respects the deep feelings within me and the quiet times when I reflect. It's a path that leads not only to greater understanding but to deep personal change as well. As we explore this idea, it’s important to remember that our spirituality is deeply personal, as unique and detailed as the complex patterns of our experiences.

Spirituality, to me, is about connecting deeply with my core self—the part of me that's always been there, from birth until the end. It’s about growing into someone wise and complete.

You might use different words for it—'inner self,' 'true nature,' or anything that feels right. It's that unchanging part of you, who you really are at your core.

Spirituality is about recognizing that you are composed of stardust, radiating with love.

It connects you to the legacy of your ancestors—crafted from the same dust as your parents, grandparents, and all who came before them. This same essence flows onward into your children, their children, and all who will follow.

Lately, I've been pondering why so many of us feel drawn to life coaching. It seems clear that despite our high-tech world boasting constant connectivity—where smartphones proclaim we’re always linked, yet leave us imploding from the inside—we’re actually drifting further apart. In a society obsessed with speed—fast fashion, fast food, fleeting friendships—it's as if we glide past each other, never truly connecting. So, we end up in a place where we're so starved for genuine human connection, we're willing to pay for it.

My theory is that when you're crafting or living out your own story, if you're not actively making choices to propel your narrative forward, you'll start to feel uninspired, as though your story isn’t worth telling.

Inaction always turns me off, (especially when watching actors), but don't mistake my meaning for relentless hustle. Action can also manifest as contemplation and gradual growth.

Only I can truly determine if I'm actively making 'choices' in my life. At the end of the day, there's one definitive way to assess: Did I make active, clear choices today? Did I advance or retreat in the next beat of my story?

There was a time my concerns were limited to whether a gathering of a hundred would attend my performance.

Now, the fear has escalated to a global stage—worrying if my existence even registers on the world's radar.

This fear is crippling.

I harbor aspirations of monumental change; to disconnect from the digital threads that bind and step into the realm where art and audience intersect in the tangible world.

My core being shouts a resounding "Yes!"

Yet, the social self replies, "Absolutely not—you'll never find work again!"

I’m pretty good at not overthinking when it’s about something small and fun, like making a song, a dance, or designing a website. These things don’t feel like a big deal, so it’s easier to just go with the flow.

But when it comes to the big stuff—whether it’s creative projects or important life decisions that take more time—I find it really hard to let go. It feels like I can’t trust my gut to handle the serious “grown-up” problems. I’m afraid of making a mistake that could cost me money, leave me without work, or lead me to pick the wrong project. The list of “what ifs” just keeps going.

In my efforts to conform, I've compromised the integrity of my work. I've masked my true artist self behind the guise of a culturally sanctioned suburban mom of two who seems to have it all together.

This acknowledgment brings to light a recurring theme in my creations: the journey of women who have spent their entire lives conforming to a culture that stifles their authentic selves.

Recognizing that culture has hijacked your life requires waking from a deeply ingrained daydream—a daunting challenge, as it means watching the narrative you've lived by disintegrate.

That journey of self-discovery often comes at a high price. It might mean losing friends, enduring loneliness, or facing financial instability—the obstacles pile up as you delve deeper into your own essence. This daunting path is precisely why many shy away from it.

Yet, I find myself in a tug-of-war, struggling to liberate the artist within me who yearns to create work that resonates on a deeper level.

I'm entangled in the web of cultural expectations, not entirely ready to relinquish the comforts they bring.

My show unfolds the tale of an "ordinary" person who casts herself as the heroine of her own epic journey. When I refer to her as a "nobody," it's not a gesture of self-deprecation. Quite the contrary—it's a recognition that the world brims with "nobodies." And if we're all "nobodies," then, paradoxically, we're also all "somebodies." Turning your "nobody" narrative into a musical rendition of your life is an act of embracing something greater than oneself.