The Butterfly Effect

And tiny forehead kisses.

Here’s what I know: Every day is a collaborative creative act.

Even when you’re not making anything—no writing, no painting, no planning—you’re still being here. Still brushing your hair. Still staring out windows. Still chatting. Still finding beauty in the corners of things. That counts.

If you want to smile and make something—anything—a plan, a journal entry, a campaign, a moment of calm, a hug from far away—you have to look around. Really look. At history. At strangers. At the quiet, goofy ways the people close to you make things and mean things.

I write ads, but I’m inspired by the way chefs describe food as emotions. The way Anthony Bourdain mumbled brilliance like it was nothing. The way my mom art directed campaigns that made you want to get on a rollercoaster. The way a stranger says “take your time” at a coffee shop—and actually means it (even though we’re all there in a rush).

We are never just one thing.
Never just one moment.
Even when you’re still, change is happening.
Butterflies are flapping their wings somewhere, and something in your story shifts.

Poetry reminds me of that.
It helps me feel softer toward myself when I’m scared, tired, or stuck in the in-between.

So I’m sharing two poems that feel like gentle reminders.
One about the chaos and beauty of being alive.
And one I wrote myself—for my knees.
And the version of me who still kinda wishes she could run.
(Tehe.)

MY POEM
A poem for knees. And the strollers.

If my knees were stronger,
if my tendons had some snap,
I’d join you.

I’d race you around and around the track—
barefoot down the beach,
into the early morning haze.

If my knees could do it,
if my tendons could stay tight—
I’d love to race you.

Running, gliding,
looking miserable
but internally
soaring-freaking-high.

Blurry faces passing me,
a sick beat in my ears.

If my knees could keep up,
I’d have been running for years.

Maybe it was the bleacher sprints.
Maybe it was the curious bruises
that suspiciously appeared.

Maybe it was years of field hockey dives,
or the way I hold my breath like a swimmer—
busy blowing bubbles, learning how to glide.

But no,
I won’t be running.

They’re bruised.
And strolling
is more my speed.

I’ve stopped to get a matcha.
So go ahead.
Lead.

****
So you inspire me. Even if I don’t say it in the moment. It was heard.

I’ll see you somewhere along the way.

;)