Before I get into this latest musing, I want to start with a genuine thank you.

The season finale of The Radically Well Podcast is officially live, and I’m still wrapping my head around how quickly this season moved. It feels like we just began, and somehow we’re already here. I’m so grateful to my co-host, , who helped bring this entire season to life with so much care and intention.

If you haven’t listened yet, both Season 1 and Season 2 are available wherever you get your podcasts, or you can find everything linked here.

And truly, thank you for supporting us. We just reached 64K subscribers on YouTube, which honestly feels a little surreal.

I don’t take any of it lightly.

So lately, I’ve been thinking about dinner parties.

Not casually, not in that “we should do this sometime” way, but really thinking about them. Imagining the table, the clinking glasses, the slow unraveling of deep conversation. I’ve been counting down the months…yes months, until I graduate, like that moment might open a door back into something more human, more shared.

Because right now, my days have a rhythm that’s both comforting and quietly suffocating. I read. I scroll. I drift a little too long on social media. I feed the hummingbirds. I watch the caterpillars grow slow and steady, happening right before my eyes. And still, I can feel time passing in a way that’s hard to ignore. It’s subtle, but it presses on me.

And if I’m honest, it’s a little depressing.

So naturally, I think: maybe I just need to see people.

Call a friend. Visit my sisters. Sit with either of my parents, even if it’s just for a little while. Something simple, something grounding.

And then…almost predictably…the moment I make a plan, something shifts. Within 24 hours, I cancel (lol).

Has that ever happened to you? That sharp swing from craving connection to feeling like the commitment itself has become another item on an already overfull to-do list? Like the thing you needed suddenly feels like too much?

I’ve been in school for three years now, and I still believe, wholeheartedly, that it was the right choice. But belief doesn’t always quiet the questions.

Did I do the right thing?

The question found me the other day, in the middle of everything. A work deadline, writing new episodes for Radio Headspace, a fifteen-page literature review and presentation (sàns Ai) looming for one of my four classes. Meal prepping for two, the usual choreography of keeping life moving.

And then there I was, folding laundry, listening to an audiobook for school, half-present on a work call where the noise blurred into something unbearable.

It felt like too much. Like, just… full.

This season has been heavy. Not just for me, I see it in so many people. And layered into that is the clinical work I’m doing, which doesn’t always stay neatly contained. Sometimes it lingers. Sometimes it follows me home in quiet ways.

So I stepped away, went to bed, and let myself be still. The question came up again, over and over, like a tide: Why am I doing this?

The answer, when it comes, is always simple.

I want to help.

I think that’s been true for a long time.

When I was eleven, in sixth grade, right before junior high, I had already been to three different elementary schools. Three different goodbyes. Three different chances to start over.

I was quiet. Withdrawn in some ways. But I made a kind of game out of it, even if no one ever named it that way. It was the early ’90s, things weren’t exactly processed out loud. My parents had separated, gotten back together, and then separated again, all within a short span of time.

There was a lot happening under the surface. I experienced some bullying, but it was to be… expected. Part of being the new kid you know? I remember meeting a boy who told me he’d moved fifteen times because his dad was in the military. I remember how that made me feel less alone…and, in a strange way, more aware. Like, oh… it could always be worse. (Perspective, delivered by another eleven-year-old.)

But more than anything, I started to notice the role I slipped into.

The helper.

I gravitated toward the outliers, the ones who didn’t quite fit. It made sense to me. I didn’t want to follow the crowd, not really. (High school was a brief exception, but if you know my cop car story, you know how that turned out. Never try to steal the cop car. Just… don’t.)

I wanted to help my teachers and my classmates, probably, if I’m honest, I was also trying to help myself.

There’s that saying: when you feel helpless, help someone.

I love it. And I also think it’s incomplete.

Because when you’re depleted, really depleted, it can feel like a cognitive contradiction. How do you give when you feel like you have nothing left? How do you bridge that gap?

And somehow, this all circles back to dinner parties.

Because underneath all of this, the questions, the overwhelm, the old patterns, is something simpler.

I miss the connection.

Real connection, not simulated through screens or squeezed in between obligations. Connection where you feel time stretches a little. Where conversations meander, and you feel seen without having to explain yourself into exhaustion.

I think about My Dinner with Andre. I think about those 90s high school clips that float around online, no phones, no constant distraction. Just people… being with each other.

What happened?

When did connection start to feel like effort instead of instinct?

And maybe that’s the point I’m circling toward, even if I’m still finding the exact words for it:

We’re not meant to do all of this alone. Not the learning, not the helping, not the becoming.

Maybe the dinner party isn’t just about dinner. Maybe it’s about reclaiming a space where we can show up as we are…tired, curious, questioning, and still feel like we belong at the table.

And maybe, for me, that’s what I’m really counting down to.

Sending you all a big hug with love,

Rosie

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Walter Mosley has always been one of my favorite writers, not just for his storytelling, but for the way he speaks about creativity as something imperfect, uncertain, and deeply human. There’s no illusion of control in his work. No promise that what you make will EVER land the way you want it to, and to me, that’s the best part. He inspires that quiet insistence that makes you show up, day after day, after day.

Lately, I’ve been returning to that idea.

As this academic term comes to an end, I’ve noticed something in myself that feels almost contradictory. Instead of wanting to slow down, I feel the urge to write more. To create more. Which, on paper, makes very little sense. The last few years have been full, going back to graduate school, working full-time, writing my second book, recording, and teaching. There are easier ways to live, and yes, I know this.

But for those of us who are wired toward creativity, ease has never really been the point, has it?

We don’t create because it fits neatly into our schedules. We create because it’s how we make sense of things. Because it’s one of the only ways to metabolize a world that often feels overwhelming, fractured, and at times, unbearable.

Creativity becomes less about output and more about survival, about taking something internal, something unresolved, and giving it form, as best you can anyway.

And that form doesn’t always come out perfectly polished. It doesn’t always succeed. Which is perhaps why Mosley’s words land the way they do. Failure is not separate from the work.

It is the work.

Spring has been quietly arriving around me.

The hummingbirds that crowded our feeders just weeks ago have begun to find their nectar elsewhere. In their place, the monarchs have returned, drifting over the milkweed as if drawn by something ancient and instinctual. There’s a subtle reorganization happening, life shifting, redistributing, continuing on without hesitation.

Midlife has begun to feel like that.

A subtle, yet steady movement forward, whether I feel ready or not. Another year, already in motion. Another cycle nearing completion. There’s a quiet pressure in that, a question that hums beneath everything: how do we continue? Not just functionally, but meaningfully.

Recently, I had the opportunity to speak with Dr. Ellen Langer, often referred to as the “mother of mindfulness.” We talked about the relationship between the mind and the body, about chronic illness, about aging, about the ways attention shapes our experience of health. It was one of those conversations that seemed simple on the surface, but lingered longer than expected. A reminder that how we perceive our lives is inseparable from how we live them.

Still, insight doesn’t exempt you from uncertainty.

Even now, as I approach the end of another podcast season, one that has, by all external measures, been successful, I find myself returning to the same question I always ask at the end of a cycle: do I keep going?

It’s a strange tension, loving something deeply while also questioning it. Loving the process, the planning, the writing itself, the way language can open something, soften something, make meaning out of what otherwise feels diffuse. And yet, standing at the edge of continuation, unsure whether to move forward in the same way or to let something shift.

Midlife doesn’t resolve that tension. If anything, it makes it worse. You become more aware of how you spend your time, more conscious of what is being asked of you, more attuned to what still feels alive and what no longer does.

This weekend, life interrupted in a way that no amount of planning could account for.

I was supposed to be in London, attending the world premiere of Balance. Instead, we said goodbye to Brink—Bubby, Bigboi, The Bubbs, one of our beloved dogs. And there is no clean language for that kind of loss. Anyone who has loved a furry friend knows this. They are not peripheral to your life, these little beings are woven into it. Into your routines, your mornings, your sense of home.

When they’re gone, it’s not just their absence you feel. It’s the absence of a certain rhythm. A certain kind of quiet companionship that doesn’t ask anything from you except that you show up.

Losing Brink brought me back to losing Chewbug, my shih tzu, years ago. He passed away while I was writing my first book, in the middle of drafting a chapter on grief. At the time, it felt almost surreal, like the universe collapsing metaphor and reality into the same moment. Even now, I find it difficult to revisit that chapter. Some experiences resist neat integration. They hit differently right?

I don’t have children, and for a long time, I wasn’t sure how to articulate what these animals have meant to me. It’s easy to minimize it, to make a joke about vet bills versus tuition, to soften it with humor. But the truth is simpler and more vulnerable than that. To care for another being so completely, to be their person for the entirety of their life, is a profound responsibility.

And a profound privilege.

You know, from the beginning, how the story will end. That’s part of the agreement. And still, we enter into it. We love anyway.

The pain doesn’t lessen with experience, but neither does the willingness, and, I would choose it again.

In the last few weeks, I’ve found myself reaching for smaller things.

Walking in the morning. Music in my ears, trees overhead, the smell of flowers catching me off guard. Letting myself notice what is still here. Letting the world continue around me without needing to fix or interpret it.

There is something about being in nature that reorients me. It doesn’t remove the grief, but it places it within a larger context. A reminder that loss is not separate from life, but embedded within it.

The world, as it is right now, carries its own weight. It doesn’t take much to feel it, the collective exhaustion, the uncertainty, the constant vibe of things that feel unresolved. It would be easy to shut down, to numb out, to retreat into distraction.

And this is where I return, again, to creativity.

Not as something to be measured or optimized, but as a practice of staying in relationship with what is difficult.

To write, even when the words feel insufficient. To create, even when the outcome is unclear. To take what feels formless, grief, confusion, longing…and give it shape.

And maybe that’s enough.

Midlife, more than anything, has begun to feel like an invitation to stay.

To stay with what is uncomfortable.
To stay with what is unfinished.
To stay with the parts of life that don’t resolve cleanly.

If failure is the heart of art, then perhaps grief is the heart of being human. And somewhere in the space between the two, we find a way to keep going, not perfectly, not elegantly, but honestly.

And maybe, at this stage of life, honesty is its own form of creation.

With Love,

Rosie

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What if the most radical thing you could do right now is sit at a dinner table for two hours and just… talk?

No phones. No notifications. No second screen glowing beside you. Just conversation that wanders and deepens and occasionally…gets uncomfortable.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week.

The past few days have felt full in a way that is both expansive and strangely intimate. I’ve been drafting and recording the next round of Radio Headspace episodes, spending long stretches behind a microphone talking about attention, presence, and what it really means to live inside your own life instead of skimming across it. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I’m creating content about presence in a culture that is drowning in content.

Which is exactly why a film about two men having dinner has been haunting me again.

There’s always a pause before we start recording, everything settles, the headphones press gently against my ears, the script rests in front of me, and the studio goes still. I’m suddenly aware that whatever I’m about to say will meet someone in the middle of their ordinary day, while they’re walking their dog, folding laundry, or sitting quietly in their car trying to gather themselves. In that small pocket of silence, I sometimes catch myself wondering how I arrived here.

Not with pride exactly, but with a kind of softness, almost disbelief. The younger version of me would never have been able to picture this life.

So the other night, I rewatched My Dinner with Andre, and something about it felt urgently relevant to this season of my life. Maybe it was my recent trip to New York. Maybe it was a clip I stumbled across online that pulled me back in. Whatever the spark was, I decided to sit down and watch it in its entirety for the first time in nearly thirty years.

The film has followed me for most of my life, though I didn’t understand it at first. In eighth grade, I had a teacher named Mr. Haig who stopped assigning book reports because we simply weren’t doing them. Imagine being a middle school teacher in East LA in the mid-’90s with a classroom full of sugar-loaded, Flaming Hot Cheeto–eating kids who had very little interest in grammar, literature, or institutional compliance? (lol).

So he pivoted. Instead of book reports, we watched films. The assignment was deceptively simple: What is it about? What did you like? Who was your favorite character?

Three questions. He used our answers to correct our terrible grammar, but the format kept us engaged. I think that was the beginning of my love for film.

Then he assigned My Dinner with Andre. We hated it. There was no action, no plot twists, no epic soundtrack to tell you what to feel…just two men sitting at a restaurant having dinner and talking for nearly two hours.

If you’ve never seen it, that’s the whole premise.

Wallace Shawn plays a slightly anxious, financially struggling playwright meeting his old friend André Gregory, a theater director who has just returned from a series of strange, almost mystical experiences in Europe, experimental theater in the Polish countryside, living in near-isolation, participating in these intense spiritual explorations. The entire film is their conversation over dinner.

There are no flashbacks, no cutaways, no cinematic tricks to keep you entertained. Just ideas. André questions whether modern life has numbed us into passivity, whether we’ve become comfortable to the point of sleepwalking. Wally pushes back, defending ordinary pleasures, practicality, and the need to survive in the real world.

At thirteen, this felt like punishment.

I kept waiting for something to happen…a fight, a revelation, at the very least, dessert drama. Instead, it was just… thinking. It was talking, and listening. Which, at that age, felt like the opposite of entertainment.

When we returned to class, everyone complained about how boring it was. One classmate announced that his mom said he didn’t have to watch “propaganda.” Which felt… ironic, considering he was headed off to summer camp for what could only be described as very enthusiastic religious programming. But that’s a different essay for another time, I digress.

At thirteen, my primary critique of what I now consider one of the most profound films ever made was that nothing happened.

They were just sitting there!? Also, I had never been to a restaurant that fancy in my life. The entire film felt distant, indulgent, and well, I didn’t get it.

Years later, in my senior year of high school, after I had officially gotten off probation and was no longer a ward of the court, another teacher assigned the film again. This time, the task was to extract its philosophical ideas and explain how they applied to our lives. By then, something in me had shifted. I had begun reading about Buddhism, I was experimenting with meditation, I was questioning the life that had seemed predetermined for me.

When I rewatched the film at seventeen, my mind, was blown.

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Happy Monday Dear Ones,

I meant to write you on Friday. And then the day, like so many lately, slipped through my fingers.

I’m just returning to Los Angeles after a week in New York for press for BALANCE: A Perimenopause Journey. In case you missed me talking about it, or posting about it (not sure how), I’m an Associate Producer on this epic four-part docuseries that brings together evidence-based education and lived experience to help advance women’s health. BALANCE is our attempt to help shift that narrative. To offer clarity where confusion has arisen. To tell the truth where silence has lived. And to start more honest, necessary conversations, grounded in science, compassion, and real stories.

And right now… it’s landing.

BALANCE is currently streaming on:
• Apple TV — USA, UK, Australia, Canada
• Amazon Prime — USA, UK

We’re sitting at #5 on Apple TV Shows, which honestly still feels surreal.
(On-demand purchase is $9.99.)

It feels tender, and honestly a little strange, to share joyful, meaningful news while so much in the world feels heavy, heartbreaking, and uncertain.

I’m holding that complexity as I write this, grief and gratitude, concern and celebration, all at once. And at the same time, I believe deeply that this work, centering women’s health, truth, and care, matters especially now.

We were grateful to share the project on The Today Show, CBS, and Fox 5 New York, and to stand alongside our executive producers and Jeannie Mai, both of whom bring such clarity, care, and conviction to this work. I also had the unexpected joy of spending time with Jeannie and the monks as we traversed the city in a full on winter storm. Never have I ever been so cold, truly, and somehow, I loved every second of it.

We were invited by to do a double-feature premiere with The M Factor 2, the second part of her documentary exploring perimenopause through expert voices and lived experience. There was a red carpet, a packed room, and that electric feeling that comes when something meaningful is finally meeting the world. We did a panel discussing why we think the topic of perimenopause is so important.

Seven years ago, I entered menopause early, at 35. That moment quietly, and then profoundly, shifted the trajectory of my work. What began as a personal reckoning became a deeper inquiry into the glaring gaps in education, resources, and care around women’s health. Gaps that widen even more for women of color (we have the data), which is why I went back to school in 2024.

When you’re in this mode, press, premieres, conversations, it’s like operating on a different frequency altogether. Everything feels amplified, urgent, and alive.

And then, just as quickly…you come home.

For me, that means returning to writing papers, sitting in class, and discussing neurotransmitter networks, how intricate systems of communication shape mood, cognition, regulation, and resilience. It’s humbling to move between those worlds: the visibility of advocacy and the quiet rigor of clinical training.

I’m deep in my clinical work now, and while part of me could easily stay riding the high, I’m genuinely grateful to be back in my cocoon…integrating, studying, listening, and learning how to serve with even more precision and care.

With that said, I do have a favor to ask…

This project exists because of community. Because of conversations. Because of years of listening, learning, and refusing to look away from what so many of us experience behind closed doors.

If you feel moved and only if it feels aligned, I would be so grateful if you shared the series and tag @balancedocuseries to help spread the word. Every share helps these stories reach someone who may need them more than they realize.

Thank you for supporting BALANCE. And thank you for supporting me, especially in times when showing up with care and intention means everything.

I couldn’t have done this without each and every one of you.

Holding it all. And still… it’s GO time.

With so much love and gratitude,
Rosie 🤍

Also, you can listen to the latest episode of The Radically Well Podcast and hear what inspired this series…

This week felt like my hair was on fire, in that way where everything is technically good, but also happening all at once. Between preparing for the Hollywood premiere of Balance, picking up truly copious amounts of dog shit, school responsibilities, and clinical work, the days blurred together fast. Add in the launch of a new season of The Radically Well Podcast, and suddenly that moment I mentioned a few weeks ago when everything I’ve been working on starts converging…arrived.

The now is, in fact, nowing (lol).

The week went by in a flash. Tessa came into town, and we managed to squeeze in some time together, brief but meaningful. Then it was right back to writing papers and seeing clients. If I’m honest, this is probably what the rest of 2026 will look like for me. Structured, Busy, Routine, just the way I like it, you all know how much I love a routine.

And yet, even with so many positive things unfolding, I find myself carrying a deep sense of sadness about the state of the world. I don’t need to spell it out. We’re struggling. People are living in constant fear, and those in power seem far more invested in their own agendas than in collective care. What I’ve been witnessing lately feels devastating on a global scale, and it raises the quiet but persistent question: what do we do with this?

I find myself returning to something I learned over twenty years ago. When I was twenty-two, I was already feeling behind, convinced I hadn’t figured my life out, certain that everything I was doing was a waste of time. I wish I could say that feeling disappears with age, but the truth is — twenty years later — it still visits. I still ask myself whether what I’m doing matters. Whether it’s moving the needle in any meaningful way.

At the time, my life looked full on paper. I was working as a salon manager at a celebrity hair salon, surrounded by constant motion, personalities, and pressure. On my days off, I would go to Golden Bridge and the Center for Yoga, searching for a little peace inside an environment that felt anything but zen. It was a strange contrast, high-paced, image-driven work on one side, and the quiet discipline of practice on the other. We were also filming a reality TV show then, which only added another layer of surreal intensity, though that’s a story for another time.

Even with all of that happening, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something essential. That I was busy, but not necessarily grounded. Doing a lot, but not sure if any of it truly mattered in the long run. That tension, between movement and meaning has followed me through every chapter of my life.

When I was fifteen, I worked as a receptionist at a hair salon in the Montebello Mall, right across from the food court. The smell of Panda Express would drift into the salon all day, it still makes me a little queasy, though I’m sure the orange chicken is just as good as ever. I’d get out of school, take the bus to work, and honestly, I loved it. This was also during the period when I was on probation from that one incident involving a cop car, but I digress. What I loved most was talking to people. Looking back, I can see how my introverted extrovert nature was already forming. I’ve always gravitated toward front-facing roles, even when part of me wanted to stay hidden.

There was a regular client at the salon, we’ll call him Adam. He worked as a private investigator for the city of Los Angeles, which completely fascinated me. When I told him about my run-in with the law, he looked genuinely surprised and said I didn’t “look like” the type. That comment rubbed me the wrong way, even though I understood what he meant. Then he said something I’ve never forgotten: people like you will have to work twice as hard, and if you ever get a seat at the table, you’ll have to make it look easy, or people won’t like you.

That comment stayed with me. Not because I didn’t understand it, but because of what it revealed. The idea that people might not like me wasn’t the part that bothered me. I’d been bullied as a kid, so I already knew how quickly others can project discomfort or misunderstanding onto someone who stands out. I understood, even then, that that wasn’t a “me” problem.

What stayed with me was the other part. The idea that if I ever earned a seat at the table, I’d have to make it look easy. That my competence, confidence, or comfort in my own skin might need to be softened so others could feel at ease. I remember wondering why that responsibility would belong to me, why my ease should need to be edited to protect someone else’s discomfort. It wasn’t anger I felt so much as clarity. A quiet recognition of how often people are asked to shrink, not because they’re wrong, but because they’re visible.

And then, in my thirties, when I had built a career from nothing, I finally understood what he meant. It wasn’t about proving worth. It was about learning how to carry it without apology and without contorting myself to make it more palatable for others.

That lesson came full circle when I entered perimenopause. Suddenly, everything I had built felt like it was balanced on a tightrope. My body changed. My mind felt unreliable. My sense of identity wobbled. There were moments when it genuinely felt like I had done what I came here to do, and, well, that was it. Morbid, maybe. But honest, and far more common than we admit, especially for women who move through these transitions quietly.

With everything I’ve learned over the past two years, clinically, personally, spiritually…I can now see this period for what it was: not an ending, but a profound reorientation.

To call it a transformation almost feels insufficient.

My hope is that Balance gets to be experienced by as many people as possible. Not because it has answers, but because it opens space. And if supporting the film helps bring this conversation into the world more fully, then that, too, feels like moving the needle.

Thank you for being here. Truly.
And thank you for being you.

Rosie

Don’t miss Season 2 Premiere of The Radically Well Podcast

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I want to begin by sharing something important. In January, a docuseries I’m an Associate Producer on will be released on Apple TV and Amazon Prime on January 30th, 2026. Check out the trailer here!

There is also a live crowdfunding page to support the project's larger mission [Here] It was created by my dear friends, Jain monks Sadhvi Siddhali Shree and Sadhvi Anubhuti, who have approached this work with an extraordinary level of care, devotion, and integrity. I’ll share the links here, and I truly encourage you to watch the trailer and support the project if it resonates with you.

I’ve been thinking a lot about balance lately, maybe because I’m writing this from Hawaii, a place that naturally slows me down. Or maybe because balance is something I’ve spent most of my adult life teaching, yet still find myself renegotiating again and again. For the last decade, between leading retreats and teacher trainings and taking on a lot of responsibility for others, I made it a point to take December off every year. I still try to honor that rhythm. It feels necessary, especially now. There is something about stepping away, even briefly, that allows the nervous system to reset and the deeper truths to surface.

When I first set out to write my second book (almost two years ago), I assumed it would focus primarily on mindfulness techniques. Breathwork, embodiment practices, ways to reconnect with the body. That made sense to me. I had been volunteering and working closely with my community in L.A. But as often happens, the work had other plans. What began to emerge wasn’t a how-to manual for regulation, but something far more honest and, frankly, more difficult to write.

I first met Sadhvi Siddhali and Sadhvi Anubhuti in 2022 through a mutual friend. They had just wrapped production on their award-winning film, Surviving Sex Trafficking, and we stayed in touch after that, connected by shared values and a deep respect for how they move through the world. When they reached out in early 2024 to say they were in Los Angeles working on their third project and wondered if I’d like to meet for tea, I didn’t hesitate. They made the trek out to the Valley, and we sat together catching up.

I should say this clearly: I wasn’t in a good place then. Torry and I had just moved into our new home, and from the outside everything looked settled, even good. But internally, very little felt aligned. My work felt off, my body felt foreign and my relationships felt strained. I was also in the thick of perimenopause at that exact moment, trying to make sense of changes that felt both physical and emotional, without fully understanding what was happening yet. There was a quiet but persistent sense of disconnection, one I didn’t yet have language for, and I was carrying more than I was letting on.

Then they told me about their project — something they were still keeping very close to the chest — and I genuinely almost fell out of my chair. I was so excited. It felt uncanny, like the timing couldn’t have been more precise. What they were working on mirrored what I was personally moving through in ways I didn’t yet know how to articulate. That conversation stayed with me long after they left, and in many ways, it became a doorway. The next day, they asked if I was willing to share my story…and I did.

I didn’t tell them what I was really going through until much later, but that meeting marked a turning point.

I think this is one of the hardest parts of mental health and emotional well-being, especially when viewed through a generational lens. I grew up watching people in my family struggle with depression and endure it silently. There was a kind of unspoken rule that you pushed through, that you didn’t burden others, that feeling low was a personal failing rather than a human experience. In some cultures, depression is still framed as weakness, and that belief runs deep. It keeps people isolated at the exact moment they need connection the most.

What I’ve come to understand, both personally and through my training and clinical work, is that sharing matters, but timing matters just as much. There is a difference between speaking from a place of integration and speaking from a place of raw exposure. When we share before we’re ready, before we have internal support or containment, it can actually intensify distress rather than relieve it. Going back to school and earning my master’s in clinical psychology has fundamentally changed how I view this balance between vulnerability and responsibility, especially given the role I hold in other people’s lives.

There are also very real biological and psychological shifts that occur for women between the ages of forty and fifty. Hormonal changes, changes in the body, changes in identity, and the quiet reckoning with aging converge. Even when life looks stable on the surface, these internal transitions can feel destabilizing. We don’t talk about this enough. We’re often expected to move through it gracefully, privately, and without disruption.

Recently, I watched a video of a woman speaking about aging in a way that felt painfully honest. She talked about the gradual experience of becoming less noticed. How in her thirties and forties, attention felt almost automatic, and how now she moves through the world with a sense of invisibility she wasn’t prepared for. What struck me wasn’t her appearance, she was clearly beautiful, but the grief underneath what she was naming. And it made me think about how deeply we’ve been conditioned to equate visibility with worth.

All of this, the docuseries, the book I’m writing, the time I’m taking away, the depression I eventually named, lives in the same ecosystem. Balance, for me, doesn’t mean having it all figured out. It means knowing when to step back, when to speak, and when to let things unfold without forcing meaning too quickly. Taking time to reset isn’t about escaping reality. It’s about creating enough space to stay honest with myself.

I’m sharing this now because the project coming out on January 30th, 2026, is an invitation not just to watch something, but to participate in a larger conversation about mental health, aging, and what it means to live consciously in changing bodies and minds. If you feel called, I hope you’ll watch the trailer and support the crowdfunding effort. And more than that, I hope it opens a door for reflection in your own life, wherever you happen to be standing.

With Love,

Rosie

p.s. I just sat down with Dr. Jolene Brighten to talk about mindfulness in real life, not long meditation sessions, but simple practices that actually help regulate the nervous system and support women who’ve been living in survival mode. Sharing the links below…

Listen on Spotify…

or on Apple Podcast Here or watch on Youtube Here

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I don’t even know where to start. Truly. Did we all collectively blink and the entire year just… evaporated? Because that’s what it felt like for me, like I came up for air sometime in March and someone whispered, “Sweetie, it’s December.”

But before I get into what’s happening now, I want to rewind a bit…to what’s unfolded over the last two years. Because ohhhh boy… things emerged. Things emerged that no one warned me about. Things that made growing up in East L.A. in the 90s look like training wheels.

Apologies to those of you who have heard me talk about this ad nauseum. At the start of 2024, I was 40, confused, and experiencing what I can only describe as my body throwing a hormonal rave without my consent. Hot flashes. Night sweats. Zero libido. Weight gain. Depression. Heart palpitations. Anxiety…Manic bursts of “I’m starting a new life!” followed by “I don’t know how to function in the world…”

Did I think “oh, maybe this is perimenopause”?
Of course not.

Instead, like any rational insomniac spiraling at 2 a.m., I thought:
“I’m losing my mind… and also, what the f*ck am I doing with my life!?”

And because the universe has jokes, that exact brand of existential irritation led me back to school.

And I’m only gonna say this here between us, the real spark?
A coach somewhere on the internet confidently dispensing Google-level advice as if it were divine revelation. And in a post-COVID world where grifting became a revenue stream and misinformation a personality type, I felt this deep responsibility toward my audience and to my clients.

If I’m going to do this work, this mental health advocacy, mindfulness, coaching, storytelling etc. I want to do it ethically and responsibly, with actual training that extends beyond “I read a cool thread once.”

So back to school I went. And I said to myself, “Listen, kid, if it gets too hard, you can quit.” And look, I still CAN quit if I wanted to. But… I have found that I’ve only become more obsessed.

I remembered how much I love learning. My first yoga teacher training was when I was twenty, so young I couldn’t legally toast to my own graduation. Torr used to joke that I collected certifications the way normal people collected burned CDs for their car (because yes that’s how long ago it was). He wasn’t wrong. I dove into training after training, on credit cards, because I genuinely wanted to offer the best training possible.

Two decades later, that’s still true.

Earlier this year, Los Angeles went through hell on January 7th. A disaster that rocked our community. We were under evacuation warnings for days and without power for over two weeks. Friends lost homes, people were displaced and entire neighborhoods were gone. The year did not so much “begin” as it “burst into flames.”

Combine that with everything else going on and, yes, 2025 has been a full-blown shit-show.

And yet… here we still are.

And even with me feeling like this year went by in the blink of on eye, there’s still work being done behind the scenes.

We launched The Radically Well Podcast (a rebrand from the formal ‘Radically Loved Podcast’ which originally launched back in 2015) we recorded twelve episodes, and it was one of the proudest pieces of work I’ve done to this date.

We also tried to launch a community platform that was a disaster but you can read about that here.

So the podcast, it was a huge investment of time, energy, money, and internal bandwidth, all while I worked full-time at Headspace and attending school full-time.

And I’m writing my second book, which feels like trying to wrestle a bear, but still. Progress right?

The biggest shift though, and the one that I wanted to talk about here…

• I took time off the internet.

• I walked more.

• Read more.

• Took Pilates at a studio I can walk to.

• Played with my dogs.'

• Fed hummingbirds.

• Picked up copious amounts of dog poop ( grounding and humbling, 10/10 recommend).

• I let myself be a hermit.

And the more I unplugged, the more obvious it became:

We Are Not Built to Consume This Much…content, food, news, faces, bodies, opinions, stress, it’s too much. We weren’t designed for the endless scroll dear friends.

There’s a forthcoming book I’m dying to read, it’s called Beyond the Looking Glass by Dr. Sophia Choukas-Bradley. She writes:

“We see more faces in a single scroll than our ancestors saw in a lifetime.”

I think the psychological consequences of that haven’t even begun to surface. But we’re already seeing cracks in the collective psyche.

A few months ago I caught myself doom-glazed on TikTok, some influencer did something to some other influencer and well, I wanted to see what the tea was all about. So I followed the thread: one messy-discourse video after another, then reactions to the discourse, and eventually opinions about the opinions. And look, I do believe in freedom of speech, of course I do. But I also have the right to choose what I feed my brain. Social media was built on the algorithmic promise of “oh, here, you’ll like this,” and damn if it isn’t good at its job. Too good.

At some point my guilt didn’t even feel like guilt anymore, it morphed into this numb apathy, like my nervous system just tapped out. I remembered reading once that change has to start within your grasp, and in that moment I literally looked down at my hand, holding the very thing keeping me from feeling better.

If I’m being completely honest, part of the reason I turned inward these last two years was guilt. Guilt for not being the “yes girl,” for skipping birthday dinners, panels, premieres, or those “quick tea dates” that always stretched into three hours. For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me, like I should want to be out there socializing, networking, sparkling.

And the truth is… once I’m out, I love it. I’m fun! (Or at least I think I am lol.) I can chat with strangers in the grocery line or in a bathroom queue without missing a beat. But getting me to leave my sanctuary? My tiny paradise where I work from home, receive unlimited puppy affection, watch hummingbirds perform aerial ballets, and forage kumquats so sweet they deserve their own booth at a farmers’ market? Nearly impossible. Everything I need is right here, including silence, a luxury I didn’t realize was medicinal.

What I’ve learned is this: saying no is a spiritual practice. A nervous system reset. A commitment to myself. I used to get brutal FOMO, the kind that felt like I was failing at being a person. But I realized that the only time I ever feel FOMO anymore is when I’m online. If I don’t scroll, I don’t spiral. No comparison, no imaginary scoreboard. It’s wild, right? The antidote to FOMO was in my own hand the whole time: put the phone down. And in doing so, I reclaimed the kind of focus one needs when building something real.

And that’s the part no one sees on Instagram. People see the polished final product, the podcast episode, the article, the degree, the photo where I look like I definitely didn’t cry over APA formatting an hour earlier. But they don’t see the sacrifice: the 4 a.m. writing sessions, the essays rejected three times before someone finally says yes, the nights studying until my brain feels like warm mushy oats, the clinical writing papers that make me question every life choice, the redirections that sting but ultimately guide. Creation requires subtraction, it requires boundaries and boring consistency. A willingness to miss out on the glitter so you can build the gold. And now that I’m at the end of it? I wouldn’t trade it for ANYTHING.

As I sat down to write this, I realized that these two quiet years have been preparation.

Because in January, a few things are coming:

• Season 2 of The Radically Well Podcast (Subscribe and Re-Listen to Season One Here)
• A docuseries I’m an Associate Producer for is coming to a major streaming network (!!!)
• A shift in direction for this Substack

This place will change to be the main hub for everything I’m working on.
Here you will get all my, How to Midlife content, I’ll still be sharing mindful tools for navigating a world that is changing faster than our hormones can regulate.

Midlife is not a crisis, it’s a process, one I’m still trying to figure out myself…so we are going to do it together.

So, How You Can Support This Work? Well, since you asked…

1. Subscribe to The Radically Well Podcast feed

2. Leave a review (it genuinely helps)

3. Subscribe to our YouTube

4. Follow Tessa—my brilliant co-host —>

5. And stay tuned for everything coming in January

A Quick Story About the NEW Artwork…

If you heard the episode with Kate del Castillo, you know the story:

I told a friend’s husband, who works at a very important three-letter talent agency that shall remain unnamed… I wanted to shift my work to women’s health and focus on menopause.

He said:
“Don’t do it. Menopause isn’t sexy.”

So naturally… I doubled down.
And now it’s the inspo for the artwork.

What do you think? I love it.

One Last Thing (Coaching Applications)

If you’ve made it this far…Hi!, I see you, here’s the soft announcement:

I’ll be accepting 3–4 coaching clients from January through March.

• Weekly or bi-weekly.

• Deep work.

• Intentional work.

• Supportive, evidence-based, heart-centered work.

A few of you have already reached out, but I still want everyone to fill out the application, so the process stays clear and fair. I’ll respond to every submission.

Coaching Application Here

With that, I leave you with the trailer for Season Two! ***drumroll please.. enjoy!

With Love, Rosie

p.s. there’s a poll below, if you could answer that would really help!

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Hello Dear Ones,

Well, it’s been two months. Two full months since I’ve shown up here in your inbox, and let me just say, the unplug was real.

You know how it goes: you start with the best intentions, a fresh calendar, a bullet journal, a deeply highlighted planner… and then life decides it has other plans. I’ve been juggling school, work, deadlines, more school, and a few deeply existential moments that had me contemplating the fate of the world while stress-watching cooking videos and documentaries about punk rock. You know, balance.

And in the midst of all that chaos? A bee. An actual bee. On what should’ve been a perfect summer Friday, I managed to find a moment to do nothing…nothing except exist in 98-degree heat and float in my backyard pool like a woman who had finally cracked the self-care code. I’d done my chores, fed the pups, had music playing, and was mid-gratitude loop when bam! sting to the neck.

Because life is funny like that, you make space for peace, and sometimes you get stung. But I’ll tell you what, standing in the kitchen with ice on my neck, Torr looking at me like I’m sorry, honey. I said aloud, “This is such a metaphor for life right now.”

We’re all just trying to float, aren’t we? To carve out moments of joy, of stillness, of meaning, and sometimes a bee will fucking sting you (regardless of how many you save daily.)

It doesn’t mean the joy wasn’t real. It doesn’t mean we stop trying. It just means… we keep showing up.

This reminded me of something kind of random…but not really.

When I was a teenager, I was super into punk rock. And I don’t want to offend any of you… but I am a bit of a music snob. I don’t care who knows it. I grew up around music, around musicians, my whole life. My dad, as many of you know, is a mariachi vocalist (the man has serious pipes), and most of my uncles played instruments. All my friends growing up in East LA were in bands. Music wasn’t just background noise, it was language, identity, ritual.

Lately, I’ve been feeling nostalgic. Like… teenage-Rosie-in-a-Misfits-shirt nostalgic. So instead of diving into another mindfulness book or clinical psych paper, I’ve been binge-watching this YouTube channel called Punk Rock MBA. It’s like music junk food with a side of sociology. Finn McKenty does these really cool deep dives on bands, scenes, what happened to the underground, and why that one pop-punk album from 2001 still wrecks you.

And you know what? It feels like medicine.

Sometimes we forget that healing doesn’t always look like journaling in candlelight or drinking “mushroom tea” in a sound bath. Sometimes it looks like blasting a song that knows your teenage angst better than your therapist. Music, especially the kind that shaped you, has a way of cutting through the noise and placing you right back in your body, in your heart, in your weird, messy, real self.

So yeah. Even in the chaos. Even with the bee stings. Especially in those floaty, almost-perfect, beautifully interrupted moments, we keep showing up.

A quick life update, because I’ve missed you:

• I’ve been savoring the tiniest of summer breaks before summer school starts up again. Just two weeks of “luxury writing” (shoutout to the friend who called it that), and letting myself write not for work or deadlines but for joy.

• Tessa and I are prepping Season 2 of The Radically Well Podcast, which you can binge from start to finish on YouTube, Spotify, or wherever you get your pods.

• We just moved The Radically Loved Collective to Facebook! so if you want to join our circle, connect with other women, and reset this summer, you’re invited. Click here to request access.

Oh, and one quick thing: You may have noticed, we’ve had a little identity shift. This Substack is now called How to Midlife because, well... things are about to get delightfully weird, brutally honest, and maybe even a little unhinged (in the best way).

Midlife is not a crisis it’s a curriculum. And we’re about to major in all of it.

A gentle reminder to those of you on the same boat as I am, don’t beat yourself up if you’re slow to reply to texts, cancel plans last minute, or just need time to not be "on." People who love you will understand. And if they don’t? That’s a TP, not a YP. (Translation: their problem, not your problem.)

Here’s your mindful summer practice:
The 5-Minute Pause

Set a timer. No phone, no scrolling. Just sit. Breathe. Feel the heat of the season on your skin, the sounds around you. Ask yourself: What do I need in this moment? Not what should I do, but what do I need? Let the answer come gently. That’s it.

Here’s to a summer that lets you feel it all. Even the bee stings. Especially the floating.

With love and SPF 70,

Rosie

Hey friends, Happy Wednesday! (I know kinda of an odd day for a post but, that’s the point)

Who makes these rules anyway? LOL, Post on Mondays! No, no, do it on Fridays! No, do it on Wednesday?… How about you post WHENEVER TF YOU Want?

This photo of my dining table pretty much sums up my life these past few weeks, covered in textbooks, notes, highlighters, half-drunk mugs of tea, and probably a rogue to-do list or two. It’s chaotic, yes. But it’s also a snapshot of deep focus, long nights, and the beautiful mess that comes with learning something new… while juggling everything else.

Earlier this year, I made the brilliant decision (insert sarcasm) to increase my workload. Between grad school, launching The Radically Well Podcast, teaching, writing book two (yes, it’s happening!), and running The Radically Loved Collective, it’s been a lot.

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism to drown out the noise of the world. And by “noise” I mean doomscrolling, the news cycle, and that lovely collective existential dread that’s been making the rounds. Sound familiar?

I’ve read more books, articles, and academic journals in the last five months than I have in the last decade, and by “read,” I mean listened to on Audible. Let’s be honest: multitasking is a love language.

On the Cost of Doing Too Much

Here’s what no one tells you when you’re in a season of doing the most: something has to give. And for me, it was my social life. Relationships slipped through the cracks. I forgot to text back. I ghosted my own group chats. and I know there’s at least two of you seeing this point saying “She has time to write a substack, but not time to text me back”… Yeah, I was compelled. I wasn’t compelled to text you back, not because I don’t love you, but because I just haven’t.

And yeah, part of me feels guilty. Then, a few weeks ago, I got sick, like that little flu that’s been going around? Torr and I were both out for the count. I stopped posting, stopped checking in, and... nothing happened.

When I returned to social media, the world was still spinning. When I answered texts a week (okay, two weeks) later, no one was mad. Turns out, I’m not holding the internet together with my stories. Shocking.

It was the reset I didn’t know I needed.

And somewhere between canceling meetings and catching up on sleep, I remembered: I don’t have to do anything. I get to choose what I do. And I get to rest.

Some Highlights (Even in the Downtime)

✨ We wrapped Season 1 of The Radically Well Podcast, and I couldn’t be prouder of the conversations we had. You can now binge the whole season, and we’re gearing up for Season 2 soon!

✨ I’ve been hosting Radio Headspace the past two weeks and I’ve loved seeing your messages and hearing how the episodes are landing.

✨ The Radically Loved Collective hosted its first live session and kicked off our Gratitude Challenge thank you to all of you who showed up with open hearts.

✨ And yes, I’ve been writing, a lot. Book 2 is still in the works.

A Note on Creativity and Anxiety

I had a conversation recently with my friend Martha Beck (yes, that Martha Beck), and she said something that stuck with me:

She’s right.

When the world starts to feel uncertain, creativity reminds us we’re still here. That we’re still making, dreaming, reshaping, reimagining. And while none of us are immune to what’s happening out there, we can absolutely choose how we move through it.

Lately, I’ve been trying to shift my perspective. Instead of spiraling into anxiety, I ask: what can I control?
And often, the answer is simple: I can choose to rest. To write. To create. To unplug.

Mindful Takeaways

1. Unplug without apology. Seriously. Take the nap. Delete the app. The world will be there when you get back.

2. Check your “I have to” thoughts. Ask yourself if it’s truly necessary, or just a habit.

3. Let rest be the reset. Sometimes stepping away is the most productive thing you can do.

To those of you who are newer here: welcome. I’m Rosie. I write things. I teach mindfulness. I forget to text back sometimes. And I’m so grateful you’re here.

If you haven’t yet, you can join the Radically Loved Collective [here], subscribe to The Radically Well Podcast [here], and if you’re just here to read, I love that too.

Here’s to a week that doesn’t require you to hustle to feel worthy.

With love (and a fully-charged phone that I’m not checking),

I love you.
Rosie

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The night before we launched The Radically Loved Collective, I had a bad dream, or what’s it’s most frequently referred to as…a nightmare. That’s not unusual for me when I’m stressed, it often shows up in my sleep. I usually wake up, shake it off, remind myself dreams aren’t prophetic,...unless, of course, they are.

In this particular dream, I was hosting a dinner party when a massive tsunami struck (Enter Parker Posey’s Tssuuunaaaaaaaaamiiii). I finally finished the latest season of White Lotus, by the way. LOVED.

I woke up, used the bathroom, drank a huge glass of water, and sat in the dark, trying to shake it. But even then, I could feel it…the weight of the world, the uncertainty of what I was launching, and the fact that deep down, I still didn’t know exactly what this thing was going to become.

We opened the doors Friday morning, and people started joining almost immediately, but my inbox was full of questions:

"What is this?" "Do I have to pay every month?" "What if I don’t like it?"

These are all completely fair questions. (and yes, having this many emails in my inbox does give me anxiety…)

Within the first 8 hours, between the volume of emails and the confusion, I made the call: pause the launch. I sent a frantic message to our incredible web designer, John, with the subject line "STOP EVERYTHING," and that, of course, generated more confusion:

"I’ve been trying to sign up and I can’t." "The link isn’t working." "How do I join?"

That dream? It came true. The tsunami hit.

And just like that, all the quiet doubts I’d pushed to the side came rushing in at once. It wasn’t just the tech issues or the emails or the panic, though those were definitely there. It was the sinking realization that people didn’t know what this was... because I wasn’t entirely sure myself. We’d moved fast, too fast, trying to get this out into the world. And when it finally launched, it felt like trying to serve dinner at a table that hadn’t been fully set.

There was a moment where I had to sit with all of it. The overwhelm. The questions. The missteps. And I realized: this isn’t a failure. This is what happens when you try to create something real, in real-time, without pretending to have all the answers.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t a course I’m selling. It’s not a funnel. It’s not a prelude to a $10,000 mastermind. It never was.

This was, and is, about community. And like anything real, it takes time to build. I’ve said it for years: anything worth having is worth waiting for. And even though I tend to be impatient by nature, I’ve worked hard to master the art of releasing expectations.

That’s why I wanted to share all this with you. The real story.

A while back, I was a guest on a podcast, and the host said to me in that classic passive-aggressive tone (you know, the one), "Wow, you’re so open and honest! I could never overshare the way you do." I smiled politely, but later, I sat with that comment. I questioned whether it was a dig. I questioned how I showed up in the world.

The truth is, when I started this work over fifteen years ago, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. I just knew I wanted to teach. I devoured every book by Sharon Salzberg, Jon Kabat-Zinn, Mark Nepo, and many others. I did yoga teacher trainings (yes, plural) and went into major credit card debt cause, at the time, I was teaching yoga classes and getting paid $15 a class. But I was devoted to learning, so I took notes. I listened deeply. I didn’t care about what it took because I saw the value in what I was learning.

My motivation, I wanted to figure out how to bring this work to my people, people like me. Not the ones who speak in poetic metaphors or wrap their truth in flowery spiritual language. That shit would never resonate with me anyway. I wanted to speak to the girl from East LA who didn’t know this world existed. The one who’d been told her story didn’t matter. The one who never had access.

I was never part of the "it" crowd, and maybe from the outside now it looks like I am. But the truth is, I’ve always felt like an outsider in the wellness world. And honestly? I think that’s part of my edge.

I’m still Rage Against the Machine. I still believe in disrupting systems. And yeah, I may "overshare," but I do that to give context. Because context matters, especially when you're trying to make wellness feel human, not performative.

So, back to why I hit pause.

I’m sensitive to the state of the world. I see what’s happening, and I feel it. I also hear it in your messages: the stress, the exhaustion, and the desire for something that feels safe and supportive.

My own journey has taken me through a lot. From being a ward of the state of California at 15, to navigating early menopause, I can honestly say midlife has been harder than living through drive-by shootings and gang violence. That’s the truth.

I sent out a newsletter today about how the launch didn’t go the way we planned; a dream turned into a lived experience. I’m not super tech-savvy (YouTube is my friends, is the greatest teacher), but I’m lucky to have an incredible team. Like many of you, I’ve watched friends launch memberships and thought, "I want to do that.”

What I didn’t realize was how much backend work that takes.

Still, my priority wasn’t perfect systems. It was people. It was you. I just wanted to get it out into the world and figure out the rest later.

The psychology of charging for something is real. We value what we invest in. But I also know the power of just showing up, no price tag attached.

And the truth is, we don’t need another subscription we’ll forget about in a week. We need connection.

So, after a lot of reflection, I decided to make the community portion of the Collective free.

If I’m going to walk my talk, to truly create a space for support, growth, and community without barriers, this is the way to do it.

Was it a failed launch? By some standards, Sure. But to me, it was just another experience as a solopreneur, a reality check, a redirection.

I know I’m not alone in this. So many of my peers in this space feel the same way and don’t say it out loud because they’re scared it will look like a failure. But it’s not. It’s feedback. It’s part of the path.

This was never going to be about me. It’s about us. What this space will become is something we get to build together.

So if you want to join us, you can sign up here The Radically Loved Collective.

A Few Mindfulness Tips for When Things Don’t Go As Planned:

1. Pause before reacting. Give yourself space to respond from a grounded place instead of a triggered one. Even a few breaths can shift your perspective.

2. Let yourself feel it. Disappointment, frustration, embarrassment, none of these are wrong. Acknowledge them, name them, and move through them without judgment.

3. Zoom out. One setback doesn’t define the whole journey. Ask: What did I learn? What does this make possible now?

4. Be transparent. Sometimes just saying, “Hey, that didn’t go the way I hoped,” is enough to break the shame spiral. Own it. That’s where real connection happens. It also gives your haters some content to bask in, and as Mel Robbins says, ‘Let Them.’

5. Stay open. The most beautiful things I’ve ever created came after a moment that felt like failure. Trust that something else is forming, even if you can’t see it yet.

Thanks for being here, for reading this far, and for being part of this unfolding. The doors are open. Come join us. Let’s build something real.

With love and gratitude,
Rosie

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Happy Mindful Monday, dear friends.

We’ve officially made it to the end of March. Anyone else feel like this month lasted a year and now it’s April? Life, man. Life. It’s a whirlwind. And despite my best intentions, this space has been quiet. Not because I’ve had nothing to say, but because I’ve had everything to say and no space to say it in.

But today, I’m finally ready to share what I’ve been quietly working on these past few months.

Truthfully, it’s been five months of dreaming, building, refining, doubting, pivoting, and laughing through the chaos. Because sometimes, that’s all you can do. Right?

Back in November, I lost a job I really wanted. One that, at the time, felt like a perfect fit. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in twenty years of entrepreneurship, it’s that rejection is redirection. It stings. And it always creates space for something new.

Losing that opportunity gave me the breathing room I didn’t know I needed to return to the work I was most meant to do. The kind of work I’ve been preparing for my whole life, even when I didn’t know it.

If you’ve been here a while, you know my story. I grew up in East L.A., in the heart of the 90s, surrounded by gang violence and survival energy. Yoga didn’t arrive wrapped in crystals for me (unfortunately, lol) it came through The Self-Realization Fellowship and a borrowed library book called Wherever You Go, There You Are, by Jon Kabat-Zinn. It changed me. Not overnight, but slowly. And eventually, I knew I had to share that path with others. It’s what led me to teach. To write. To podcast. To keep showing up, even when it felt impossible.

Fast-forward to today, and I’m proud to introduce The Radically Loved Collective.

While in India last December, reflecting on the storm that was 2024, I kept coming back to one thing: Perimenopause & Menopause. (For me, Post-menopausal, if we’re being technical.)

It’s wild that something 100% of women will experience still feels taboo. Even wilder that it’s considered career suicide to talk about it.

A few weeks ago, I was at a dinner party with friends. My friend’s husband, an agent here in Hollywood, asked about my new podcast and where I was focusing my energy. When I mentioned perimenopause, relationships, libido, aging, healing… he paused and said, “Yeah, but menopause isn’t sexy. You probably don’t want to go too far down that road.”

Y’all. I laughed. (Yes, she said Y’all) Because I’m a writer first. So guess what? He became content.

But the comment stuck with me. Not because I need everything I do to be “sexy,” but because I realized just how deep this narrative still runs. That to be relevant, worthy, visible (as women) we must be youthful, glowy, silent about our bodies. It’s beyond outdated. It’s harmful.

You know what’s actually sexy? Honesty. Self-trust. Women who don’t apologize for being in their bodies.

So, instead of booking a “menopause retreat in Italy” (though that still sounds fun), I wanted to create something that lasts. Something accessible. Something real.

And I kept coming back to something from my childhood: AA meetings. I grew up attending them with my dad, and later returned on my own when I needed support. The thing I loved most? You could walk into a meeting anywhere in the world and be welcomed. No shame. No judgment. Just humans, trying their best.

That’s what I wanted to create. A space like that, but for women navigating perimenopause, menopause, midlife shifts, identity changes, health crises, grief, all of it.

That space is The Radically Loved Collective.

It’s part mentorship, part movement, part sisterhood. It’s a place where I’ll teach monthly workshops on self-compassion, creative healing, emotional resilience, and all the things I’ve been practicing and teaching for over two decades. It also includes a full library of past workshops on healing, creative expression, mindful living, and more.

And no, you don’t have to be in menopause to join. You just have to be curious. And ready. Ready to be in conversation with others walking similar paths, ready to stop hiding, ready to claim joy again.

(Also: gentlemen, you’re welcome too. While the live sessions are designed for women, the resources are for everyone navigating change, identity, and healing.)

Will it evolve? Probably. But for now, it’s a love letter to the version of me who needed it and didn’t have it.

And speaking of love letters, thank you to those of you who’ve been listening to my new show, The Radically Well Podcast. Episode 9 with the Iconic Actress Kate Del Castillo went live on Friday, and the conversation is deep. We talk about choosing to not have kids, how women are still overlooked in Hollywood, and her latest ventures. We’re not shying away from anything because, let’s face it, we shouldn’t have to.

🎙️ Listen now on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or YouTube.

Finally, if you want to stay connected through workshops, retreats, book updates, and in-person events in L.A., sign up for my newsletter here.

To all the new readers here: WELCOME. Thank you for joining us. You are home. I’ve been a long-time friend of , It gave me great joy to have him join us here on Subbystack! I’m looking forward to hearing his podcast and reading his musings and teachings here.

And if you’re in that liminal space, between who you were and who you’re becoming…I’m with you. It’s not always clear. But it’s always sacred.

Let’s walk together.

With love, Rosie

Mindful Monday Takeaway: Returning to Center

If you’re navigating a season of change, whether it’s aging, loss, new beginnings, or simply the everyday weight of being human, here are three gentle practices to support you this week:

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Hello Monday…

I’ll be honest, friends. I sat down this morning to write this, and nothing came of it. Zero inspiration. Nada. The world feels like a dumpster fire, and the weight of it all is sitting heavy on my chest. Maybe you feel it too.

It’s that weird sensation of being awake to everything—both the personal and the collective grief, the overwhelm, the absurdity of it all. It’s exhausting. And in moments like this, when everything feels like too much, the temptation is to check out, to numb, to go on autopilot. I get it.

This morning, I came across this passage from Mark Nepo, and something in me exhaled:

"Each life is a language no one knows."

That line hit me like a truth I’ve always known but never put into words. It reminded me that we don’t have to know everything before we live it. We don’t have to have the answers before we take the next step.

We decode life by living it.

The Myth of Figuring It All Out

How many times have we told ourselves, “If I just had the answer, I’d feel better.”

But here’s the thing—understanding doesn’t come first. Action does.

We take a step, and suddenly we see a little more of the road. We allow ourselves to feel something fully, and a hidden part of us wakes up. We stop overthinking, and life meets us where we are.

There is suffering, and injustice, and uncertainty. But there is also life happening in real-time. And that life is waiting for us to enter it—not sit on the sidelines analyzing it to death. (That’s my latest mantra anyway).

When we watch from a distance, we remain riddles that need to be solved. But when we step in, we become songs to be sung.

So, What Do We Do?

I don’t have a perfect answer for how to navigate this moment. But I do know this:

1️⃣ Move the energy. When you feel stuck, do something. Take a walk, write in a journal, blast music and dance, clean out a drawer—just get the energy moving.

2️⃣ Stay human. Talk to someone. Hug your dog. Cook a meal. Touch something real in this world that is still good.

3️⃣ Be played. You, like a flute, are meant to be played. Don’t let life harden you into an unplayed instrument. Let yourself be moved, let yourself be used for something greater, let yourself create.

Because what good are we if never played?

Right now, the world is noisy. There are more questions than answers.

Don’t forget to check out the latest episode of The Radically Well Podcast..

Sending you love and presence this week,
Rosie

P.S. If this resonates, let me know in the comments. And if you need a deeper exhale, check out my latest conversation with Dr. Michael Gervais here…

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Happy Monday Dear One’s!

So we are starting something new today. This subbystack will now be published on Mondays—every other week—because what better way to kick off your week than with some honesty and a bit of Mindfulness?

It’s part of my commitment to being intentional with my time and energy (and yours too!). And honestly? Mondays get a bad rap. Why not reframe them as a chance to reset, refocus, and get into the week with clarity? So here we are: Mindful Mondays. Let’s go.

Also, I’ve been in a mid-term portal, so there’s that.

Now, before we get into today’s conversation, quick housekeeping:

✨ Have you listened to the new pod yet?✨

This week, Tessa and I are talking about all things menopause and libido. That’s right. We’re getting into it—because let’s be honest, no one prepared us for what happens when your hormones decide to do their own thing. This season of the show is really about her and I just covering what our experiences have been like.

We discuss:

🔹 Hormone Replacement Therapy (what they don’t tell you)

🔹 How to feel sexy at any age (yes, it’s possible!)

🔹 and Why it’s important to ask for what you want…

Listen Here…

or you can check it out on Apple Podcasts…

OR… Watch it on YouTube…

Alright, now let’s get into today’s conversation—because something happened last week, and you know I have thoughts.

“Creating Content About Menopause Isn’t Sexy.”

That’s what a friend’s husband, an entertainment agent here in Hollywood, said to me last week.

We were talking about my podcast, my work, and what I’ve been focusing on lately. He nodded along, then paused.

“Rosie… creating content about menopause isn’t sexy.”

I laughed, waiting for the punchline.

There wasn’t one.

He was dead serious.

Now, I don’t typically care about being sexy—I care about being honest. But what he was really saying was: “Talking about menopause isn’t marketable.”

And that my friend… is the problem.

The Silent Epidemic of “Not Sexy”

This is what we’re dealing with friends: an entire half of the population going through a major biological transition, and yet we’re told not to talk about it.

Meanwhile, men are out here discussing low testosterone and biohacking their way to longevity on every podcast imaginable, and it’s “cutting-edge health optimization.”

But women discussing menopause? Career suicide.

I went to a talk recently with Naomi Watts and Eve Rodsky, and Naomi shared that early in her career, she was warned that if she admitted to being menopausal, she’d never work again.

Think about that.

An Oscar-nominated actress was told that simply acknowledging the reality of her body aging would make her un-hirable.

I leave that right there for ya.

I see it all the time: Women shrinking themselves, editing their realities, hiding parts of their experience because society has told us that the only acceptable version of womanhood is the youthful, effortless, “cool girl” version.

But here’s the thing: Menopause isn’t a problem. The way we treat it is.

This will affect your wife, your girlfriend, your sister, your mother, your boss, your colleagues, your doctor, your barista, your teacher. If you are a human who knows a woman, this conversation matters to you.

And if you’re a woman reading this, let me be clear: You don’t have to disappear just because society doesn’t know what to do with you.

Let’s Rewrite the Rules.

By the end of our conversation, my friend’s husband—who, to his credit, was open enough to listen—actually admitted, “I never thought about it that way.” this person manages and has managed some of the biggest entertainers in the world.

That’s all I needed to hear.

Because this is why I talk about it.

The only way we change the conversation is by having it. Loudly. Unapologetically. Until it becomes so normal that we don’t even have to.

So, let’s keep talking.

Your Mindful Monday Takeaways:

1️⃣ Challenge the Narrative. Next time you hear (or think) something like “aging isn’t sexy” or “menopause is embarrassing,” ask yourself: Who benefits from that belief? (Hint: It’s not you.)

2️⃣ Take Up Space. Whether it’s menopause, career shifts, relationships, or your morning coffee order, speak up. You don’t have to shrink yourself to make others comfortable.

3️⃣ Normalize the Uncomfortable. Bring these conversations into your circles. Talk to your friends, your family, your partner. The more we talk, the less shame exists around it.

So, what do you think?

Have you ever felt the pressure to stay silent about something real because it wasn’t “marketable” or “pretty” enough? Let’s talk about it.

And if you’re looking for more? Listen to the podcast, and let’s keep this conversation going.

With love,
Rosie

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Happy Friday, dear friends.

January is finally winding down… what a month, right? Anyone want a ‘do-over’?

It’s been a whirlwind, a haul, a deep exhale waiting to happen. And in the midst of all of it, something pretty incredible happened to me a couple of days ago. If you follow me on Instagram, you might’ve seen it.

For years, I’ve watched others have these magical encounters—hummingbirds landing on their tiny feeders, trusting them enough to sip nectar from their hands. I always thought, how amazing must that feel? But I never imagined it would happen to me. Until Wednesday evening.

Before I get to that, I have to share—my new podcast, The Radically Well Podcast, is officially out in the world! You can now watch it on YouTube, listen on Spotify, or tune in on Apple Podcasts. It’s a space for meaningful conversations about wellness, healing, and the deep work of being human. There’s so much noise in the world right now, and my hope is that we can find our people through it. If you feel called to, please subscribe—it helps us keep this content free for all.

The Magic of Hummingbirds

I’ve always felt a deep connection to hummingbirds. They’ve been a kind of spirit guide for me, much like dragonflies. Their presence has always felt like a sign, a whisper from something greater. Some of you may have heard my story about them on Radio Headspace—the mythology, the Mayan legends, how they are seen as messengers of the gods.

When I was a kid, my Abuelita would tell me stories about them. The Mayans called the hummingbird Ts’unu’um, meaning the tiny arrow. According to legend, when the gods realized they needed a creature to carry wishes and messages across distances, they carved a small jade arrow, breathed life into it, and sent it into the sky. That arrow became the hummingbird.

I think of that story often—how these tiny, fragile creatures carry immense energy, how they defy logic with their size and speed, how their iridescent wings catch the light just right, shimmering like rain.

A few years ago, during a particularly rough season of my life called…perimenopause, I found a hummingbird nest in our yard. It felt like a sign of hope when I needed one most. My Abuelita always said they were good luck, and watching those tiny eggs hatch and the babies take flight was a reminder that even in difficult times, life moves forward. So I’ve held on to that for a long time.

This past weekend, I decided to try something new. I bought a set of tiny handheld feeders and stood in our backyard, arm outstretched, waiting. I’ve seen so many of these types of videos on TikTok, so I thought.. “How hard could it be?” So, as I stood there, completely still, these little birds zipping past me, It was an exercise in patience. By Sunday, my arm was spasming from holding it up for so long. I would try different methods. Standing on my tipi toes, holding one arm really high, holding it closer to my body, then further away. None of it worked. My arms were both sore AF. Aging. I thought to myself.

Then, Wednesday evening, after a long day of schoolwork, podcast prep, and life admin, I went outside for what Torr and I call happy hour. I left my phone behind (a new habit I’m trying when I’m with the dogs), grabbed the feeder, and stood there. Ten minutes passed. They zoomed around me, curiously hovering near my face. But I stayed still.

And then—it happened.

A tiny hummingbird landed, perched gently, and took a sip. I felt this immediate surge of energy, of awe, of magic. My first instinct was to yell for Torr, to capture it, to make it last. But I didn’t. I just stood there and let it be. I felt the faintest tremor—the delicate vibration of its tiny yet powerful wings. For a moment, time slowed. I closed my eyes, savoring the stillness, the magic of it all. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

I stood there, speechless, caught between disbelief and wonder. Maybe… I should try again.

So yesterday, I did. And this time, a different one appeared—its feathers shimmering with a soft pink glow. As it hovered, drinking from the tiny feeder in my hand, I found myself whispering, Hi, Abuelita.

She danced, she swayed, and in that fleeting moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness—as if, for just a breath, everything was exactly as it should be.

The Lesson in Stillness

It feels poetic that this happened now, at a time when the world feels heavy. There is so much division, so much assumption, so much tension. We are overstimulated, overexposed, constantly reacting. But the hummingbird teaches us something else.

Stillness and Discernment.

We don’t have to chase recklessly. We don’t have to force what isn’t meant for us. We don’t have to grip so tightly that we lose sight of what’s unfolding.

But we do have to be discerning, curious, and compassionate.

We have to know when to be still and when to move. When to trust and when to take action. When to let life flow and when to step in with intention.

Sometimes, the magic arrives when we create space for it. And sometimes, we have to meet it halfway.

A Mindful Practice: The Hummingbird Pause

This weekend, I invite you to practice The Hummingbird Pause.

• Find a quiet moment—morning, midday, or night.

• Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and visualize yourself as still as a tree, waiting with open hands.

• Imagine a hummingbird hovering before you, its wings a blur, its energy vibrant and alive.

• Ask yourself: Where in my life do I need more stillness?

• Sit with the question, without rushing for an answer. Just let it be.

The world will always demand movement, but sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is simply be.

Wishing you a weekend of stillness, presence, and unexpected magic.

With love,
Rosie

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Hello friends,

It’s been two weeks since I’ve written here, and honestly, I’m still processing everything. The weight of the last few weeks has been immense… not just for me, but for so many people around us. I’ve been thinking about the loss, the grief, and the sheer overwhelm that has blanketed our community. It’s hard to put into words.

First, I want to say thank you for being here. Your support means everything. Out of respect for everything that’s been happening, we’ve decided to move the launch of The Radically Well Podcast to next Friday. It just didn’t feel right to move forward with fanfare amidst so much collective pain. But, as they say, the show must go on—and if I want to continue to serve, I have to do the work.

If you feel called to support, please subscribe to the podcast on Spotify, Apple, or YouTube (wherever you listen!). The content is free, as are so many of the resources and workshops I offer. My only ask is this: if you’re able, subscribe. Maybe even leave a quick review. I can’t tell you how much it helps.

Speaking of workshops, I’ll be teaching a free series on Grief and Loss. If you’ve been feeling the weight of things or just want a safe space to process, this is for you. All you need to do is register [here]. Even if you can’t make it live, the replay will be available for 24 hours.

So, back to the wreckage left behind…

Where is the help? Why is it taking so long? Will we ever rebuild? Will it ever feel the same?

These are the questions so many are asking right now. The grief is heavy, not just for what’s been physically lost, but for the meaning and memories tied to those things. A friend recently shared that he lost the quilt his grandmother made him, one of the few treasures he had from her. His resilience is inspiring. He’s navigating this loss while being a dad, a husband, and holding it together for his family. But it broke me to see how deeply this hit him.

Until you’ve experienced something like this—a natural disaster that uproots everything—you don’t quite understand the magnitude. I’ve heard stories from people living in shelters, others spending hours on hold with FEMA or their insurance companies. The layers of grief and frustration are overwhelming.

When my friend Lou asked me earlier this week, “What do people need right now, Rosie?” I paused. Here’s what I told her:

“They need compassion. They need to know they’re not alone. They need practical support, whether that’s financial help, a hot meal, or someone to sit with them in their pain. People don’t just need resources…they need to feel seen, heard, and held.”

Navigating the Internet During Times of Grief

As someone with a public platform, I’ve seen my fair share of comments, and not all of them are kind. I get it. People are reactive right now. The weight of their own struggles, frustrations, or unmet needs can lead them to lash out, even when it’s not personal.

I’ve been reflecting on this dynamic, and here’s what I’ve realized:

When people respond reactively, it’s often a reflection of something deeper. They might feel overlooked, frustrated, or powerless in their own lives. Sometimes, they’re simply projecting their pain. It doesn’t make it easier, but it does make it more understandable.

So, I’ve been trying to meet these reactions with compassion instead of defensiveness. It’s not always easy, but it’s necessary. If we can hold space for others’ pain, even when it’s directed at us, we can foster understanding in ways that ripple outward.

A Path Forward

The truth is, we will rebuild. It might not look the same, and it will take time, but we will. And as we navigate this, let’s remember to keep showing up for one another with kindness and understanding.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, here’s a simple mindfulness activity to ground yourself in the moment:

The 5-4-3-2-1 Grounding Exercise:

• 5: Notice five things you can see.

• 4: Touch four things around you. How do they feel?

• 3: Listen for three sounds in your environment.

• 2: Smell two distinct scents around you.

• 1: Take one deep, intentional breath.

This practice brings you back to the present moment, a gentle reminder that even amidst chaos, there’s a way to find calm.

Lastly, if you’re able, here are a few verified GoFundMe links for those directly affected. Your support, no matter the amount, makes a world of difference.

Quincat

https://gofund.me/1aeaaf5d

Debby and Richard

https://gofund.me/0cfdadc8

Help Nana & Tony Rebuild

https://gofund.me/dc614b06

Thank you for being here, for listening, and for continuing to hold space for this community.

With love,
Rosie

It’s January 10, 2025,

Words truly fail to capture the heartbreak of what’s happening to our city. First and foremost, I want to say that Torry, myself, the puppies, and our hummingbirds are safe, at the moment. But so many of our friends and people we know haven’t been so fortunate. Their homes, filled with memories and love, are gone.

Just a few days ago, we were preparing to launch a new podcast TODAY in fact, and also share some exciting announcements…

But in light of everything, it feels deeply tone-deaf for me to carry on with "business as usual."

We lost power in our area on Tuesday afternoon and are still without it. Thankfully, we have a small generator. Torr’s Oregon upbringing coming in clutch. It’s enough to keep our fridge running, charge our computers, and allow me the luxury of hot tea (which feels like a small miracle right now). Our internet has been spotty, and we’re under an evacuation warning, but we’re still able to stay in the house—for now. We’ve been in constant communication with loved ones and our neighbors, checking in and staying vigilant.

Tuesday night, we packed essentials in the dark, unsure if we’d have to leave. It’s a surreal moment, having to decide what truly matters when faced with the possibility of losing everything. The phrase “everything is replaceable” kept ringing in my head, and it’s true—most things are. But I found myself reaching for what felt irreplaceable: my Abuelita’s necklace, a picture of my dad from his younger years, the first book I wrote in kindergarten, a belt Torry made for me, and my sandalwood mala beads—the last thing my Abuelita touched before she passed, and something I just got back after leaving it in India (A story for another time). Torry, ever practical, grabbed our important documents: passports, birth certificates, and the like. Everything else? Replaceable.

The evacuation alerts have been relentless, popping up on our phones like an ominous drumbeat. Each one brings a fresh wave of anxiety, that pit in your stomach where fear and uncertainty meet. I’ve had to lean heavily on every mindfulness tool in my arsenal to stay calm and grounded, something that’s easier said than done. Deep breaths, quiet moments, and the reminder that panic serves no one have been my anchors. I won’t lie, it’s hard. But staying present, moment by moment, has helped me navigate this emotional rollercoaster. It’s a practice, one I’ve had to return to again and again as the situation evolves.

Sitting in the dim light of battery-operated candles now, I look around our home, a place we’ve poured so much love into over the past two years. We adore this home; it’s our sanctuary. But at the same time, I’m reminded of impermanence. Nothing in this life is guaranteed or permanent, a truth that’s simultaneously grounding and heartbreaking.

I’ve seen so many stories online…people sharing their grief over losing their homes, childhood memories, and everything they’ve worked for. And yet, there’s this insidious commentary from some corners of the internet dismissing these losses because “those areas are affluent” or “they can afford it.” Let me tell you, that couldn’t be further from the truth for most people. Many of those who’ve lost their homes lost everything. There are several fires, in different areas. For most, their homes are their entire life. To belittle someone’s loss because of an assumption about their financial status is not only cruel but deeply misguided. I’m not even getting into that…

It’s in moments like these that compassion becomes paramount, not just for those who’ve lost so much, but for ourselves and the way we process these events. It’s easy to judge from a distance or to make assumptions about someone else’s reality, but loss doesn’t discriminate. Pain is pain, regardless of someone’s zip code or bank account. And I’ve been reminding myself, especially now, that compassion isn’t about solving someone’s problems or fixing their grief, it’s about holding space for the truth of what they’re experiencing. It’s about saying, “I see you, and I care,” even when you don’t have the right words or a solution. Compassion is what connects us, what reminds us of our shared humanity, and what can carry us forward, together.

Torry and I didn’t come from privilege. Every single thing we have, we’ve worked for. But we’ve always practiced non-attachment. We know we can rebuild if we have to. Do we want to? Absolutely not. But if it comes to that, we will.

Unfortunately, so many people don’t have that same ability or support. This is an unprecedented time, and it’s a reminder that we must come together to help however we can. Whether it’s volunteering, donating to verified organizations, or simply holding space for others, every act of kindness matters.

If you’re able, please consider contributing to relief efforts or volunteering your time. I’ll continue to post resources and updates on Instagram. For now, I ask that you keep our city and everyone affected in your prayers. We’re a resilient community, but resilience doesn’t mean we don’t need support. Good energy, love, and “juju” are always welcome.

In moments like these, I’m reminded of a Buddhist story I heard a lecture:

The Broken Bowl
A Zen master once had a favorite bowl he used every day. It was simple, functional, and brought him great joy. One day, the bowl fell and shattered. The students, seeing his grief, asked why he was so upset, given his teachings about non-attachment. The master responded, “I am not mourning the bowl; I am mourning the moments we shared. Those moments are fleeting, as is everything in life, and that is why they matter so much.”

This story captures the delicate balance of resilience and grief. It’s not about avoiding pain or clinging to what’s lost, but honoring the beauty of what was and moving forward with grace.

As we navigate these challenging days, let’s hold space for both gratitude and loss, for resilience and fragility. Thank you for being here, for reading this, and for sending love and light to those who need it most.

With love and hope,
Rosie

Happy Holidays, Dear Friends!

The end is always a new beginning, isn’t it? As we approach the final days of 2024, there’s so much to reflect on. But before we dive in, I want to start by saying thank you for being here. Your support, your messages, your willingness to show up… it all means so much to me.

This year has been one of immense growth, deep reflection, and rediscovery. I’ve reframed beliefs I once held tightly and found new inspiration to create things I’m truly excited about. One of those creations? A brand-new podcast!

The Radically Well Podcast officially launches on January 10th, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to share it with you. This show will be a place for real, unfiltered conversations about wellness, aging, relationships, and the journey of navigating life’s twists and turns. Make sure to subscribe wherever you get your podcasts. For ease, here are the links:

• Spotify

• Apple Podcasts

• YouTube

And friends, I highly recommend YouTube! Not only will we have the audio episodes, but the visual experience will be something special. Trust me, you’ll want to see this.

Reflections from Palmaïa and India

This month has been a whirlwind of experiences that have deeply impacted me. Teaching at Wanderlust Palmaïa was nothing short of magical. For those of you who were there, you know exactly what I mean. The Mayan jungle, the ocean breeze, the sense of community—it was a dream.

Torr and I decided to arrive a few days early for some much-needed R&R, and it was the best decision we could’ve made. Returning to Playa del Carmen for the first time in over 20 years brought back so many memories. It was the first place Torr and I traveled to together, and being back there reminded me of how much has changed since then—and how much has stayed the same.

Palmaïa has a special kind of magic. It’s more than just the beauty of the location; it’s the energy of the place and the people. Teaching there felt like coming home in a way I didn’t expect. It reaffirmed why I do what I do and reminded me of the power of connection—both to ourselves and to each other.

Then came India.

India has been on my bucket list for years. The closest I’d come before was Thailand and Bali, but when the opportunity to visit India with my dear friend Sahara Rose came up, I couldn’t say no.

From the moment we landed in Mumbai, I knew this trip would be life-changing. The city was alive—motorbikes weaving through traffic, rickshaws buzzing along the streets, neon signs illuminating bustling markets. It was chaotic and vibrant in the best way possible.

We attended a wedding that was nothing short of spectacular. Indian weddings are unlike anything else—the colors, the traditions, the sheer joy. It was a feast for the senses and a beautiful reminder of the importance of community and celebration.

From Mumbai, we traveled to Udaipur and Jaipur, exploring temples, receiving blessings, and connecting with locals. Each city offered its own unique energy, but Jaipur, with its pink-hued buildings and bustling bazaars, left a special mark on my heart.

There’s a Rosie before India and a Rosie after India. It’s hard to put into words exactly what changed, but being there put so much into perspective for me. It reminded me of the promises I’ve made to myself, the importance of staying committed to my purpose, and the power of being fully present in the moment.

…and because I’m still here, I’ll do my best to articulate it.

Years ago, when I decided I wanted to teach yoga and meditation, it wasn’t just about the physical practice. Yoga had profoundly impacted my life in ways I could never have imagined, something I chronicled in my first book, You Are Radically Loved. Learning about mindfulness and yoga opened up a part of me I didn’t even know existed. It created this deep desire to share what I was learning, and so becoming a teacher felt like the most natural transition. That decision was made more than 15 years ago, and starting my business over a decade ago was the beginning of a journey I’m still on today.

I think it’s so important to honor lineage, to understand the roots of the practices that have shaped us. Having the opportunity to make a pilgrimage to this sacred land, where yoga and meditation originated, felt like receiving a gift I’d been waiting for my whole life. And yet, the significance of it hit me in waves, long after I arrived. Even being at Palmaïa just weeks before—thinking about my Abuelita and the beautiful Mayan myths and folklore she would share with me as a child—came to feel like a pivotal moment. Both experiences were deeply connected in ways I couldn’t have predicted.

In life, there are moments when you feel a big shift happening. Sometimes it’s subtle, other times it’s undeniable. For me, I know there’s a shift unfolding right now. I can’t fully articulate it yet, but I can feel it in my body. It’s as though this change in perspective is laying the foundation for something new—something I can’t quite see yet, but I know it’s coming.

I read a quote once that said, “You know you’re on the right path because the path before you disappears.” Or something like that. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? To not know what’s next. But it’s also a beautiful part of life, this uncertainty. Whether you’re on a healing journey, starting something new, or simply ready for a change, I want you to know this: I’m right here with you, dear friend.

Life has a way of taking us places we didn’t plan for, sometimes through chaos, sometimes through grace. And if this year has taught me anything, it’s that even when the road ahead disappears, we can still trust the process.

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Hello Friends, Happy Friday!

And happy day-after-Thanksgiving! I hope you all had a wonderful time celebrating with friends and family, and maybe even found a moment of rest and relaxation amid the festivities.

There’s something about the holidays that always feels a bit unhinged, right? It’s like the rules of mindfulness fly out the window. Why is that? Why can’t we just enjoy the moment without the guilt?

This year, I hosted Thanksgiving at our place, as usual, because I love cooking for the people I love. And yet, every year, without fail, I somehow wait until the last minute to do my grocery shopping. There I was, wading through the chaos of everyone else in Southern California with the same brilliant idea. Classic, right?

But this Thanksgiving felt a little different for me.

We find ourselves indulging in ways that sometimes feel out of control, and then we beat ourselves up about it later.

Since starting my health journey this year—losing 30+ pounds and making behavioral changes that have completely transformed how I feel in my body—I was curious to see how I’d navigate the holiday goodies. For me, it’s not about the turkey or the sides; my Achilles heel has always been, and will always be…the sugary treats.

Oh, and a quick side note: In case you missed it, I was just on the Slay podcast with Louise Hazel, a heptathlete and Olympic gold medalist whose gym I recently joined! I’m beyond excited to continue this health journey alongside someone who is also doing some inspiring things.. you can watch it on YouTube here… Or listen on Spotify or Apple Pods.

So, back to Thanksgiving. Our table was filled with roasted veggies, sourdough bread stuffing, cornbread soufflé, and my mom’s tamales (a family tradition I’ll never give up). We played games, laughed, and even did a little karaoke—it’s not a proper holiday without some off-key singing, right?

But knowing sugar is my weak spot, I decided to approach this year differently. I made some healthier dessert options, like vegan cookies and a pumpkin pie that wasn’t as sweet. I paired every treat with some protein to feel more satiated and less inclined to overindulge. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was too full by the end of the night. And let me tell you, that was a win.

For so long, I felt disconnected from my body, struggling through perimenopause and my fertility journey. I never thought I’d get to a place in my 40s where I could feel this good, this strong, this “athletic”. It’s kinda wild actually…

It’s been a long road, and I’m endlessly grateful to be here now.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t just about gratitude for me—it was about reclaiming my sense of balance and joy. It reminded me that feeling good in my body doesn’t have to come at the expense of enjoying the things I love. It’s all about mindfulness, about being present, and about letting go of the guilt.

For those curious about my 12-Week Radical Reset Program, you can check out all the details [here]. There are still a few spots left, but registration closes in just two weeks—don’t wait if you’re ready to join us!

Before we wrap up, I wanted to leave you with a few tips that help me stay mindful during the Holidays.

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Happy Friday, Friends!

This week, something unexpected happened—I got a message from an old high school friend I hadn’t spoken to in over 20 years. She told me she’d followed my journey over the past decade and described it as watching me “soar.”

Her kind words meant a lot, but they also gave me pause. Because while it might look like “success” on the outside, the truth is far more layered.

Behind the scenes, it’s been anything but effortless. I’m juggling grad school for my master’s in clinical psychology, working full-time, running a business, managing the struggles of a loved one’s, and navigating the ups and downs of life with my partner, Torry. There have been sleepless nights, tearful arguments, and moments where the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Yet, this message from my old friend got me thinking about what it means to be "successful." Is it the curated version of life we see on social media? Is it the house, the accolades, the career milestones? Or is it something deeper?

Years ago, I had the privilege of sitting down with an author I deeply admire for an interview that never made it to air. (Yes, even I have projects that don’t see the light of day!) At one point in our conversation, I asked her if she felt like she’d “made it” as a writer.

She paused, her eyes reflecting a quiet contemplation, and said something that stayed with me:
“Success? Some days, I feel it. Other days, I don’t. But I keep writing because it’s what I love, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

This was coming from someone who, from the outside, seemed to have it all: multiple bestsellers, an avid readership, invitations to speak at prestigious events, and a cozy writing retreat she called home. Yet, she admitted that self-doubt still lingered.

It was a lightbulb moment for me. Success, as it turns out, isn’t a fixed destination. It’s not the book deal, the bestseller list, or the applause at a book signing. It’s about staying true to your craft, aligned with your values, and finding joy in the process of creating something meaningful.

Her words reminded me that success isn’t a trophy to be won but a practice to be nurtured. It’s about showing up for what you love, even on the days when self-doubt looms larger than inspiration. Because at the end of the day, what makes us successful isn’t just what we achieve but the journey we take to get there.

The Real Work Behind the Scenes

I wish I could tell you I always feel aligned and joyful. But honestly? Some days, it felt like trudging through mud… especially when I was going through perimenopause.

There have been times when I wanted to throw in the towel—whether it was feeling like I wasn’t making an impact or struggling with my own inner critic. (Oh, that barely-invited-to-the-party commentator in my head, you little bastard)

But here’s the truth I’ve come to embrace: success isn’t linear. It’s messy, it’s uncertain, and it demands patience and courage. It requires agility—being able to pivot, adapt, and grow—even when the path doesn’t look like what you imagined.

Take a Breath, Set Your Intentions

As we approach the end of the year, I invite you to reflect on what success means to you. It doesn’t have to be about reaching the top of the mountain. It can be about taking one mindful step at a time, savoring the view along the way.

If you're feeling stuck or disconnected, consider these practices to realign with your “why”:

1. Reconnect with Your Values: Write down 2-3 things that truly matter to you. How can your goals reflect these priorities?

2. Celebrate Progress, Not Perfection: Every small step counts. Whether it’s showing up for your workout or making time to rest, acknowledge your wins.

3. Embrace the Process: Success isn’t a destination—it’s the experience of living in alignment with your heart and purpose.

A Note About Community

One thing I’ve learned is that we can’t do it alone. Whether it’s a partner, a mentor, or a group of like-minded individuals, success thrives in community.

That’s why I’m so excited to invite you to join me at one of my upcoming retreats:

• Wanderlust Palmaïa Retreat in December: Experience transformation in the heart of the Mayan jungle (use code ROSIE2X200 for an exclusive discount through Dec 3!).

These are spaces to connect with others on a similar journey, to share, to learn, and to grow together.

Final Thoughts

Success isn’t about “making it.” It’s about living it. It’s about showing up, staying true to your values, and allowing yourself to evolve.

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Hello Friends,

I hope this week has treated you well. I can’t believe how quickly it flew by—does anyone else feel like the days are moving at lightning speed? (Not trying to stress you out here, I promise!)

In case you missed it, we’re officially “under construction” over at The Radically Loved Podcast! I’m happy to announce that we’ll be back in January with a whole new look and feel. It sounds like a long way off, but does it really? Time seems to pass faster than ever, and before we know it, the new year will be here. For now, we will be re-casting some of our favorites from this final season…

Last weekend was a much-needed break. On Friday night, I had the chance to attend Lilly Singh’s annual Diwali celebration. For those who may not know, Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights, symbolizing the triumph of light over darkness and good over evil. It’s a celebration of love, renewal, and positivity. I couldn’t have asked for a better date than my favorite gal, Sahara Rose. (Who else could keep me laughing and in my heart all night?) Yes, I stayed up past my bedtime, but it was worth every minute.

Also, did you see our latest episode on YouTube? I know I say it all the time, that ‘this one is my favorite’.. but, this one was pretty fun.

The rest of the weekend brought more soulful moments, this time in Topanga Canyon, where I’ll be leading my retreat, Embodying Self-Love, in just a few days. There are still spots open, and if you’ve been feeling the pull to join us, consider this your personal invitation. After spending those few days in Topanga, I can say that this retreat space has a magic all its own—it’s a place to come home to yourself.

And, for those looking for a tropical escape, I’m also thrilled to share a special offer for Wanderlust Palmaïa! They’re offering my community an exclusive discount: with code ROSIE2X200, you’ll get $200 off your suite and $200 off each Wanderlust ticket.

It’s a perfect way to join me in Mexico’s Mayan jungle for a beautiful experience. The code is valid through December 3, I’d love to see some of you there!

Ok, So, Last weekend was filled with one grounding, nourishing experience after another. I attended a retreat as a student—led by my longtime teacher Schuyler Grant and Dr. Sara Gottfried. We spent the weekend yoga-ing, studying, enjoying beautiful food, and getting into some hormone science. The group of women there was incredible, and I felt such a deep sense of community, but something really powerful happened while I was there…

On Saturday morning, I arrived on my mat and instantly felt a sense of homecoming. The familiar scent of palo santo, the dappled light filtering through the trees, the feel of my mat beneath me, Schuyler’s voice alongside a perfectly curated playlist—it all brought a few quiet tears of gratitude to my eyes. After class, I told Schuyler, “Wow, I really needed that.” She just smiled and said, “Me too.” Sometimes, that’s all you need—someone else to hold space for you, to guide you, to remind you of what it feels like to simply be.

The retreat also made me nostalgic for my days of teaching in studios, which I stepped away from in 2020. I still lead retreats and workshops, but the studio environment—the kula, as Schuyler calls it—is unique. (Kula is a Sanskrit word meaning “community” or “tribe,” especially one where people come together with a sense of belonging.) By the end of the weekend, I felt re-inspired to bring more of that connection back into my own life and to continue creating spaces where others can experience that, too.

In Japan, there’s a concept called Mono No Aware—an awareness of the transience of things and a gentle sadness at their passing. It’s a mindfulness of both the beauty and impermanence of life. Last weekend reminded me of this. We’re all part of an ever-changing flow; sometimes we’re leading, and sometimes, we need to allow ourselves to be led. In those moments of surrender, we find the grace to rest, recharge, and connect more deeply.

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