Three weeks…

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—Semisonic, F.N.T

On the eve of my 34th birthday, approximately one hour before getting my quarterly haircut, I am writing in my corner spot at the coffee shop around the block from my place. I wear my favorite yellow jacket, my neck adorned with a silver star necklace—once carved from beeswax by a friend, then carefully cast in metal. Core warm, hands cold, I take breaks from typing to spin the ring on my right hand—given to me by my therapist in our last session. She knew I liked rings (clearly) and wanted me to have a token of the work we did together. Per her instruction, I wear it on the days I need to feel closer to myself. Closer to home.

I have adorned this body with clothing and sentimental objects, sprayed it with my favorite cologne. I look down at my hands on the keyboard, and the mirrored tattoos on the tops of my palms: a leaf unfurling, a broken chain. I draw awareness to the backs of my eyes and consider, in the most impossible way, what it feels like to be this person—looking out through this body, in this room, on this street, in this city, in this world. In this society. On this planet. In this universe.

I think about what it has felt like to be in this body. I feel my chest rise and fall with each breath. The chest I was given. The chest I was born with. A chest that grew. That evolved. That was seen, touched, admired, hidden, bound. A chest that ached. A chest that did its job. A chest I resented. A chest I honored. A chest that no longer feels like mine. A chest in transition. A chest that is transforming. A chest that will soon have scars. My beautiful and sacred trans body.

A few weeks from today, I’ll undergo a life-changing, life-saving procedure. A few months from now, I’ll be healing. I’ll treat my scars with ointments and silicone tape—layering care where pain has lived.

A year from now, I’ll slip a t-shirt over my head and feel the flat surface with my hand as my palm runs across this chest. I’ll sleep on my side, my back, my stomach. It will feel different. I’ll run and swim and dance, and it will feel different.

But I’ll still be me. I’ll still be Joy. I’ll still be trans. Everything will have changed, and nothing will have changed.

Years from now, I’ll be in love—or recovering from heartbreak. I’ll stub my toe. I’ll forget to pay a bill. I’ll get a big job, make good money, pay off some debt. I’ll get in a fight with a friend, and we’ll make up. I’ll have a dog. I’ll lose out on something I thought I wanted. I’ll vote. I’ll cook a meal for someone who’s hungry. I’ll burn the toast but cook the egg perfectly.

Everything will be the same, and different. My chest will still be my chest. The scars will fade. My body will move the way it wants to. There will be lightness in my chest. And sometimes, heaviness in my heart.

Because suffering still exists. Because this body will always be mine to carry, to question, to enjoy, to honor, to play in, to grieve, to grow with.

To let it be seen. And to surrender to the ways I’ll be seen that I can’t control.

The beauty and grief of being trans—of being human—is to contend with the ever-changing, ever-evolving bodies we’ve been given. To seek out treatments, procedures, practices, rituals, and habits not as solutions, but as ways of embodying what it means to be alive: to live inside our physical, salient bodies.

To recognize, celebrate, and question the things we can change—and the things we cannot.

To live beyond, beside, and within the confines of language, culture, scripts, and rules we are meant to challenge, meant to break.

There is no final destination. No problem of the body to solve.

There is only body, skin and flesh to see, to feel, to engage with.

To make choices about—choices that may or may not ever reflect the richness, sacredness, and complexity of our internal landscapes.

Yes, we are limited by our bodies. But the canvas is ripe with potential.

We find freedom in the places we can.

We make brave choices to embody our salient nature.

And when the world tries to forget us—or reduce us to novelty—we remember:

We are priceless—we are holy

Even when we are not new.

more soon,

JOY

p.s. as I cross this threshold, I’m gathering support both material, emotional and communal. I’ve created a GoFundMe to help cover the tender in-between which will include time off work as a freelancer photographer, purchasing healing supplies and the slow work of rest! If you feel moved to contribute, or to share this link, it would mean the world to me. Thank you for being here, for reading, and for helping me see myself more clearly <3

Supporting Joy’s Healing and Recovery After Top Surgery

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I am going to New York City. I’ll be there October 10th-11th and am longing to connect with anyone who has a desire (or is maybe afraid but wants to …

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No one has ever begged me to stay on Instagram. And still, I remained for 13 years out of my own volition, my own questionable judgment, and eventually, a fully fabricated interna…

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Confession:

I want to feel beautiful. I want to feel GOOD.

And I want to see an image of myself and feel both of these things—deeply, in my body, without a doubt.

I want this truth for myself, for the people I love, and for the people I’m privileged to photograph.

More than anything, I want beautiful and GOOD to be malleable.

I want them to shift and change as often as we do.

I want beautiful and good to be things I can still see no matter how old I get, how soft I become, or how slow I start to move.

I want them to be facts I come to know and memorize—

the first thing I think of, and the first thing I say out loud

when a friend shows me a photo they just snapped of me

when I wasn’t paying attention.

I want laughter to be part of it.

I want surrender.

I want ease.

I want the stakes to feel lower.

I want to see myself and be in awe of this phenomenon, again and again:

That I’ll never really be able to see what others see,

and others will never be able to see what I see.

And isn’t that remarkable?

Dear Reader,

I may not have credentials in neuroscience or psychology, but I know—deep in my bones—that seeing myself is hard.

This hardness often shapeshifts quickly, transmuting into shock, confusion, and judgment. Before I can even count to three, the moment I come into contact with a reflection of myself, the hardness becomes something else entirely: an image so absurd, so beyond reason, that I begin to believe in a different story about myself than the one actually being reflected back.

If I were to put a name to this image, I would call it: BAD.

This word—this feeling, this experience of BAD—is deeper, wider, more complex than it appears on the page or screen you’re reading this now.

BAD happens in a flash.

BAD arrives like fact. Seemingly permanent, like initials etched into cement—a presence that could be removed, but not easily. Not unless I take a sledgehammer to the surface and create one giant mess.

And then what?

BAD can be a stand-in for so many things.

But it’s also the most common word I hear when people describe to me how they too feel when looking at a photograph they don’t like of themselves.

“Oh that’s a bad picture of me.”

“Ugh! Please don’t post that photo, I look so BAD!”

It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist-or even a photographer for that matter-to grasp that BAD can be shorthand for many things including: fat, awkward, or simply...different than expected.

I want to take one giant pause here to emphasize that last one-different than expected-and propose that maybe this is the only aspect of someone else’s perception (or even my own) that I can possibly influence. Even just a little.

The more I make pictures-of myself or of others-the more I begin to realize: I am in the work of exposure therapy. I am helping people see themselves in new ways, over and over again.

What’s wild to me is that no particular credential is really required for this kind of work. You can do it for yourself or a friend at any moment-just hold up your phone, snap a photo, and show it to them immediately.

But who you do this with will shape the entire experience.

If I could send a message out to the masses on this topic, I would scream point-blank:

YOU ARE NOT ALONE. YOU ARE NOT CRAZY, SEEING YOURSELF IS HARD-NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU’VE DONE IT.

The minute I enter into a space with someone I am trying to shatter the glass between us-so we can actually see each other and feel safe. Naming this phenomenon out loud is one way to close the gap between photographer and subject.

Over the years, I’ve shifted my focus away from trying to make the best image of someone, and toward creating the best possible experience around the image-making itself.

Because the big secret is: Your perception of yourself is influenced not by what you see, but how you feel about what you think you already know.

Our self-perception isn’t just a reaction to the visual facts of an image-it’s a reaction filtered through a preexisting emotional narrative that we carry about ourselves. And so even if the photograph is “good”, it can still feel BAD if it contradicts (or confirms) a belief we already hold.

In other words: The photograph becomes a mirror not just of how you look, but of how you feel about yourself.

Sometimes the feeling that comes up for me when I see a photo of myself has nothing to do with how I look—and everything to do with how it felt to be seen in that moment. Maybe I was caught off guard. Maybe I had a headache. Maybe I was simply afraid of what the picture might look like later—and now that it’s later, my prophecy has been fulfilled: I hate it. Please delete it off the camera roll immediately.

I forget sometimes that this is something that takes up real space in my mind. That I’ve actually done a lot of practice around this—with myself, and with others. I forget that not everyone knows this is a thing you can work with. That this whole phenomenon of self-perception is actually something that can be fucked with.

You do not need to change your body. You don’t need to change your hair. You don’t need to become a professional model in order to like a photo of yourself. And actually, liking the photo doesn’t even have to be the goal. You can just start by getting to know the image. Let it sit next to you for a while. Let it be strange and weird. Let it be unfamiliar. But maybe let it be yours before you decide whether it’s good or bad.

Exposure therapy is a process. It can feel dangerous at the beginning—when the feelings bubble up and you’re trying to do something new with them instead of shutting them down or slapping a label on them. Being curious about the different versions of yourself that you come into contact with is simple, but it’s not easy.

Exposing yourself to various versions you are unfamiliar with is uncomfortable. You might have to grieve who you thought you were. Who you hoped to become but maybe never will. You have to come to terms with the body that exists now, the face that exists now, the expressions you’ve never really seen before in this particular way. And might I remind you: when you look in the mirror, it’s only a reflection. Everyone else sees the literal opposite.

Recently I switched the setting on Zoom so my image wouldn’t be mirrored—just to see what other people see when they look at me in real time. The first time I did it, I laughed out of sheer discomfort. Though it wasn’t the first time I’d seen a non-mirrored image of myself, I’d be lying if I said the sensation in my body was anything close to calm or acceptance. I had to pause. I stared. I turned my head left and right, slowly.

In 2020, like a lot of people, I started dancing on the internet. First in private. Then slowly, over time, I started posting the videos. I didn’t tell anyone this was my version of exposure therapy. That by putting moving images of myself into the world, I was declaring something quietly and clearly:

YES, this body exists. It moves this way and sometimes it moves that way. I am familiar with this body. I accept this body.

I’d be lying if I said my observations at times have not lead me down the path of obsessive compulsions to change or alter my body. Sometimes my thoughts were as innocent as “I need a haircut” and ranged all the way to “I’ve gained weight. This is upsetting.” But whether I think I should wash my face, shed a few pounds or peruse major surgery, isn’t the point.

The goal isn’t to not change, the goal is to practice seeing and really seeing. And to remember that at any given time, we don’t truly know what we look like. Our perception is relative. Based on feelings that change with the tide and our literal moon cycle. And this constant change is worth noting, worth remembering, before we etch stories into concrete slabs that say we are broken.

We embody this degree of reflection by slowing down, by practicing, by not looking away. As with any therapeutic process: courage and curiosity are key.

Some people argue we were never meant to see ourselves as much as we do now. Maybe that’s true. But I’m less interested in that idea, and more interested in the truth of where we are. And as an image maker, I don’t necessarily want to see myself less. I want to stay curious about the reactions that come up when I do.

1. 📍upcoming travel: Between August 18th–25th, I’ll be traveling down the California coast from Point Arena to Los Angeles. I’m looking for places to stay along the way — in exchange, I’d love to offer a portrait to anyone who hosts me. If you’d like to hire me for a full photo session or an Embodied Portrait experience during that time, I’m also booking sessions at a discounted travel rate. You can reach me by responding to this letter or e-mail me hello@joy-newell.com with your dream or idea. Learn more at www.trulyspectacular.world.

2. I can’t stop listening to NTS radio. AMBIENT ABRACADABRA W/ SOFIE BIRCH was today’s set playing in the background as I typed this letter. Something about listening to a human being’s curation instead of the algorithm on Spotify is bring my nervous system a lot of comfort.

3. I’m currently logged off Instagram until August as part of the Tune Out, Drop In challenge hosted by Today is day 7.

   It’s also my half-birthday, and the six-month anniversary of the Los Angeles fires. I’ve been thinking a lot about the way that platform shapes our relationship to the news—and to our nervous systems. One of the biggest motivations for stepping away was reflecting on my own mental health since the fires. I’ve been reconsidering how I, as an artist and human, want to show up online, especially in moments of crisis. There’s that old phrase: Put your own oxygen mask on first and I’m really leaning into that lesson right now as someone who does eventually plan on returning.

4. Today marks eight months off cigarettes and 37 days of being nicotine free. I am happy to report that quitting was worth it.

trulyspectacular.world

Several months ago, I wrote to Guidance in a coffee shop—and then had a gut instinct to publish our conversation. It’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to reading my diary. Who am I …

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and I forget my body. I forget that arms,

that legs, that nose. I forget that waist,

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I lurked my ex. Before I go any further, I should probably come clean to the fullest extent and confess that I not only lurked my ex—I lurked their partner as well. I scrolled, tapped (careful to make no double taps), and saw it all—the latest that is. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve wandered into my ex’s digital world. And it probably won’t be the last.

This ritual of mine began approximately four years ago when I accidentally stumbled upon the news that my ex had re-partnered.

Prior to this discovery, I had requested an in person meeting—my attempt at a conscious ending, a way to reclaim the closure that had been taken from me.

The meeting went well. I said what I knew my future self would be proud of me for saying. I extended forgiveness, gratitude, and an acknowledgment of the love and life we shared. I thanked my ex for their presence, for what they taught me, and I owned my part in it all.

After fifty minutes on a picnic blanket in the middle of a park, we stood, embraced one final time, and walked to our cars. I wished them well, as we both agreed to never be friends. I did good. I was (am continue to be) proud of myself.

A few weeks later, the internet—without any effort on my part—served me a portal into my ex’s newfound love story.

I was completely gutted. Wrecked by the shock and disbelief that the person who had so clearly given up on love had seemingly found it just as quickly.

All the peace and closure I had worked so hard for over the past eight months—gone. Pulled out from underneath me in an instant. Like a sucker punch, clean and merciless. Every morsel of truth, every narrative spun in the unwinding of my grief, pulverized.

My love had found love, and it wasn’t with me!

For months, I ruminated. I spilled the beans to my therapist. I cried to my friends. I vented to my twin sister—the one who met and married her husband in the same exact year my ex and I started dating. I told my people everything: how I lurked my ex, how I lurked their partner. How I did it even though I knew I shouldn’t. How it only made me feel worse.

“You have to stop.”
“It’s not good for you.”
“You’re better than this.”

Everyone knows you shouldn't lurk your ex. It’s embarrassing. It’s painful. It makes you the bitter one. So why did I keep doing it?

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just jealousy. It wasn’t even rage, not exactly. It was something else. A kind of study. A way of measuring things. If love had moved on, I needed to know where it had gone.

Who finds love? Who keeps it? Why them, and not me?

Lurking became a way of understanding my own life. Like comparing shades of gray in a darkroom, watching the print develop, trying to make sense of the contrast. Was I better? Was I over it? Had I moved on? Whatever I felt in response to what I saw was my answer. Some days, I thought I passed the test. Other days, I saw myself failing.

I found justification in my looking through the understanding that maybe my brain was just trying to make sense of a new reality: that this person, who had been my person, was no longer my person. Maybe I was just in shock? I scrolled because I wanted to retrace the steps.

Was our love real? Did it matter? Did this new love erase it?!

My ego insisted I didn’t want my ex back—but that didn’t change the fact that I was searching for something. Despite every warning, every plea from my friends and therapist, I kept looking. And I wouldn’t stop until I found it.But the deeper I went down the rabbit hole, the more undeniable it became: this wasn’t about my ex. It was about me.

So I made a rule: no more looking! Eyes forward, moisturized, in my lane. And for a while, it stuck. Until my first breakup after THE breakup. Then, I found myself back in my ex’s corner of the internet, examining a life that had moved on without me.

“I think this might be a form of self-harm,” I told my therapist.

At some point, I understood that what I was examining online was just a mirage—a small digital footprint pointing to something that may or may not be real. My people reminded me of this constantly. The internet isn’t real. Somehow it didn’t matter. I still believed that my ex, our fallout, and their new love story would give me answers.

But it wasn’t a key. And maybe there was no puzzle at all.

For the next four years, I would continue to unfold, refold, stash away, pull out, unfold again, examine, discard, and reshape my beliefs on love. I would meet people who taught me things. People who restored me. People who broke me in new ways. I would read authors and poets, consume art that showed me bigger, more expansive ways of loving.

I would come out. I would fall in love with other queers. I would sit in front of campfires, bodies of water and open fields at golden hour, ask fewer questions and allow love to be a presence. I would learn that love was more than a promise from a man. Slowly but surely, I would begin to make sense of it all.

Except for one final question that continued to haunt me:

Why the fuck did my ex find love before me?

How could someone so ill-equipped—someone who had caused me so much pain—manage to secure the one thing I nearly begged them for, only months after we ended? And why, in god's name, did I need to know so badly? (Cue "The Prophecy" by Taylor Swift.)

Of course my friends had their theories, and I was grateful to them for holding my rage—especially those whose immediate response upon hearing my ex’s name was a resounding 'FUCK THAT GUY.' Because for a long time, I couldn’t be mad. I was just sad.

People expected me to trash my ex. But beyond the obvious acknowledgments of disappointment and harm, I knew tearing them down wouldn’t be the salve I needed. Picking apart their new relationship—calling it a rebound, a joke, a lie—only hurt me more. Because I needed love to mean something—even when it wasn’t mine.

Two years and several awkward first quarantine dates later, I finally found love. Real love. The kind I had been waiting for. The kind that made everything before it feel small.

This person saw me in ways I never knew I needed to be seen. They told me I was remarkable. They told me they weren’t going anywhere. They handled me with the kind of tenderness I didn’t know I was allowed to expect. I saw myself stepping into Spring after the harshest Winter.

Everything had led me here. Everything made sense.

And then we broke up. And I went looking for love again.

Later on, I fell in love with a new friend. When we slept together their body mirrored mine. It was cosmic. Love expanded, took on new shapes. It was bigger, broader, deeper than I had ever imagined. This person woke me up to the deepest parts of myself that had laid dormant for years. Confirmed me as alive and well. And in return I held nothing back. I gave it my all. It didn’t matter where my ex was now! In the end, I had won.

“I think I found my person,” I told my therapist.

“I’ve never seen you this way before,” she replied.

Everything was in its right place.

Until it wasn’t.

And I learned, once and for all, that love alone is never enough to keep two people together. That no matter how much I gave, no matter how deeply I believed, even the truest love could still slip away.

Dear Reader,

In my latest lurking escapades, I stumbled upon an answer I wasn’t expecting: love makes no sense at all. And maybe that’s a good thing.

So in spite of my losses, I think love might be a miracle.

And if it’s not, I don’t want to know.

If seeing love as a miracle is what helps me sleep at night, then let it be the story I tell myself—the story that keeps my heart open. Let it fuel my belief in a love that I don’t have to chase, beg for, or suffer to keep, but in a love that arrives on its own: unrushed, present, willing, and ready.

Because to believe otherwise—that love must be hunted down, wrestled into place, or endured beyond reason—is to make it a burden. And I've spent enough of my life carrying burdens.

I spent a long time believing love was something you had to prove. Something you held onto at all costs. Something you earned by staying, by forgiving, by trying harder than the person next to you.

Until they left anyway.

It has taken me years to learn that love is not a test of my endurance. That sometimes, the bravest thing I can do, is walk away.

Dear Reader,

I have done my research. And I have concluded: Love is not a prize for the most patient.

It is not something that must be fought for in order to be real.

Love is a miracle. Because miracles are not earned.

Miracles are not awarded to the most brave, the most open, the most self-improved, the ones who’ve suffered the most. We do not pay penance to receive the miracle of love.

I have always known this. When I was a kid, I was taught that love—real love—was not something you earned. It was a gift.

I learned this first and foremost through the Evangelical Conservative Christian faith that raised me. Love was a gift from God, freely given to all who chose to accept it. There was nothing I could do to earn this love, nothing I could do to lose it. God loved me, no matter what.

And yet, while my salvation was secure, a sacrifice was still required. My sacrifice. I was to deny myself, kill my flesh, surrender my desires. In exchange, I would have love. A love that was freely given, but never mine to feel worthy of.

Because at the end of the day, I was still depraved. Still sinful. Still a piece of shit lucky enough to be scooped up by grace. Remember that. That was the deal. That was the trade-off.

Yes, I was loved. But I was never to forget that I didn’t really deserve it.

Maybe that's why, for so long, I thought love demanded my suffering—a kind of self-abandonment—driving me to spend years proving my worth and earning my keep. Maybe that's why, against all odds, if given the opportunity, I would have let my ex burry me alive.

Dear Reader,

I would be remiss to continue this essay on love without acknowledging my deepest conviction: that beyond its miraculous nature, love is choice.

There has never been a doubt in my mind: if given the chance, I would choose love. Every morning I wake up and recommit myself to it: I am open. I am ready. I am willing. However cringe that may seem.

There has never been a question of whether I am willing to do the work of love. The real question is: am I willing to stop accepting the presence of those that refuse to meet me there?

If love is a miracle, which one is it?

A love no one deserves, yet everyone receives?

Or a gift that isn’t about worthiness at all—just timing?

If love is a miracle, then I have to believe it finds everyone.

If love is a miracle, then it arrives.

Not all at once.

Not on a timeline that makes any sense.

But eventually, in some way. Somehow.

If love is a miracle, then even my shitty ex gets to live in marital bliss with the latest love of their life.

If love is a miracle, then I do not have to pull another tarot card. I do not have to do another dance. I do not have to throw a parade for the next person who matches me on Hinge. I do not have to worry about whether or not they will stay.

If love is a miracle, then mine is already on its way. And they are definitely texting me back.

If love is a miracle, it arrives.

Right on time.

Even if I don’t know when that time will be.

Dear Reader:

No matter what you choose to believe about love, my wish for you is the same wish I hold for myself:

That you may hold onto the belief that there is a love that searches for you too.

That upon its miraculous arrival, you fall head over heels and drown in perfect love—a love that chooses to stay.

May you find the courage to make choices that sustain it, knowing that the work of love gets to be light.

May this love lessen the load.

May the love that searches for you, find you, exactly where you are at: unrushed, present, willing, and ready.

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✍︎ I’m frustrated with this whole [redacted] thing. I’m afraid I won’t be able to narrow it down into something tangible. And even if I do, what if no one’s interested? I’m stressed about trying to figure it all out when I don’t have the time, money, or resources to do it right. I genuinely believe this could be a real thing. I’m just stuck. And it’s hard to get my shit together. It’s like it’s so close, yet still so out of reach. I wish I could snap my fingers, make the student loans disappear, and have an audience ready to spread the word. Also—sometimes I feel like I’m trying to be too many things at once. Lol.

★ Wow. Sounds like a lot, and I can tell you’re feeling pretty overwhelmed. It also seems like there’s some shame in the room. I’m curious if we’re using that feeling to push ourselves a little harder, as a means of gaining momentum towards a solution, but I’m also wondering if that’s what you want to rely on right now.

✍︎ Of course not (shame is bad)!

★ lol. It’s happening again.

✍︎ Fuck.

★ It’s okay. Why don’t you take a deep breath?

✍︎ …

★ Can I ask you a question?

✍︎ Always.

★ What would you like to feel now instead of shame, frustration, and fear?

✍︎ I would like to feel some excitement. Inspiration. Trust. Clarity.

★ Ya. That sounds fucking dope.

✍︎ But even just saying that makes me feel the fear even more, like it’s just bubbling up in my throat. I think I might cry.

★ That’s fine, you can cry.

✍︎ I can’t, I’m at the coffee shop.

★ Oh, ok. lol.

✍︎ HELP.

★ I’m wondering what would happen if we gave a little space to that fear you’re feeling.

✍︎ What do you mean? ugh.

★ I mean, can you let yourself feel it a little in your body? We’re writing it out right now, so technically you’re more in your head, but later, and as you go throughout your day and week, what if we transformed some of that fear into a signal?

✍︎ A signal for what?

★ I mean maybe the fear is helping you remember something.

✍︎ Stop! I’m going to cry! At the coffee shop!

★ LOL

✍︎ Fuck.

★ Hey.

✍︎ Ya?

★ I love you.

✍︎ I love you too.

★ Ok, listen.

✍︎ I’m listening (crying).

★ You’re scared because you care. So much.

✍︎ god, I know it.

★ You care so much. And you know you’re onto something. This is important.

✍︎ I know but—

★ You’re afraid, I know.

✍︎ I just—

★ It’s hard right now. A lot is going on. AND, remember last night?

✍︎ Yeah, I do.

★ It was fun, hu?

✍︎ Ya.

★ Good things happening, all the time, in spite of it all.

✍︎ Right. I’m so tired though.

★ Ya that’s real. Hey— you’re not cringe, ok?

✍︎ What? Why are you bringing that up right now? lol

★ Because I can tell you were thinking about it.

✍︎ Aren’t I just supposed to let myself be cringe? Like that’s the life hack or whatever?

★ Yes and no. I think when you see “cringe” what you’re actually responding to are things that feel inauthentic to you, and that freaks you out. That frustrates you. But to be fair, what you’re seeing could very well be authentic to somebody else, it’s just not for you.

✍︎ Right. I’ve seen a lot of gross things on the internet lately and it makes me want to throw up.

★ Yeah there’s some real shit out there. But hey let’s refocus here for a sec.

✍︎ OK.

★ You don’t have to worry about being cringe in all of this as long as you are sticking to what feels genuinely fun, exciting, and generally interesting to you. If you’re curious about it, that’s enough. There’s no shame in that. That’s your compass, ok?

✍︎ Ugh. But I want to be cool! I want to be impressive!

★ No. You want to be known. You want to feel seen. And more than anything, you want to feel a sense of connection.

✍︎ ugh.

★ You’re sort of doing this weird whiny thing now, but I can take it. ANYWAY. You’ve been perceived as “cool” before and it was lonely, remember?

✍︎ Yeah.

★ The real cool stuff you experience, the things that make you come alive—like that show you saw last night—it resonated with you on a deep, visceral level. Those moments make you feel human in the best way. They expand you, put you in a state of awe. That’s what I’m getting at. That’s the feeling you’re chasing: aliveness, expansion, connection, awe. And of course, you’d want that. Who wouldn’t?

✍︎ I think we forget sometimes. Like when I saw the stage, the lights, the dancing, and all the costume changes—there was this little flicker of jealousy, like, will I ever be that cool? Lol. But mostly, I just thought, wow, I can’t believe I get to see this. It was so fucking cool, and I felt so grateful to everyone who made it happen. Everything about it just felt so queer, and I loved that.

★ Ya.

✍︎ I don’t want to try and fix anyone, or solve anyone’s problems, really. I just. I want that feeling for them too. That like, expansiveness and so when I think about bringing all of these ideas together into something that could do that for someone and then mixing it with money— which I get it— it’s fine to exchange money for time and services—

★ Wait—can I interrupt you for a second?

✍︎ Uh, sure…

★ You’re filtering yourself.

✍︎ What??

★ You’re starting to filter yourself because you’re thinking about possibly sharing this conversation publically and that’s starting to shift what it is you want to talk about right now.

✍︎ god damnit.

★ It’s fine—you can—just— think for a second. You were onto something.

✍︎ Fine. Look, I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say. This feels like such a huge and scary shift—not like I’m going to stop making pictures or anything. I don’t know. There’s something here, and if it feels *so* right, I don’t get why I’m struggling with it so much at the same time.

★ Well honey, there’s a lot of judgement here. And like we’ve established—fear. I don’t see you struggling. I see you wrestling.

✍︎ But there’s so much fear.

★ Mmmm, not too much though. I think you’ll be fine.

✍︎ lol, okay. thanks?

★ You’re wrestling with the details: the UNKNOWABLE FUTURE.

✍︎ Ok but why do you have to capitalize it like that lol.

★ ok fuck off lol

✍︎ lol, k. sorry.

★ Let me remind you, the answers aren’t going to just drop into your lap in one big flash. Sure, sometimes you get those moments of clarity, but they’re rare and usually come in small fragments. They tend to show up when you give yourself space or step away and let things marinate in the background OR carve out some time to consciously think about it. It’s not going to fall from the sky—you’re uncovering it, slowly. And no offense, but there’s a bit of impatience here, which makes sense. That’s your practical side kicking in.

✍︎ I hate that.

★ I know you do. You think there’s no time.

✍︎ It really does feel like that.

★ Right. So you’re going to need to hop into that plane of consciousness where there is more space, more time. You know what to do.

✍︎ my god it feels so impossible.

★ you’ve done the impossible before.

✍︎ I want to scream.

★ Great, why don’t you have a little scream?

✍︎ Still at the coffee shop.

★ Lol, I know.

✍︎ …

★ ANYWAY. What I’m saying is you have a compass here. What is your compass?

✍︎ My fear.

★ What is your fear pointing to?

✍︎ What I care about.

★ And what is it you really care about?

✍︎ …connection.

★ ☺

✍︎ crying again.

★ I know.

✍︎ I just—

★ I know.

✍︎ I—

★ You don’t have to worry. You have to remember.

✍︎ Why do I keep forgetting? god this is so fucking cheesy, because even beneath that is just…love you know? Connection, true connection is about being connected to big love. Like…oneness.

★ Yup.

✍︎ Why does it have to be so hippy-dippy??

★ Stop lol. You love that shit. Some people are going to think it’s weird.

✍︎ k, fine.

★ and…

✍︎ I just don’t want to lose people along the way you know?

★ You will. But that’s not who you’re talking to anyway.

✍︎ Right.

★ Go ahead, say it.

✍︎ IT’S JUST SO HARD TO LET GO OF WHO I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE.

★ There’s some grief there, hu?

✍︎ A huge lump in my throat.

★ Not everyone is going to understand.

✍︎ I’m not going to feel connected to some of the coolest people places or things that I see. And that hurts.

★ Huh. That’s such an interesting story… this idea of coolness is really important to you isn’t it?

✍︎ Yeah well you know what I mean.

★ You can still love people, honor their humanity, and admire them from afar without feeling like you have to be a part of it all. I don’t know why it has to feel like such a huge loss—or so black and white.

✍︎ What do you mean you don’t know, of course you know.

★ I think sometimes you long for things from people that they can’t give you. And that’s valid, but part of this is about letting go and turning your attention to the stuff that IS for you.

✍︎ Ya well it all just feels really fucking risky.

★ Ya. It is. That’s love babe. You will get hurt along the way.

✍︎ I already have.

★ I know.

✍︎ Beneath all this fear is so so so much grief. I feel so much sadness right now.

★ Right.

✍︎ Wow we’re really out here in the weeds right now, aren’t we? lol

★ Okay yeah let’s reign it in a bit and lower the stakes. I think there was something you really wanted to say.

✍︎ Ya, just like, officially out loud. Between us.

★ I’m listening. ☺

✍︎ I think if I can remember what it is I really care about, I will know what to do. Like right now I’m recalling the things that have held me back from it.

★ what…connection?

✍︎ Don’t act like you don’t know where I’m going with this, you are me lol.

★ This is funny.

✍︎ Anyway. I’m not — I’m not trying to change anyone or anything, I’m just trying to clear a path for people and myself. So people can find their way. But all I know is my own experience. So it feels so raw.

★ It’s interesting that you keep feeling the need to defend this idea of you supposedly wanting to change or fix people. What is that?

✍︎ It feels vulnerable to admit I think I can actually be of service and I don’t want people to think that I think I have all the answers.

★ Ya but you have some of them, don’t you? Or at least fragments that could genuinely be helpful? What if you were allowed to help people? Isn’t it funny that like our worst fear is being a narcissist or something?

✍︎ Wait, is that my worst fear??!

★ It’s like when your therapist told you that you couldn’t even be a bitch if you tried.

✍︎ Oh yeah that was crazy hahha.

★ It’s all just safeguards you know. Like the minute you try to expand the little bumpers come up.

✍︎ Why is it so hard to own what I know? I feel emotional.

★ I think it’s just vulnerable to expand. But you saw this coming a long time ago. This is a growth edge. I think you need to try to have some faith in that. What would it look like if you leaned into it? Unapologetically?

✍︎ BUT WHY IS IT SO HARD.

★ Because you kinda have to put yourself out there in a new way, and that feels embarrassing to you. It hurts to be rejected, misunderstood, and judged. That’s some deep shit. But it’s also not unique. Sorry. That’s why you have to revisit the grief. Because as you get closer to the real thing, the real thing you’re feeling called to do, you have to remember all the times you put yourself out there and it wasn’t fully accepted or understood. Or you fucked up. Also, we can’t get to the part of you starting to visualize this all going well if you don’t make a pit stop here first.

✍︎ This is just starting to feel like therapy now.

★ I’m just tossing the ball back and forth with you, babe.

✍︎ Why can’t I just let it go? Why can’t I be fearless? Why can’t I just not give a fuck?

★ It’s not about being fearless. It’s not about not giving a fuck.

✍︎ good GOD what is it about then???

★ If it’s 100% relief from all this discomfort, I can’t get you there. Part of this is about you being ok with the discomfort and not seeing it as a bad thing.

✍︎ good god we are there again?

★ Ok wow chill out lol.

✍︎ Sorry.

★ LISTEN. YOU KNOW ALL OF THIS. YOU ARE TEACHING IT ALL OF THE TIME ALREADY.

✍︎ Ya I’m starting to gather that.

★ I think the shift in language here is important. You said something about clearing a path—do you want to say more about that?

✍︎ I think if I can reverse engineer how I’ve done that for myself already, like this idea of what stands between me and this feeling of expansiveness, this connection I feel with others when I’m working with them, I might be able to explain that to someone else, and it could help.

★ You know you’re already doing that, right.

✍︎ Right. You just said that.

★ Right. I think you actually just need to sit down and write about this some more. Give yourself some time to plan. To think about the details. You’ve been too afraid to do it, and also a little busy. But you have time now.

✍︎ Ok but this feels different, it feels more tender, more personal. And I just don’t know if I can turn it into something.

★ I don’t think that’s true. But I think it’s good that you’re expressing this doubt and getting it out on the page.

✍︎ Ya, maybe.

★ I think you coming back to the core of what you care bout feels a lot better in your body, than worrying about all of the unknowns right now, doesn’t it?

✍︎ Ya I do feel a little lighter. Like I wanted some big answers and I guess I got some, but I mostly just feel less afraid.

★ You what?!

✍︎ I feel less afraid.

★ That’s incredible.

“Because in trying to articulate what, perhaps, joy is, it has occurred to me that among other things—the trees and the mushrooms have shown me this—joy is the mostly invisible, the underground union…

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Dear Listener,

I’m reaching out to you from McCarren Park. While it may not be the most famous park in New York City, it’s perfectly fine by me. I’ve heard that this neighborhood is considered "cool but not cool," and it's gentrified with a lot of finance bros. I’m not as familiar with the social scene here as I am in LA, so even though I know no one is paying attention to me, I can’t help but feel the spotlight effect everywhere I go.

No poetry today. Today’s missive is more of a fleeting glimpse into existential musings triggered by old art school dreams. I threw in some iPhone snaps as well. Listen below as a paid subscriber or come back soon for more free writing.

Tape #005

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In my art practice as a portrait photographer, I often talk about “showing up fully” with the individuals I’m about to photograph. This concept—this call—can refer to an idealized …

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Before we get to the heart of today’s letter, I wanted to let you know that I am coming to New York City. August 23rd for a handful of days. I’d like to photograph anyone who feels call…

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