Not the Newsletter I Planned
notes from the sixth floor đ
August 18th,
This was not what was on the calendar for last week. I had a whole draft ready to go on âintentional living.â I even had a solid list going in my Notes app. Convinced, as we always are, that if we just optimize the routine, we can outrun the chaos. And then life stepped in, as it always does, and gave me a front-row seat to what intentional living actually is.
I was thinking a lot about fear, and how much time and energy we waste on it.
What it would take for all of us to drop the performance and get back to whoever we were at eight years old. You know, before we learned to live in a constant state of anxiety.
Then Monday night came, and the whole draft went out the window along with my momâs gallbladder. (Before I continue: she is home now, tucked into bed with an ice pack, and recovering well.)
I know most of you are here for the good stuff. Interior design, sourcing, the âbuy onceâ list. And I love keeping this corner of the internet bright for us! But by 1:00 AM on Thursday, I was folded into that stiff vinyl chair, listening to the machines beep while Mom slept before surgery. Outside the window, the city was just a blur of headlights. Looking down at my screen, I realized whatever neat little draft I had planned wasnât what actually needed to be said.
Hospitals in the middle of the night have a way of handing you absolute clarity.
Hours before, down in the ER, I counted seven stretchers coming through the doors in under half an hour. Every single patient was a woman. The paramedics looked like teenagers, and the floor was operating at maximum capacity.
Sitting there, watching it all unfold, I just felt this deep, heavy ache.
We see the headlines about broken hospitals and overworked staff, and then twenty other crises hit the timeline, and we go completely numb just to get through a Tuesday. Then, suddenly, on a random weeknight, there you are, face to face with the headline you forgot about.
The whole system is broken, treating human survival like a luxury subscription.
While we were downstairs waiting, my son stood near the sliding doors watching the ambulances back in, wondering why there were so many on a random weekday.
He looked up at me and said: âI just donât understand why everyone canât get help.â
And there I was trying to explain American health insurance to a second grader, which is, well, excruciating.
He didnât even blink:
âWell, that doesnât make sense. Everyone deserves to be helped. Why donât we just do that?â
Leave it to a second grader to dismantle the entire modern machine in two sentences.
On my âbad daysâ, the ones where Iâm spiraling over bills, a bad email, being late, whether the house is clean, or a hectic schedule. I try to think of the hospital window. It is the fastest way Iâve found to remember how incredibly lucky a normal âbad dayâ actually is.
Because in this room, none of that noise exists. The stuff we spend 90% of our waking hours agonizing over turns out to be entirely made up the second real life shows up.
A normal bad day is a privilege.
Right after I kissed my sonâs head and sent him home with my husband, I walked back into the unit and stopped near the nursesâ station.
A group of residents was doing their rounds. Almost all of them were women. The future, standing right there, ready to walk into this broken machine and heal people anyway. Future female doctors of all ethnicities.
And then just like that, there it was:
Maybe thatâs all intentional living actually is. Itâs refusing to go numb. Itâs seeing the world as the chaotic, beautiful mess it is and deciding to move with love anyway. Accepting how fast things can change, putting down the dread, and just letting yourself be here for the real thing.
I mean, really, whatâs the point of life if youâre not living at all?
Thank yâall for being the steady place I could turn to this week. You might not have known it, but writing to you kept me centered when my brain wouldnât stop spinning.
Hug your people tight today. Let the fear go. And really LIVE.
If youâre in the hospital or sitting next to that familiar window right now and need a distraction, reply to this email, and Iâll set you up with a free paid subscription on me.
I spent the entire weekend grateful to have Mom home. And then, naturally, I followed that up with an absolute crashout over the state of the world and the American healthcare system. I made lists, decided society was doomed, and then... remembered the window.
Took a breath and stopped the spiral: okay, how do I make things better? Work towards a brighter future.
I started writing new lists. I couldnât stop picturing all those women down in the ER, knowing how much of what lands us in those rooms comes down to sheer burnout and the impossible weight women carry on their shoulders every single day.
We need each other. We need real rest, practical solutions, less noise, and houses that actually feel like home.
I donât have all the answers yet, but consider this my promise that Iâm spending every day from here on out looking for them.
Coming soon:
Future Heirlooms: An alternative to the classic âBuy Onceâ List highlighting fresh design brands, emerging artists, and high-quality home pieces made to stand the test of time.
Designing with Soul: Deep dives into how to create a home that feels grounded, intentional, and calm, not just staged.
The Dreamers: Spotlight features on the artists, makers, and spaces reminding us to stay hopeful, creative, and inspired right now.
Iâll be back in your inbox later this week.
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