The Lighthouse Letters

My mom always said my biggest vulnerability is my big heart. Respectfully, I disagree. I love my big heart and how it loves, and with every Human Experience™️ I have, I discover an increased capacity for love that I didn't know was there. This letter talks about the exhaustion that I'm feeling from the past few days, and how it is an earned tiredness, one that is well worth the temporary discomfort of having to run on little sleep and still be sort of functional. I talk about the difference between being alive and living, how different I was a year ago when I first started this podcast, heartbreak, and the reminder to "fall in love with the experience of living". This one goes out to anyone who has ever felt like they feel a little too deeply sometimes, that the edges of the world are too sharp. This is an invitation to keep your heart soft in spite of it all, so that the joy and the love may also visit you when the time is right.

I am so sorry that it's been so long, my beautiful wayward ships, but your lighthouse keeper is back!In this episode, I talk about the difference between self-worth and self-confidence, the inner knowledge of having a secure sense of self, and how getting involved in your community can be tricky and is still worth doing. This one is for those of you who have ever felt like you weren't quite good enough of like something was always missing. Sending a little bit of extra love with this episode.

Our very first lighthouse letters guest is Daisy Bentley! She's an acclaimed Chicago based actress and comedian and longtime friend of mine. I'm so glad I had her on the pod to talk about comedy, getting over bombing, the state of the world and the heaviness we all feel, and some righteous anger about the way things are and the systems that have gotten us here. This letter is for all of you who have been sowing seeds quietly and consistently, waiting patiently for your dream to bloom, and also for those of you who are fed up with being stuck in the cycle of 'barely surviving'. This one is for you.

I DID SOMETHING SCARY!For YEARS I have been telling myself that I would get back into standup comedy and for YEARS I have been denying myself the joy of performing onstage as a comedian. I made it SO easy for myself to quit, and then kept wondering why I hadn't done stand up at all yet. I finally faced my fears, and did it scared. And, it turns out, doing it scared will give you the confidence you need that magically breaks you out of the funk you were in and suddenly things start lining up. I don't know how the magic works, only that it does. Do it scared.This letter goes out to all you wayward ships who have a dream but are afraid. You're not alone, and I'm here to tell you to do it scared. Keep doing it scared. It means you're doing it right.

When an idea lives in your head, protected by the safety of your skull, it's never exposed to judgement or failure! You can iterate forever. But then, the ideas never make it into your life and you never get to share them with people. It's a vicious cycle. In this letter, I talk about what it means to leave the safety of your head, being vulnerable and choosing to move forward, and what 'craving the safety of the cradle' really means. This one is for you overthinkers out there. I see you, I hear you, and I'm definitely one of you.

I recorded this before the winter break as I was waiting at the airport to board my flight home. This letter speaks of the quiet voice inside that you learn to trust once your nervous system calms down, what labour and work could actually be if we were doing work that was meaningful, and the fact that large corporations only care about you so long as there is money to be made. This letter is for those of you who are still finding their voice, and are courageously moving through the noise.

How in the helly are you supposed to survive your own transformation? When you're just goo. This episode I talk about the inner child that demanded to be heard, and how finding your own authentic voice might involve revisiting that part of you that's been silent for a while. This letter is for anyone who is currently undergoing a transformation and crossing the bridge from who you are to who you were meant to be. You're not alone. ❤️

This week's letter talks about the comparison trap, and how I find myself falling into it again... and how I pull myself back out. I've spent the last little while catching up with old friends, many of whom are in vastly different life stages than me, and I found myself battling with that familiar feeling of "not quite good enough". As with most of my problems, I decided to make some art about it. And I found... I couldn't really come up with any video evidence to support my claims of "not quite good enough". Then I realized that if I don't record my bad moments, then the moments I see online, or even the ones my close friends share with me might just be the highlights. I'm rarely privy to the really gritty behind the scenes (you know, the kind where you cry so hard snot comes out your nose in a comically large droplet that swings around like a pendulum?) so comparing myself to what I'm witnessing is actually a truly terrible way of seeing if I'm where I should be. Which, dear wayAnd that thought gave me solace. So, dear wayward ship, this letter is for anyone who feels 'not quite good enough'. This one is for you. <3

Dear wayward ship, We meet at a crossroads today, at the junction of what has been and what will be. I talk about packing for a trip and leaving things behind whilst taking what I need for the future (big metaphor energy here), and what it means to feel a sense of global collective hope again. I also talk about being uncertain but knowing that something great is on its way, and the fact that 80% of my vision board has actually been achieved this year! Sometimes it just takes a bit of noticing to see how far you've come, especially when it feels like you've gone nowhere in the past little bit. This will be the last letter for a bit as I'm travelling and want to be present with dear ones that I so rarely get to see, but I'm hoping to return and have something out for the first week or so of December! This letter is for those who have been fighting for so long. There is light at the end of the tunnel, hope on the horizon. Keep going!

This week at the lighthouse, we’re talking about art that survives your dislike of it . I’ve been thinking about time and how it can feel both blisteringly fast and painfully slow, about getting almost there and learning that proximity still counts.There’s a poem I wrote, No More Doom n Gloom , and a comic that followed, a little personal rebellion against cynicism. Between reading hard things in the bath and watching Sleepless in Seattle after, I’m trying to build a sustainable practice of feeling deeply without burning out.If you’ve been hovering at the edge of your own creative fog, consider this a soft nudge to keep going. To keep making, even when it’s messy. To keep hoping, even when it hurts.Here's to building resilience

In today's Lighthouse Letter, I talk about a practice that I've been doing for the last 5 years: writing a love letter to myself every month. It's a practice that's helped me see the best in myself even when I really didn't want to (it can be so easy to just be full of self-loathing), develop my resilience, and witness my own personal growth in real-time. It's also helped future me a lot. When I'm sad or struggling, I'll pick out a letter and read it. And it turns out that I do a lot every month that aligns with my values. I show up in ways that my inner critic likes to conveniently forget. And writing these letters helps me show up for my community, because they fill my own cup. This letter is for those of you who might not feel like you are your own home quite yet, and includes a small invitation for you to write your own love letter to yourself, if you feel so inclined. I also talk about my journey to starting this practice, and how much of my ability to stay hopeful is due to this particular act of loving myself, even if it feels weird, cringy, or odd.

In this lighthouse letter, I talk about returning to my body after a period of not quite inhabiting it. I talk about how I'm finally seeing the buds of the art seeds that I've been sowing all year, from this podcast to the play that I'm having a reading for at a real live venue! I talk about moving towards something out of love rather than fear, and how that impacts not just how you move, but how you feel when you reach your goals. This letter is for anyone who has been feeling unsettled lately, like there is a chill in their bones they can't quite place. I've lit the fire and prepared a big bowl of your favorite soup. Come take a seat with me.

Today's letter is different. Today's letter comes from rocky waves and seas, from a place in my heart that is stormy and terrible. We're currently witnessing global acts of violence that are atrocities. I cannot turn a blind eye to all of it anymore, and I am ashamed to say that I have been. But now that I've chosen to actively participate and learn, everything I'm learning carries with it the crushing weight of a truth I have always known: people are cruel. Not everyone, not all the time, but there are people who engage in acts of extreme cruelty to others in a way that makes me want to gouge out my own eyes. For a long time I lived far away from this truth and tried to combat it with hope and optimism, being careful with my consumption of bad news, and trying to limit it in an attempt to preserve my own hopefulness. I'm learning that hope can look different these days. Today, hope is discipline. Hope is a concentrated effort, organizing, and action-taking in my community. It's inviting my friends to the table to pool our ideas together, it's sharing the grief and alchemizing it into something that reminds us and others of our humanity. Of the fact that this life is a little miracle to be cherished, and of our duty to each other to protect that. Admittedly, this is kind of a scary letter for me to share. I do worry about what people might think, I am afraid of potential backlash. But this issue isn't about me, it's about where we draw the line with how we treat each other, and what we stand up for. How we create the world we want to live in, how we choose to design and shape it through our actions. So, I hope that if this is something that's stirred you, that you leave a comment or reach out to me directly if you know me personally. The lantern is lit for you, the invitation has been sent. Maybe together, we can turn those embers of hope into a blaze.

In this episode, I reflect on the small things we so often take for granted. Seasonal shifts, the quiet magic of rainy afternoons, and friends who are still here, in spite of it all. I share a poem I wrote about anxiety and the way it follows us, even into space, but also how writing can turn worry into something a little less scary. There’s a little bit about Mexico City, the beauty (and overwhelm) of so many people in one place, phone-free Sundays, and celebrating my friend Charlie’s birthday, knowing what it took for her to still be here. (If you're reading this, Charlie, I love you).Mostly, this one’s about paying attention. To the “lasts” that slip by without notice, to the ordinary rituals that stitch our lives together, and to the people who turn surviving into living.This letter is for my wayward ships who are fighting to still be here in spite of it all, despite the world's cruelty and cynicism.

This letter is a doozy, folks. The water has been rocky by the lighthouse, dozen foot high waves crashing into the rocks, splashing into this lighthouse keeper's eyes. Through it all, I remind myself that the lamp is lit and the light is still shining, even when things might be going sideways. I talk about my frustrations at being sold and marketed to 24/7, a collective unrest, and how being ill brings on a mental fog so dense I lost sight of myself. This letter is for the storm-forged sailors out there–I see you, and the lamp is lit for you.

In this episode of the Lighthouse Letters, I talk about my preference of swimming holes over summit views ( I want an experience you can participate in!), the lies I've been telling myself about how much I should be working, and gratitude for friends and loved ones that understand when I'm absent for a while and get busy, who welcome me back into their lives with open arms. I also share a challenge that I wasn't expecting to face: the idea of 'falling behind' at 30. This letter is for anyone who feels like they should be farther along in their careers, has multiple texts they still have to respond to, and for the ones who love being in the water.

In this episode, I talk about the beauty of showing up scared, the indomitable human spirit being made of hope, permission to do art during the daytime (during 'working hours', no less!), dismantling the idea of 'working hours' as an artist, ghosts and monsters in plays that I'm working on, being justified in my anger towards a situation where someone I trusted did not act with integrity, and the strange magic of being listened to and loved, entirely and fully. This letter goes out to anyone trying something new despite being scared, feeling 'ugly' feelings, and still choosing to hope, against all odds.

In this letter, I’m talking about the kind of rest that fills you back up . The active, soul-filling sort that’s less about doing nothing and more about doing what lights you up. I recap a weekend that swung between the heat (from both the sun and the sauce!) of a hot sauce festival, the joy of live music, and the unspooling of tense threads with a lake day with friends. I reminisce about being seen by the people who know you best, and in carving out time for the work that matters most, like setting my play free into the world, and naming it. It's called Transmission: Wonder.This is about making your own chances, chasing the things that tug at your soul, and for friends who not only fill your cup, but expand its size.

In this week’s Lighthouse Letter, I’m taking you through a weekend that felt like a love song. One written in stars, bike rides, goodbye hugs, and late-night laughter. I talk about what it means to feel deeply alive in tiny moments: stargazing inside on a Friday night with someone I love, city-hopping by e-bike (a la Lizzie McGuire) to three very different events in one day (including a DJ-ed house party… in space 🚀), and ending the weekend with an old friend, rosé disco, and a 4AM heart-to-heart beside one of my best friends.This episode is about joy that sneaks up on you. About softness. About the kind of connection that makes you feel like the world cracked open for a second just to show you how good it could be. About realizing, and finally believing that you really are that cool. Whether it’s romantic love, friendship, or the quiet magic of doing something just for you—I hope this one reminds you to look up, reach out, and keep your heart open to the wonder tucked into ordinary days.

In this episode of Lighthouse Letters, I reflect on a weekend that moved like a breath: inhaling joy, holding connection, and exhaling into freedom.From feeling unexpectedly swept away watching my boyfriend drum at his album release, to showing up a little schleppy for a park birthday and being loved anyway, to learning how to sail with my friend Charlie, each moment pulled me gently back into presence. I talk about what it means to witness someone you love in their element, the quiet power of just being there, and the deep joy of catching wind with your own two hands. This letter is a reminder that coming home to yourself doesn’t require polish. Just motion, wonder, and a willingness to be surprised. This one's for anyone who feels a little far from the home inside their heart.

In this letter, I reflect on what it means to choose yourself, on purpose, and often. I talk about the gift of solo dates, the kind where you take yourself to the fanciest sushi restaurant (that happens to be a 5 minute walk from your house that you've always wanted to go to but never let yourself) and remember how much you like your own company.There are stories from this summer: some bright, some bruised. A beach day that introduced me to the sport of Waboba (yes, it's a real thing). A moment of a friendship shrivelling up in the sun like rotten fruit, and the slow work of making peace with that. I’ve also been thinking about content creation not as the cringe-worthy 'content creatorship output machine' but rather as memory keeping. Tiny ways to mark that we were here, that it mattered. Shouting that into the void. Maybe someone will hear us. This one is for anyone learning to trust their own rhythm again. You’re allowed to be your own favorite person. Mostly, I hope this one reminds you to choose yourself, often and on purpose. Like a Pokémon.

In this episode, I talk about what it feels like to be loudly in love and how that love has quietly opened new doors in my creative life. There’s music again in the house. Harmonies made with just my voice. Fresh strawberries grown on my balcony. A three-legged dog on a wagon walk.I share a few recent adventures, like getting into my first car “accident” (don’t worry, I’m okay), and how I’m learning to meet those moments with a little more softness and a lot more self-trust. I explore the idea of active rest: rest that is chosen, sacred, and restorative, and the creation of something I’ve started calling The Yes Room: a space in my heart where art can happen without guilt, even if no one else ever sees it.This letter is also about empathy. The kind that shows up slowly, over time, and the ways we stay connected to one another through care, curiosity, and courage. Wherever you are on the sea tonight, I hope this one helps you find your way just a little closer to home.

In this episode, I reflect on recent wanderings: from a birthday weekend in Jordan River to a wedding in Golden (yes, that's really what it's called) and what it means to live inside the wide, awe-soaked present. There are stories about sea waves and waterfalls, secret slides, unexpected tenderness, and the way connection sneaks up on you when you're paying attention.I talk about the beauty of being alive right now, the weight of impermanence, and the gentle rebellion of choosing joy in a world that tries to sell it back to us. There’s some wondering aloud about commercialism, beauty, and what it means to really feel things.If you’re looking for a little permission to romanticize your life, or need a reminder that your worth is not your paycheque, this letter’s for you. ❤️

In this episode, I’m thinking about the quiet after joy: the soft comedown and the steady heartbeat of something real taking root. I share a few recent moments that left an imprint: a glam camping trip (yes, real hot showers!), playing mermaids at a pool party, watching my balcony flowers bloom, and that little pang of comparison/jealousy when I visited a friend’s stunning home.We also go somewhere deeper — into what it means to witness pain in the world when you're a sensitive soul, and how heavy that can feel. I talk about community care as one of the fiercest forms of rebellion I know, and about learning to hold space for both longing and gratitude.This one’s for anyone feeling a little tender, a little in-between, or quietly rebuilding. You’re not alone. The lamp is lit, and the lighthouse shines for you.

In this lighthouse letter, I reflect on:✨ a recent camping trip under the stars🪐 finishing my space play🎨 what it means to create without pressureI talk about the joy of small moments, the rediscovery of childhood passions, and how community can spark creativity. There’s also a little rant about spatial awareness (Costco edition), and an invitation to let yourself want big, beautiful things—even if they scare you. This one’s for anyone learning to rest without guilt, create for joy, and soften into their own becoming.

This week, I didn’t participate in Run & Gun, the chaotic and magical 48-hour film festival—but somehow, I still found myself in the middle of a deeply creative weekend. In this episode, I’m reflecting on the act of creating without pressure, the magic of returning to childhood hobbies with adult tools, and the quiet, radical work of learning to rest without guilt.There’s a field note from a rainy walk—mossy trees, puddles, and a movie moment with my own reflection—and a gentle reminder that joy doesn’t have to be productive to be real. If you’ve been craving softness, stillness, or a little spark of inspiration, this letter’s for you.

Born Loved | Lighthouse LettersIn this episode, I reflect on turning 30 (wild!) and what it means to be seen—really seen—not just by others, but by myself. I talk about the joy of hosting friends in a space I’ve made my own, the magic of soup dumplings (yes, they made me cry), and why I gave out personalized headshots instead of loot bags at my birthday party.I fled capitalism for a day and went to a bird sanctuary (highly recommend), started planting things on my balcony (I've managed not to kill the Pothos I've had for 4 years so I'm graduating to strawberries!), and downloaded the Merlin Bird ID app because it’s basically Pokémon Go but for birds—and also, your nervous system will thank you.We also get into media diets, crafting, friendship, and the kind of love that doesn't need to be earned. Inspired by a photo of a newborn, I ask: When did we forget we were born loved? This episode is a soft nudge to remember that your existence alone is reason enough to be cherished. No achievements required.As always: sleep well, drink lots of water, and tell the people you love—you love them.

In this episode, I reflect on the often-overlooked second phase of doing something—when the shine fades, and intention has to carry what adrenaline once did. I talk about cheering at a marathon (and crying), learning to rollerblade again (badly but bravely), and putting up a bird feeder in hopeful defiance. I explore what it means to be seen trying, how joy and fear can hold hands, and why it’s okay to want beautiful things again. There’s a little magic, a little mess, and an invitation to remember: you are a place worth landing.

In this episode, I share a tiny soft story called The Night the Stars Stayed to Listen—a tale about a girl at the edge of the world who spoke to the stars, never expecting them to listen. It’s a gentle metaphor for those moments when life throws something unexpected our way, and we’re asked to stay true to ourselves in the midst of uncertainty.I talk about the courage it takes to keep speaking, even when it feels like no one’s listening. About the ritual of storytelling, the quiet power of our thoughts, and the wonder of being alive in a world that is always, somehow, paying attention.I also reflect on something I’ve been calling happiness bucks—a way of redefining wealth not by numbers, but by joy, connection, and the glimmers of meaning we gather along the way.This letter is for anyone who’s ever felt small beneath the stars... and kept speaking anyway.

In this episode, I talk about rest—not just as a break, but as a quiet kind of bravery. I share thoughts on what it means to reclaim your space (especially when you live alone), the magic tucked inside small rituals, and why birthdays feel like soft revolutions when you let yourself be celebrated.There’s talk of pasta, trivia, napping in your own bed, and how the tiniest acts—like lighting a candle or writing a love letter to yourself—can shift your whole emotional weather.This one’s for anyone learning to let themselves be seen, be soft, and be enough.

In this first Lighthouse Letter, I share stories of rebuilding, remembering, and choosing hope — even when no one seems to be looking. A meditation on small beginnings, soft victories, and the quiet, stubborn work of keeping the light alive.

"When you invite grief to the table, it doesn't need to hurt you to be heard."Chapters00:00 The Journey of Habit Formation03:09 Navigating Uncertainty and Hope06:06 The Impact of Grief on Identity08:49 Art as a Medium for Grief11:54 Understanding and Inviting Grief14:46 The Importance of Mental Health17:56 The Role of Design in Our Lives24:03 Consumer Behavior and Marketing Insights29:50 The Intersection of Function and Aesthetics

"I have trouble actually not falling in love with people who cook for me."Chapters00:00 Consistency and Habit Formation03:02 Adventures in Baja California05:50 The Joy of Animal Encounters09:07 Reflections on Loneliness and Companionship11:48 Cultural Experiences and Haggling20:04 Language Learning and Connection29:51 Embracing Emotions and Processing Feelings32:50 The Beauty of Birding and Nature38:58 Acts of Kindness and Nourishment42:02 Self-Compassion and Positive Self-Talk

It's finally here...my first podcast. I talk about my life mantra, productivity, joy, gratitude, and the fact that I'm pretty sure I was a dog in my past life.