I’ve Moved! (You can throw your confetti now…)

IMG_The Silhouettic_I've MovedHi, everyone!

Welp, I’ve finally taken the leap. On my glittery, magical weekend at The Blogcademy (pictured above), I learned that if I really wanna do what I wanna do on this baby, then I’ve got to make the switch from wordpress.com to wordpress.org. So, I did! *crowd goes wild*

If you’re a follower here through WordPress.com, you will still see any new posts from my new location on the reader. BUT, if you want to be sure that you never miss a thing, you’ll want to subscribe for email notifications or follow The Silhouettic on Bloglovin. You can do all that at the new locale:


It took me awhile to figure all this out, so I apologize for the delay. I’m still posting regularly, 2-3 times a week. So head on over there for more ways to get soul-naked and lead an authentic heart-centered life. Oh, and when my sexy pop-up appears, you’ll want to sign-up for my newsletter, too, so you can be the first to know about any upcoming digital products (wee!).

BIG Love,


The Blogcademy photo courtesy of This Rad Love.


Why It’s Okay (and actually great) If You’re Crying All The Time

IMG_The Silhouettic_Why It's Okay if You're Crying All The Time

I’ve started and abandoned several posts for today. They are now giving me puppy dog eyes in the “drafts” section of WordPress. But part of this whole writing process is finding out which post really wants to be written when you sit down at the desk. Each of them has already staked their claim on the calendar. It’s the sacred contract they sign with the universal muse before they even begin to surface in my brain.

This contract is legit, and it’s signed in stardust. I honor it by getting honest about what I feel I should write and what’s really coming through for me at the moment.

Right now, what’s coming through for me is the fact that I am crying a lot. As in, all the time. I cry in the car. I cry on my yoga mat. I cry after screaming in frustration. I cry while I dance. I cry when I walk the dog and bend my head to the roses. I cry about specific things I remember, and many things that I don’t. I cry about everything and nothing at all. I cry for you and for me and for all the little wild things in between.

It’s truly a magnificent time. 

I have no idea when the last time was that you just straight-up bawled your eyes out, but can you remember how amazing it felt to let it rip? I’m talking some serious Poseidon-going-apeshit-oceanic-sized sobs. (Say that ten times, fast).

It’s magic. It’s medicine. It’s movement. It’s you having the chutzpah to give the boot to something you no longer need.

And then at the end, you take that breath. You blink. The world goes watery at the edges. You’re exhausted, but in a good way. There’s a new kind of clarity that starts to fill you up. Nothing has changed outside of you, but inside something slid into place. The optometrist flipped the lens and suddenly you can read every letter on every line.

That moment of clarity is gold. It is truth. It is this: everything is going to be okay.

Crying isn’t bad. We don’t have to judge it and label it as some symptom of depression or of failing at happiness. To cry is to cleanse. To cry takes courage. To cry is to give your body permission to crumple. To fall. To release.

Giving into real emotional release is like finally kicking out a shitty roommate. [Click to Tweet]

It takes balls, and it takes time to get there–often much longer than we would like–but when we finally do…ahhh, the space. 

I am deep in my own spiritual work right now, so it’s only natural for old stuff to surface. Sometimes I know what it’s about, but most of the time I don’t. I cry either way.

In fact, it’s even more freeing when we don’t know why we’re crying because then we don’t have to attach a story to it. That way, our minds don’t even have the opportunity to latch on and grip it tighter.

Whatever it is, it wants out. It’s not yours anymore, so give it away. Let ‘er rip, my soul-naked brothers and sisters.

I want you to cry. I want you to be afraid. I want you to scream in rage. The spectrum of this life is dense, and it is wide. We must feel it fully to get down to the core of who we are.

Lean into the wails. Let yourself fall to your knees. Release, blink, repeat. The real, blazing truth of who you are is right there, right underneath, just waiting for enough space to be seen.

BIG Love,


When You Know You’ve Made It

IMG_The Silhouettic_When You Know You've Made It

I watched Birdman this weekend. I know, I know. Finally, right?

Yeah, it was everything I wanted it to be. It spoke so much to my own inner artist. The one with paint-stained fingertips (even thought I don’t paint), a shaved head, and that tortured look on her face. I just want to make beautiful things, she sighs. She sleeps in until 3 pm. Drinks whiskey in the studio until 4 am.

But mostly, she longs for the day that she’s made it. Cue Naomi Watts’s monologue. She’s in the dressing room, mascara running, the whole double-chin-ugly-cry thing going (that I just LOVE seeing an actress go for on screen…emotions ain’t always pretty, y’all). She says something like, “I always thought that when I became a Broadway actress, I would know I made it.”

Her co-star touches her face or her shoulder. “You’ve made it,” she says.

In ten seconds, that scene summed up one of the most painful (and absurd) parts of being human.

We’re all working our asses off, feeling miserable 70% of the time, waiting to feel like we’ve “made it,” or for someone to tap us on the shoulder and tell us that we have–preferably someone with clout, someone with an iPhone clipped to their belt, waving The Ultimate Career Contract or Next Big Promotion in our face.

Then, we can rest. Then, we can pour that glass of wine, actually light a fire in the fireplace. Then, we’ll schedule date night. Then, we’ll look in the mirror with a level gaze and say, “You’ve finally proved yourself. I love you.”

Let me do you a favor, then:

Imagine that I’m resting a delightfully cool hand on your shoulder. I’m spinning you around now to face me. I’m maintaining intimate, non-creepy eye contact. “You’ve made it,” I tell you.

Because you already have.

No matter where you are. No matter how far you feel you have to go. You’ve already made it. [Click to Tweet].

You are at the pinnacle, the very height of everything. You can see for miles, in all directions, all around you. Don’t wait for some imaginary day of ultimate domination to notice the view. You’ve already earned the right to take a deep breath, to relish, to toast, to roll around with your hair all static-y and your heart hanging loose.

Congratulations, kid. This changes everything. You made it. You really, really did.

BIG Love,


Stop, Drop, & Say Thank You

IMG_The Silhouettic_Stop, Drop, & Say Thank You

Right here. Right now. I’m grateful for:

1. Silver angels hanging on a string around my neck.

2. My Tao Oracle card deck + mornings at home where I can ask, pull, receive, and journal about it ’til it’s all worked through.

3. My hair. It’s wild and unrelenting. It takes no shit. And you can bet I’m takin’ notes.

4. Cool air in the mornings.

IMG_The Silhouettic_Stop, Drop, & Say Thank You

5. The roses on my dog-walking route in South Pasadena. My god. I could pluck them off and eat them.

6. My roommate’s Nutri-Bullet. Because nothing can whip my bulletproof coffee better.

7. The sound of my fingers tapping on keys, late into the night, writing about gratitude, while the nanny-kids are asleep.


BIG Love,


Three Little Words You Might Want to Ditch

“I don’t know.”

This little phrase is, in fact, what I chose to burn during our Full Moon Ritual on Saturday. I didn’t want it in my life anymore, so I gave it to the moon.

Our words are so important. The way we talk about ourselves and our lives shapes our reality. It’s simple. Words have energy. They each have a specific vibration depending on how they’re used. If you’re constantly casting out low-vibe language, you’ll craft a low-vibe life.

Please note, this is not a lesson in swearing. I couldn’t care less about profanity. In fact, I love it. Sometimes, screaming, “FUCK YES!” is the exact punch of high-vibe empowerment that I need.

However, looking at your naked body in the mirror and saying, “Ugh, fuck me. I am so fat.” Not high-vibe. Not empowering at all. Your body winces. You bruise it with those words. It will carry them around all day, all week, maybe even for years to come. And sometimes, those word bombs you hurl at it even get lodged somewhere and bloom into tumors or acne or other diseases.

IMG_The Sihouettic_Three Little Words You Might Want to Ditch

If you need further proof of this, check out the experiment that Danielle Laporte did. She spent 25 days saying mean things to one apple and pumping up another.

Energy is everything. Everything is energy. 

As I’ve said before, the past months have been categorized by massive transformation for me. And they’ve also been categorized by a period of, well, wandering. I haven’t been sure of my “next move.” I’ve really only been able to identify these two points:

1. I hate x, y, and z, so I will now stop doing them.

2. I can’t stop writing on The Silhouettic, and if I did, it would feel like peeling and coring my heart.

The rest was a mystery. What was I going to do next? Write a novel? Start a business? Go back into acting? Sail to Jupiter? Nothing felt right, so I just kept waiting. I kept the question open, trusting that I’d be guided.

That was all fine and dandy, except for one little thing. I started jamming out to the refrain of “I don’t know.”

I don’t know, I’d say. I don’t know yet, but I will! I don’t know, but it’s okay! It’s hard to tell. I don’t know. 

IDK, as we texting folk say. I. Just. Don’t. Know.

I was having a conversation with my boyfriend when I suddenly switched gears and transitioned into the awareness of my witness–you know, the little leprechaun version of you who sits on top of your right ear and just kind of watches all the craziness you do in a single day and giggles because she’s an enlightened soul-leprechaun and she can totally see the big cosmic picture, beyond your ego’s nonsense. At least that’s how I picture my witness.

I felt like I was watching our conversation from a few inches above our heads. And all I could hear was how many times I said, “I don’t know.”

“Babe, I don’t know what I’m going to do next. Ya know? I could do this or I could do that, I just don’t know. Sometimes I think, why don’t I just do that! But I don’t know. Ya know?”

My boyfriend is the most patient listener to my life-pondering-prattle. God bless him. I was ready to duct tape my own mouth and stuff myself in the closet.

All I could think was–STOP SAYING, “I DON’T KNOW.” And then maybe you will know. 

IMG_The Silhouettic_Three Little Words You Might Want to Ditch

So, I burned that little phrase a few nights ago, and promoted my witness to Lieutenant at the IDK Academy. She wears a shiny badge now, and every time I’m about to say those three words, she clamps her tiny hands over her pointed leprechaun ears and reminds me,

“Cut that out. You DO know.”

Because I do. I know who I am. I know what I’m about. I know what my mission is. I know what I love.

What the hell else is there to know?

BIG Love,


Finding the Magic in the Face of the Moon

IMG_The Silhouettic_Finding the Magic in the Face of the Moon

If you follow me on social media, you may have seen my post about the Full Moon Ritual I had with my roommates on Saturday night. And if you’re panicking because you’re worried that I’m going to suddenly morph this blog into a black magic cult–not to worry, only good vibes here, and only real magic. Promise.

Full Moons are great for letting go, for releasing things that no longer serve us. One way to do this is to write down something you wish to release and burn it outside in the moonlight. Sandwich it between a few grounding, cleansing breaths, and that’s it. You can spice it up with whatever you like, or it really can be that easy.

Full Moon Ritual. Magic. Connection. Always there. At our fingertips. 

My friends and I live in an apartment on a busy street in North Hollywood. You can’t see the moon from our tiny balcony or from any of our windows. Still, we made do. We wrote down what we wished to release, grabbed the same glass bowl we burned our intentions in for the New Year (it has gradually become our makeshift cauldron, coated in ash), the last of the matches, and our crystals (so they could recharge in the moonlight), and walked to one of the neighborhood streets behind our building.

When we first chose our spot, a man walking his beautiful husky passed right by us. He stared, and I stood with our plate of crystals at my feet. We all smiled nervously, feeling a little ridiculous, a little exposed. The moon glowed, and the husky (wolf-like, of course, and by no coincidence) trotted by, unfazed.

When they were gone, we joined hands in a circle on the sidewalk, right in front of someone’s house, began with a simple “Om” and “Ma” chant, read what we were releasing, burned the damn things, laughed excitedly, packed up shop, and left. It was short and sweet, but it was electric. 

On our way back, we stopped on the main street, and–I kid you not–we howled at the moon.

This is sort of a longstanding thing between us because my one roommate really identifies with wolves–in the same way that I’m always harping about tigers. Kindred spirit. Animal guide. That sort of thing. So, she howls at the moon pretty frequently. This time, we joined her.

Crazy? A little, but still fun as hell. Healing? Surprisingly, yes. Cars flew past us, barely ten feet away. The traffic light continued its endless scroll from green to yellow to red to green.

Just us three. And all of those people, going so many places. Had they noticed the moon? Did they know it was full? How many nights had I spent driving too fast to even notice its pull? How many times had I paced my apartment, restless, wondering what’s next or if this is it?

How many times had I shoved that deep, primal urge inside of me to just howl and scream and sing and sound my truth? How many times had I resisted the constant cycles of my own growth, my evolution, the universe’s relentless shedding and purging, cleansing and rebirth?

IMG_The Silhouettic_Finding the Magic in the Face of the Moon

Rise and fall. Wax and Wane. Hang on and let go. Birth and death. Catch and release.

That’s the real magic in this life, modeled by none other than the earth and the moon. It lives beyond our expectations and our best laid plans. It lives in the fields, long forgotten and overgrown. Always there, waiting for us.

It holds the key to our freedom, but it rarely makes it onto our calendars. 

Instead, we challenge the stars to outshine our streetlights. Slather the dirt in concrete and stone. Tell each other to settle down and stop crying. My tigers keep dying, and so do the wolves.

Somewhere, we forgot about the magic. And I think it all started when we stopped feeling our feelings and howling at the moon. 

Where is the magic? I always say in my moments of restlessness.

It’s in the side streets, guarding the last slices of sky. It’s here, in this apartment, where two people will stand with me on the sidewalk, and give just two minutes to the massive bodies churning the cosmos. It’s on my yoga mat, where I breathed somewhere deep and cried for reasons unknown. It’s there, stinging our knees when we collapse in grief or surrender or release. It collects on our shoulders in moments of silence, when we experience the magnitude of being alone.

And, of course, it’s there the next day, under our pillows, when we wake up–a little bruised but lighter–and realize that everything’s going to be fine after all. Rebirth. Brand new but the same. A little closer to who we really are.

Where is the magic? I demand.

My dear, it’s right there. Right inside of you. If you’d only stop numbing. If you’d only stop stuffing. You’d see. 

There is magic in our aching. There is truth in the roars we let die in our throats. 

BIG Love,


The Power of Setting Intentions

IMG_The Silhouettic_The Power of Setting Intentions

I had another spoken word performance last Thursday at AWAKE. I love performing there. It feels like going home. The AWAKE stage is the place where I first let my authentic voice be heard in LA. It’s been a place where I can try things and just get loved for it, all the while re-learning who I am and how I want to be.

But this performance was my first in over a month. I was feeling a little shaky about performing spoken word live again. I’ve gotten used to having an unlimited amount of takes in my little home studio to bring you all Soul Naked in Sixty. My ego was in full-fledged worry-wart-performance mode, completely consumed by the need to prove myself, to be the perfect little star, to dazzle, shock, and steal the show.

Except…that isn’t really the point, is it? Because I’ve performed with that intention before, and it’s underwhelming. The applause swells, you step off of the stage feeling big, and then the air inside you finds the pinholes. You start leaking again, obsessing over details like, Why didn’t they laugh there? Should I have paused longer? Was there an agent in the audience?

Surface. Shallow. A performance that’s all ego feels like receiving an empty gift. Beautifully wrapped. Nothing inside to take home except the stale cardboard sides of a box.

I witnessed myself running around in ego-land all day on Thursday as I anticipated the performance. But these days, I’m a little more prepared to escape it. I took refuge in my spiritual practice (part dancing, part singing, part chanting, part stretching, part-whatever-the-hell-I-feel-like-doing), and I ended with a card reading. I pulled one from my Mermaid Oracle Deck, asking that I be given a clear intention to take with me for my performance that night.

I pulled Healing Heart. The message of the card said that I am a powerful healer and am being called to use my gifts to do so.

I smiled. To heal. Ahh, feels nice. Feels a lot better than to make you love me. 

IMG_The Silhouettic_The Power of Setting Intentions

At the beginning of my performance, I shared the card reading with the audience. I told them that I offered my spoken word to them with the intention to heal, to help them move through something big or small, or maybe just to reassure them that if I can get up there, wave my arms around, and do weird-ass poetry, then they can certainly feel free to be themselves.

It was my best performance to date. Handfuls of people came up to me afterwards, asking for my fancy-schmancy business card. Another gal approached me about a writing opportunity.

And of course it felt like my best performance ever, and of course, people were attracted to me afterwards. It didn’t matter how great the writing or the delivery, or whether or not I flubbed a word. Those issues are all cosmetic. Surface. What spoke to them wasn’t me and my star-studded future, but the energy I cultivated within my performance.

I’m always coming back to this: Why am I doing it? Why am I there with that specific group of people, at that precise moment, sharing my unique gift? 

The reason can’t just be to feel like a badass. The audience will pick up on that in a second. They’ll be turned off, and I’ll be feeling douche-y. If I really want to be fulfilled by a performance, then I need to get clear on what I’m offering my audience. Because we’re all equals. We’re all there sharing space, exchanging energy. I just happen to be on stage, running my mouth for part of it.

Root your intention in what you’re giving, rather than in what you’re getting. [Click to Tweet]

The latter strokes your ego. The former feeds your heart. I’ll let you decide which is more sustainable for a happy, fulfilling life.

IMG_The Silhouettic_The Power of Setting Intentions

I challenge you to bring this intention-setting into your line of work, whatever that may be, whether it’s a performance, a presentation, or a meeting. How can you change the entire tone of the exchange by setting an intention rooted in giving something, rather than in getting something? It will shift the energy around your entire workspace.

And–brace yourselves–we can even take it one step (or a billion steps) further. What’s your intention for your whole damn lifeWhat’s behind those dreams? A need to be loved, adored, admired, praised? Or an intention to give something, to shift something, to mend something?

And yes–that question can be really hard to get honest about. But considering the fact that you are already an embodiment of universal-epic-booming-cosmic-proportion-love, it may be time to do the dirty work to release those attachments to fame, fortune, and greatness.

Oh, and the dirty work takes a long time. Like, every day, six hundred times a day, I go through this process:

I really should do this because then people will think I’m really cool and awesome. Oh wait, I’m already loved. Better yet, I AM love. Ohh, that’s right–I can just live my whole life with the intention to heal. Great, then I’m going to do this instead because it’s way more fun anyway.

But that’s what it is. A remembrance, a relearning, every day. A daily, hourly, minute-ly homecoming to our truth.

Then, maybe one day, our conversations at the bar will look like this:

Hey, Caroline, what are you doing with your life?

Hi, Joe. I’m living every day with the intention to heal the world. You?

Cool. I’m living every day with the intention to inspire children. 

Bam. Pass me a beer. Those lives sound pretty juicy to me.

BIG Love,


Behind the Screens: The Sobering Effect of Witnessing Your Own Progress

IMG_The Silhouettic_The Sobering Effect of Witnessing Your Own Progress

If you’re new here, you may not know that I work as a virtual assistant for a handful of hours every week. This morning, I was doing just that, and I had the opportunity to look back over three months’ worth of my own gradual, day-at-a-time progress.

It was surreal. And completely sobering to the gradual progression of my own growth.

I design basic graphics for my client’s original affirmations to be shared daily on social media. One affirmation a day, every day. Over the past couple of months, I haven’t been adding them to her Pinterest, however. Today’s work consisted of going back through and adding them all.

I was astounded by how many I had created. About 80 affirmations/shareable graphics. By me. What? I still feel like I just started this job, but somehow, three months have gone by and my work spans several pages on someone’s website.

When did that happen?

Every day. One at a time. One quote, one graphic, one post, one little 4 x 4 square at a time.

Progress. Slow. Steady. Just like we’ve always been told. Just like the turtles (that I’m currently seeing everywhere) remind us. Like good ol’ Aesop wrote. A truth we’re hit with over and over again.

And one that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Because when do you actually get a chance to witness it? When do you have the opportunity to flip back through the pages of each day’s little piece of effort? I’m not sure that I ever have. I’ve looked at a project from four years ago and noted the immense difference between now and then. But I’ve never honored every little step along the way with an actual image attached to each one.

Sobering. Sobering because I like to get drunk off of where I’m headed. I slur where I am into where I want to be, and I often lose sight of the fact that I’m already lightyears ahead of where I was a few weeks ago.

Three months ago, I was desperate for a job that excited me but still granted me freedom to do my own thing. Three months ago, I was stuck in a dream that didn’t serve me. Three months ago, I was aching for community.

Roughly 80 days later…here I am. A little clearer, a little more solid on the ground I stand, with a little more internal space freed up to create the life I’ve always craved.

Progress. Maybe it’s okay sometimes to look back–to honor your own footprints, to cringe a little at the places where you wandered around in circles for a day or a year.

And then revel in the very place you now stand. Claim it. Own it. Have a cocktail. Because hell yes, at least you aren’t all the way back there.

BIG Love,


Permission to be Wild and Mild (not that you needed it)

IMG_The Silhouettic_Permission to be Wild and Mild

When I first opened an account on Instagram, I wrote this bio: “Wild hair and an even wilder heart. My kindred spirit animal is the tiger.” It makes me laugh because it’s a little dramatic, but I’ve always loved it. It feels right, somehow. I do have wild hair. I always knew I had a wild heart, but I didn’t quite know how to express it. Couldn’t make it fit into the landscape in a healthy way.

When I was little, I spent hours barefoot in the backyard, pretending to be a slave warrior. Seriously. I was never the princess. I always began as the slave girl. I would actually mix yogurt and cottage cheese together and sit at the kitchen table, reluctantly eating it, pretending that it was the one serving of gruel that I received for the day. (Is it any wonder that I had to get my Acting degree?)

But I wasn’t just any slave. I could fight. And the climax of my story was always the same. I would save the prince from a cliff, or a bad dude, or from a shipwreck with my keen fighting and survival skills.

Then, we would marry, and I would be queen. A compassionate one, of course, who freed all of the slaves and kicked some serious ass on the battleground when it was needed.

But I was always sad when the prince-saving-down-and-dirty-slave-warrior part of the story ended. There was something so unsatisfying about acting as the queen, about living above the trenches. So, I started over. I mixed another batch of yogurt and cottage cheese. I invented another backbreaking chore, like rolling around an empty wheelbarrow. All the while, I fanned the fire within, an anger that was rising, a revolution that was brewing, a deep calling to bear my teeth, extend my claws. I’d defeat what needed defeating. I’d find my freedom, and then I’d run. Oh, yes, finally, I’d run.

Except something always got in the way of the running. Love. No matter how many times I tried to do it differently, something in me always wrote an ending of love and queendom and, well, whatever the royal version is of a chill, suburban existence.

In real life, I remained in this duality. The good student who was also a party girl. I’d shotgun a beer with all the boys ’til 3 am, but you can bet my ass was in class at 8, while they all slept in. Again, this calling to be wild–to run with the pack, but make it back in time to fulfill the quota for a good life, as well.

In middle school, I’d rebel against my mom and my stepdad, run away to the park down the street. But I’d call my dad to come pick me up. Duality. Contradiction. Tiger cub. A wild heart that still needed a reliable, steady love. Seduced by the call to run free, but always aching for community. 

IMG_The Silhouettic_Permission to be Wild and Mild

I offer this story because I think we can all relate to it. Isn’t there a part of you, too, that just wants to shed all of your clothes and run into the dying light of the sun? Don’t you sometimes squash the urge to stand on your balcony and howl at the moon? Have you ever looked at a child, with his face blissed-out and sweaty, hands black from the mud in the yard, while you’re elbow-deep in dishes or laundry, and thought, that. Give me that.

Freedom. Inhibition. Gritty. Alive.

But then your bed feels damn good, too. And the heat of your partner sleeping next to you. And you’ve worked hard for the house or the apartment. You’ve made it beautiful, hung up all of your favorite things. The dishes look best when they’re stacked neatly away.

So, there’s this: You can have both. You can want both. You can be both.

You can be wild. You can have your days as a tiger cub. You can surrender. You can forget about your responsibilities. You can roar. Seriously. Try it. Next time you’re pissed about something, just fucking roar. It feels amazing. Stick your hands in the dirt. Let the rain actually soak through your hair. Raise your arms to the moon. Look at it with so much longing it nearly drives you mad.

And then you can come home, make a nice meal, and curl up with your Pottery Barn throw pillows.

Because you can be both. Because your soul wants both. It wants to run with the cosmos, and then it wants the human experience of a home.

I like to say, “I am sacred wildfire.” It helps me when I’m feeling down or playing small. It helps me remember my truth.

I am sacred wildfire. Sometimes that means I’m eating up the plains, licking the skies with my light. And other nights, I’m just a low, slow burn in the hearth with a side of wine.

Either way, I’m beautiful. Either way, I’m me.

BIG Love,


How to Make Love (Not War) with Time

IMG_thesilhouettic_how to make love not war with time

Many of us have an abusive relationship with time. We curse it as it speeds past, reach out to catch it by its tail and drag it back into our laps. We set the clocks ahead, try to trick our lives into slowing down, stretching out. Still, the clock ticks mercilessly forward, while the bottom half of our to-do lists lay untouched, and we reschedule yet another date with a friend.

There’s no time. Where did the time go? I just don’t have the time!

One nation, out of time.

I feel this constant pressure, as well. My day often feels splintered, segmented. I have x hours to get this done, y hours to do that. But I like doing the first thing more, so I cut into the hours for the second thing, and my whole day tailspins into leaving keys on the counter, running back to get them, to-go cups of coffee, and flooring it in the left lane.

And, of course, I apply the time lack mentality to my career. I’ve taken a huge break from acting, but I still sense that I will get back into it at some point. I constantly worry that when that time does come, it will be too late. I’ll be too old. I’ll have missed the boat. I mean, hell, most people start when they are children. I’m a hag!

What’s worse is I see myself projecting this time-cooker living on the kids I nanny. Hurry up. We don’t have time. Put that down. Put that away. There’s no time! You still don’t have your shoes on?! We need to leave NOW.

Just two more hours, right? Just two more hours in the day would solve it all. World peace, cooking dinner, all of it.

One nation, out of time.

I was on the phone with a friend the other week. I was blathering, “Oh my goshhh, like, we haven’t talked in so long.”

She was unfazed. “Time is an illusion,” she said, so simply that she could have been stating that the sky is blue.

Right. Time is an illusion. Invented. Created. Our days charted to give us some kind of sense of our lives and how we’re managing them. Still, my mind spluttered and huffed. But, but, but…TIME. I mean, there’s a magazine named after it!

I’m so tired of punching and kicking at an illusion. I’ll never win a fight against a ghost.

Let’s make peace with time, instead. Here are a few shifts I’ve been trying out.

Commit to a morning practice

Get quiet. Tune in. Move your bod. Light some candles. Pull some oracle cards. Or just pet your cat and brew a pot of coffee. Come up with a small ritual that gets you out of your head and connected–to the cosmos, to your people, to the fairies, to your heart, to whatever you want to call it.

When I take time for my practice (which changes all the time), my entire day seems to expand. I experience more flow in my life, and a calm, focused energy takes over. I saw a saying on Instagram the other day, “Yoga doesn’t take time. It gives time.” I think that quote applies to any morning practice or small ritual that you design completely for yourself. When you center into your truth first thing, the rest of the day feels more like an opportunity, rather than a challenge. 

Forgive yourself for what you don’t get done

Because you won’t get it all done. And that’s okay. You are not your to-do list. Your value cannot be measured in checkmarks (or lack thereof). I started Forgiveness Friday in the Soul Sister Society, an empowering group that I belong to. Every Friday, I encourage us all to share what we didn’t achieve that week and forgive ourselves for it so that we can move on with our lives.

Learn the art of saying hell no

Ah, an ancient craft I’m still trying to master. Honestly, I couldn’t even be called an Apprentice to Saying No, yet. I am a famous yes-girl. I work for free, hack up my precious time and practically hand it out to people on the street. And it only ever leads to frustration, as my own priorities get bumped farther into the future. Saying no isn’t rude. It’s necessary. Marie Forleo says, “If it’s not a hell yes, it’s a hell no.” When you really think about that criteria, it’s brilliant.

Unplug or go on a social media detox

I did this for the week of Thanksgiving, and it was pretty radical. Because I had no reason to scroll, I naturally checked my phone way less. This meant that I wasn’t constantly bombarded by the time. You all know that smart phone twitch I’m talking about: You press your phone’s home button to check the clock but don’t even register what it says! Untether yourself from the gadgets and experience more presence, and less obsession with digits. And bonus: You’ll have more time to be awesome because you’re spending less on your phone.

Change the language

I’m becoming more conscious of how I talk about time. For example, instead of saying, “I don’t have time,” we can say, “I’m choosing not to add that to my schedule today.” The latter is way more empowering because it emphasizes that we have a choice in how we spend our days, rather than reinforcing the idea that we are slaves to the clock. It sends the message of a decision, rather than a complaint. 

Embrace getting older

I know I don’t have a lot of perspective on this, but the absurdity of our society’s obsession with anti-aging is obvious even to a tiger cub like me. And though I’m not close to being “middle-aged” yet, I’ve still seen the affects of growing up. I can’t even drink one beer without feeling hungover the next day. I’d rather watch Netflix in my sweatpants than go to a club on a Saturday night.

But I’m happy. My life feels more magical every day. Who cares about what my younger self used to do or what she used to look like? And yeah, I want a nice batch of long, white moon-hair and wrinkles and sunspots. You know what those mean? I laughed a lot and ran around naked in the sun. Plus, I can make everyone call me Grandmother Willow.


Or maybe my soul will move on before any of those appear. That’s okay, too. Our souls are here to have a human experience for a finite amount of time, anyway. But it isn’t a race, so why fret over the finish line? 

You aren’t wasting your days by accomplishing less, and nothing is counting down. It’s simply happening, flowing. This life is just movement. Like water, like the moon, like anything natural and beautiful. Let it be what it is.

BIG Love,