They say the three most rattling life changes are death, divorce, and moving. So far, 2025 has handed me all three. A young, brilliant soul close to me and my family took their own life last week. My parents are separating after forty years of marriage. And come August, I’ll be moving out of my beloved studio apartment in Greenwich Village...

Before the pandemic arrived, my time was scheduled down to the minute. I was a 24-year-old, building a career in New York City; my days filled with commuting to work, meetings, dates, dinners, late nights, and high-intensity workout classes. I was drinking from the firehose—metaphorically—fueling a new life for myself. Even though I was well aware of my naturally reclusive and creative personality, it never occurred to me to slow down. At that time...

I recently celebrated a birthday. Twenty-eight, to be specific. And this year, with a fully formed frontal cortex and fewer red solo-cup parties, I’ve found myself with more time to think. Really think. For me recently, some of this deep contemplation has been about my mother. I am now the same age she was a year into her radiation treatment for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. After being diagnosed at twenty-seven, while also pregnant with my oldest brother, Jimmy, she delivered him prematurely...