Anahata Conscious Living

05/27/2026

L’été à Paris is not soft.

It clings to your skin.
Slides down your back.
Turns every Haussmann apartment into a beautiful little temptation wrapped in cream walls and open windows.

By day, the city undresses you slowly.

Linen falls off shoulders.
Cold water becomes a love language.
You stop caring about perfect hair, perfect timing, perfect anything.

You let the heat ruin you a little.

And somehow —
you become more beautiful because of it.

Then night arrives.

The curtains move with the breeze.
The rooftops glow amber under the city lights.
Music drifts in from somewhere below.
Someone is pouring wine.
Someone is being kissed against a balcony door.

And there you are,
bare skin against cool sheets,
still carrying the warmth of the day on your body,
watching Paris breathe through open windows like it’s breathing for you too.

That’s the thing nobody tells you about summer in Paris.

The heat makes everything feel closer.

The city.
Your body.
Desire.
Loneliness.
Pleasure.

All of it.

And somewhere between midnight and morning,
with the fan humming softly in the dark and the air moving across your skin,

you stop surviving the heat —

and start surrendering to it. ☀️

05/16/2026

You know, it’s a rather peculiar joke we’ve played on ourselves — this idea that we are somehow separate from nature. As though the universe, after fourteen billion years of extraordinary creativity, suddenly produced a creature whose sole purpose was to sit under fluorescent lighting and meet deadlines.
A tree doesn’t hold a board meeting in November to discuss its declining leaf output. The ocean doesn’t file an apology for pulling back from the shore. And yet here you are — feeling guilty for being tired.
Now isn’t that something.
You see, we talk about rest as though it must be deserved. As though the body needs to earn its own silence. But who wrote that rule? And more importantly — who are you obeying when you follow it?
Some people move through this whole business of living with their energy more or less intact. Others — and I suspect you know who you are — burn a few circuits along the way. Not because they are broken. But because they felt more. Carried more. Stayed longer in rooms that were slowly running out of air.
And what happens to such a person? They get quieter. They start finding crowds exhausting and silence nourishing. The nervous system, in its ancient and rather magnificent wisdom, begins voting — loudly — for stillness.
This isn’t weakness, you understand. This is the whole rhythm of things expressing itself through you.
Winter is not the tree failing. It is the tree being brilliantly strategic.
The only real question is whether you’ll let yourself do the same.

05/13/2026

There is something honest about the ocean at dawn.
It does not pretend the storm never happened.
The sky still carries shadows. The water still remembers the wind.
And yet… morning arrives anyway.

Grief is like that.

We spend so much of life believing healing means returning to who we once were.
But the soul does not move backward.
It moves like the tide — pulling apart what was fixed, reshaping the shoreline quietly over time.

The scars remain.
Not as evidence of weakness, but as proof that life touched us deeply enough to leave a mark.

There are days the grief still rises unexpectedly, like dark clouds crossing an otherwise peaceful sky.
A memory.
A scent.
A version of yourself that no longer exists.

But somewhere within the ache, something else begins to emerge:
a softer strength,
a quieter wisdom,
a deeper capacity to stand in uncertainty without collapsing beneath it.

The wave does not apologize for crashing.
The sun does not mourn the night forever.
And we, too, are allowed to become new people after loss.

Healing is not the absence of pain.
It is learning that pain can exist beside beauty.
That grief and gratitude can share the same heart.
That even after fire, storms, endings, and heartbreak… the soul still reaches toward light.

And so we stand here — not untouched, not unbroken —
but still standing.
Still breathing.
Still becoming.

Like the ocean at sunrise,
we carry both the darkness and the light within us now.

05/12/2026

“I Still Can’t”
Charcoal on paper
Born from the ashes of the 2025 Palisades fire, this large-scale work was not painted — it was danced. Moving to classical music, the artist allowed grief to travel through the body the way ballet does: with both discipline and surrender. The charcoal became an extension of the heart, and the paper a stage. What remains is the physical score of that performance — sweeping arcs and spiraling marks that pulse with rhythm, collision, and longing. Not a picture of pain, but pain itself, still moving.

03/21/2026

Starting over sounds romantic… until you’re actually living it.

No routines.
No familiar places.
No sense of rhythm.

Just you… trying to rebuild a life from nothing.

What I didn’t expect—
was how much healing would depend on something so simple:

A morning routine.

Not a perfect one.
Not aesthetic.
Not for anyone else to see.

Just consistency.

Waking up at the same time.
Drinking something warm.
Moving my body—even if it’s slow.
Sitting in silence before the world starts asking things from me.

Because when everything feels unfamiliar,
routine becomes stability.

And stability becomes safety.

And safety… is where healing actually begins.

Somewhere between those quiet mornings,
you stop feeling lost in a new place—

and start finding yourself inside it.

If you’re rebuilding your life right now:
Don’t try to fix everything.

Start with your mornings.
That’s where everything changes.

03/17/2026

As many of you know, I lost so many memories in the fire… including the ones from the runs that once meant everything to me.

So this one feels different.

This time, I’m running the Paris Marathon for something bigger than me—
for Alzheimer’s and Dementia research.

For the memories that fade.
For the ones we fight to hold onto.

I’ll do the running.

If this speaks to you, you can support by donating to the cause.

Every step counts.
Every contribution matters. #2026

03/01/2026

Watching Pablo in the Metro like it’s his city — and falling in love with exploring Paris all over again, following curiosity and saying yes to new Sundays.

05/23/2025

Mornings routines that help shape my day.

As I walk through this journey—recovering from deep loss and grief—I’ve found that how I begin the day truly matters.

Maybe your pain looks different than mine.
Maybe the sadness in your heart carries a different name.
But no matter what you’re carrying, creating just a little space to breathe can help bring peace back to your center.

These small practices aren’t about perfection—they’re about presence.
And sometimes, presence is enough.

Swipe through for what helps me ground and begin again.

Before diving into the noise, I’ve been giving myself just one hour—to be still, to breathe, and to move.

Just a few minutes of silence.
Just fifty intentional breaths.
Just one hour to move my body and ground myself before the world begins to pull.

This practice isn’t just routine—it’s protection.
It’s how I start from peace instead of panic.
From calm, not chaos.
And it sets the tone for everything that follows.

If your mornings have felt rushed, scattered, or heavy… try carving out just a little space.
Even 5 minutes can change the rhythm of your entire day.

How you begin is how you build.
Start with presence. Start with breath. Start with you.

01/22/2025

Saying Goodbye to the Place I Called Home

The place I once called home was more than walls and a roof—it was my sanctuary, my temple, my masterpiece. I built it with love, resilience, and a thousand small triumphs, each one woven into the fabric of my safe haven.

This was the place where I rebuilt my life, where I rose from the ashes of a broken past. Every corner of my home whispered stories of hope and strength. My furniture, collected from all over the world, was more than décor—it was my art, my soul displayed for the world to see. My plants stood as living reminders of growth, of routine, of stability.

This was my peace, my stability, my safety.
And now, it’s gone.

Mother Nature came with her unrelenting force and took it all—my memories, my treasures, my refuge. The weight of this loss feels unbearable, like a piece of my heart has been torn away. I miss the stillness of mornings in my sanctuary, the warmth of sunsets that blanketed me with hope. I miss everything that made me feel safe, whole, and rooted.

I’m left in the rubble of uncertainty, questioning myself over and over: Will I be okay?
I don’t have that answer yet. My heart feels heavy and broken, and the future feels like a vast, empty question mark.

But amidst this grief, I hold onto the memories—those moments of joy, the laughter that filled the rooms, the quiet moments that brought me peace. They’re etched in my heart forever, even as I say goodbye.

I don’t know how long it will take to create a new space that feels like home again. I don’t know when I’ll feel grounded or safe. But I do know this: my journey is not over. My heart is bruised, but it’s still beating. My spirit is shaken, but it’s still standing.

To my home: thank you.
For the love, the safety, and the memories.
I will miss you forever.

01/18/2025

https://youtu.be/D7KkBeFyFeU?si=5MSMTHkF-pot5rJU

Words can’t describe the pain I feel inside ..

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