Ashley’s Substack Podcast

I want to share a brain nugget I’ve been rolling around this week—though honestly, it feels more like batting around one of those Oopee balls from Kentucky Fried Chicken family meals in the 90s. Do you remember those? Those water-weighted plastic beach balls that flailed through the air and made that ridiculous boing sound.

My brother and I used to chase one around Rotary Park in Whitehorse with absolute abandon. It was thrilling, hilarious and unpredictable. Kind of like the way I’m thinking about identity these days.

Here’s the quote that set me in motion:

(Also, I posted this as a video on Instagram and Tiktok—follow me there if you want daily inspo in this vibe!)

“You’re always you, and that doesn’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”— Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts

I’m not familiar with Maggie Nelson’s work (yet), but this line alone made me grab The Argonauts from the library. It now sits on my shelf beside the other “to-be-read beauties” I’ve collected. Side note: Anyone else have un-read book guilt? The perpetual guilt of all the books I want to read and will not ever read. It’s real.

What I love about this line is how it captures the paradox of being human. There’s a you-ness that never shifts: something essential and core, but also a constant evolution unfolding at the same time.

And it turns out, this paradox isn’t merely poetic. It’s also biological.

The Science of Our Ever-Changing Bodies

Our bodies are in a state of perpetual change. And I don’t mean metaphorically: I mean at a cellular level.

Every day, we replace about 330 billion cells, which amounts to roughly 1% of our body’s total cell count. Over the course of 80 to 100 days, that means we've essentially regenerated our entire cellular makeup. In other words, you’re not just emotionally evolving: you are physically a different person every few months.

Different cells turn over at different rates:

* Red blood cells: every 120 days

* Skin cells: every 2 to 3 weeks

* Colon cells: every 3 to 5 days

* Skeletal muscle cells: can take up to 15 years

* Neurons in the cerebral cortex: some last a lifetime

So yes, we are always changing. Whether we feel it or not.

Reflecting on Change

Knowing how much we change physically makes me think even more about the changes we can’t see. The emotional shifts. The mental rewiring. The ways our identities reshape over time. We are living, breathing, regenerating beings with a core essence that somehow still feels stable amidst all the incredible changes we experience.

When I shared this quote with a friend this weekend, they told me, “I don’t like to dwell on the past.” And I get that. For some, looking back feels like a trap. But I’ve always been the opposite.

I’ve kept a journal since 1993, when my parents first told us they were separating. I was just a kid then. My brother and I were trying to make sense of a world that suddenly didn’t feel stable. That journal became my lifeline. I wrote down everything: first crushes, first kisses, poetry, cigarettes, dreams, breakups, strange cravings, late-night questions about God and purpose. My journal has become a lifelong excavation project. Substack is an extension of that.

“Like an archaeologist of my own life, I’ve spent years wandering through a private museum of artifacts.”

Like an archaeologist of my own life, I’ve spent years wandering through a private museum of artifacts. Trying to answer:

Who was I?What was I trying to say?And how did I become this version of me?

To me, this kind of self-reflection isn’t indulgent or dramatic. It’s necessary. It’s how I’ve learned.

Just like traveling to another country can give you perspective on your own culture, self-reflection gives you perspective on your own story. It’s internal travel. Soul mapping.

I moved to a town with a pre-dominant Tlingit First Nations culture when I was 11, and it shaped so much of how I see the world. In that culture, connection to the land and ancestry isn’t symbolic—it’s sacred. That upbringing taught me to pay attention to the natural rhythms, both around me and within me. It became the backbone against which I’ve compared every culture I’ve lived in since, including the one I live in now in West Vancouver. Reflection, is listening to where you come from and where you went.

Think about what happens when you travel: You might witness a slower, more communal way of life. You might see joy in simplicity or discover that your pursuit of more has left you disconnected. Or maybe, you return home and realize it has more to offer than you gave it credit for. I experienced both of these sensations when I traveled through Central America in 2023. I wrote about it in the essay “The Year I Slept in 38 Beds.”

However, the point I’m trying to make here is: that kind of perspective shift doesn’t happen just happen through physical travel. It can also come from traveling inward, through time. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my ancestors. This might be a slight side tangent, but it’s been sitting with me: in order for you to be born, 4,096 of your ancestors had to survive- just 12 generations back. If even one of them hadn’t made it, you wouldn’t be here reading this. That kind of math is profound. It makes you pause and reminds you that you’re not just one person—you’re a continuation of thousands.

“To me, this kind of self-reflection isn’t indulgent or dramatic. It’s necessary. It’s how I’ve learned.”

Self-reflection is like that. We use memory to collect insights. We revisit old conversations, journal entries, and yes, even our cringey teenage selves: not to judge, but to learn.

Perspective gives us wisdom. And wisdom changes everything: our relationships, our work, our creativity, our ability to love and be loved.

A Writing Prompt for You

If this speaks to you, try this:

* Write about a version of yourself that no longer exists but left an fingerprint

* Then write about the part of you that never changed

* Imagine those two selves meeting on a bench

What would they talk about?What would they forgive?What would they thank each other for?

Tag me if you write something. I’d love to read it.

Wrapping it up…

That Maggie Nelson line messes with me in the best way.

Because it’s true, isn’t it?

There’s a part of you that stays the same. That core self. That stubborn and tender spirit. Yet, there are also versions of you who’ve moved on. Disappeared. Evolved.

I did this prompt, myself, and was surprised at the self (?) and selves I’ve outgrown…some lovingly, some by necessity.

And yet... they all left a mark.

I’ve kept this picture of myself as a kid as a screensaver on my phone for the last six months or so. It reminds me of the part that hasn’t changed. The goofy, kind child who saw the good in all people. The one with a lightness in her being. I don’t want to forget her.

Recently, someone caught a glimpse of the photo on my phone, and asked how old my daughter was. LOL. I just smiled. Because I am my own child. And I’m still taking care of her.

Question for the comments: What imprint has your past self left on who you are today? Where do you still feel their fingerprints?

With love and evolution,Ashley

Two years ago, I was drowning in creative resistance. I started this Substack—in a momentary high-vibe state—as an act of rebellion against my very low-vibe state.

Today, I’m so excited to share that Wannabe Wisdom has hit 100 subscribers! Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support means everything.

To celebrate, I bought myself a Dairy Queen ice cream log (as one does). The man who sold it had just immigrated from India and told me he has a YouTube channel with 70 subscribers. We gave each other invisible high-fives and some mutual encouragement to keep going.

When I started Wannabe Wisdom in June 2023, I was clawing my way out of creative paralysis. Don’t get me wrong, I did manage to create some things the decade earlier: audition self-tapes, a music video, a short film, journal entries, paintings. But I was seeking a deeper vulnerability. I had so much passion inside me, but it felt stuck.

I wanted to write consistently, and share it.

But first, I had to face something big:

Fear.

In the thick of 2021, when the world was still half-closed and half-holding its breath, I turned (once again) to The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I’d done it so many times over the years. Each time, something new was offered: a short film idea, a nudge to take piano lessons, a business idea, a creative project started (and sometimes even finished).

“Confidence isn’t the starting point. It’s the result.”

But no matter how many times I worked through the self-doubt, it always came back. Here I was again. Full of fear. And resentment toward myself for letting it get this far.

Cameron writes:

“In order to work freely on a project, an artist must be at least functionally free of resentment (anger) and resistance (fear). Any buried barriers must be aired before the work can proceed.”

“[…] a radical and timeless expression of human fear.”

Edvard Munch, The Scream, 1893.

It was through the daily Morning Pages (those raw, stream-of-consciousness journal entries) that I began to clear space. Eventually, I felt the nudge to take a writing workshop. I followed it. I met other lovely creatives. A few of us formed a small group and met weekly. We shared our writing. We shared our self-doubt. And I slowly began to share my voice. I felt out of my depth, but I kept showing up to this group.

“There’s value in my voice now—not in some future, more evolved, more healed, more polished version of me.”

David Bowie once said it’s the artist’s job to always be a little out of their depth—that when we’re in unfamiliar territory, when the work feels uncertain or uncomfortable, that’s exactly where we’re meant to be.

I try to remind myself of this:

"Always go a little further into the water than you feel you're capable of being in. Go a little out of your depth, and when you don't feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you're just about in the right place to do something exciting."

Eventually, I launched a WordPress blog. My friend Jay helped me brainstorm names, asking: Who are you writing for? What do you want your readers to feel?

I remember saying, I want to help people work through imposter syndrome, heavy moods, blocks… because that’s what I’m working through.

I landed on Wannabe Wisdom because it gave me permission to write badly, awkwardly, imperfectly. I wasn’t claiming to be wise, literary, or funny—the title made that clear. These were the Diaries of a Fake Guru. If someone found something useful or beautiful in it, that was up to them. I wasn’t spoon-feeding anyone.

But I did, in fact, have a secret mission: I wanted to leave readers with both a giggle and an insight. I wanted to make people laugh and soul-search at the same time. The difference was, I took all the pressure off myself to have to.

One particular piece was gut-churning to write. It felt like a risk. But in the privacy of our group, my friend’s comments reflected my own heartbreak and healing right back at me. It taught me that I could be vulnerable on my own terms. I could share openly, yet be in control of what I shared.

For two years, our writing group met weekly. We wrote about family, stories of trauma, stories of transformation, poetry, food, food poetry, crime noir, fiction, and memoir. We talked about politics, creativity, our goals, and self-doubt. We got honest about that gnawing feeling of not being “good enough” and wrote through it all. Slowly, my voice on the page started to grow stronger—so did my peers’.

One of the members, Grace Quantock, published her book in 2024: Living Well with Chronic Illness. She helps marginalized people live well with pain, illness, and trauma—without burning out. I light up when I think about her incredible journey, and I feel lucky to have shared in even a small slice of it. She gives me hope that maybe, one day, I too could publish a novel. She even gave a special shoutout to our group in her book!

A Substack Commitment Begins

That brings me to 2023, when my husband and I learned the home we’d been living in for seven years had sold, and we’d have to move out in two months.

We’d always talked about traveling through Central America, and since we had no idea where the heck we’d live next, we figured: why not now? I quit my in-between job—the one I took after leaving a stable, seven-year corporate career. We put everything in storage; my mom and step-dad agreed to look after our dog; and we planned a five-month adventure through Panama, Costa Rica, and El Salvador.

You can read that first post here: "Unveiling the Path."

So, I started this Substack. And I showed up. Not weekly. Not even biweekly. Sometimes, months would pass without a post. Behind the scenes, I killed drafts that didn’t feel “good enough.” But I kept showing up.

Like I said, I didn’t write as prolifically as I’d imagined—and yes, I berated myself for not doing more. Sometimes, I’d finally get a piece to feel just right, send it to my dad for proofreading, and still wake up the next day with a vulnerability hangover.

This is part of the gig.

But now, looking back, that was two years ago.100 subscribers later.33 essays later.

I still have a lot of creative resistance (and resistance in general).

In fact, many of my posts are about that exact thing:

* "Caught in a Mood"

* "The Bravery to Be Ourselves"

* “Understanding Anxiety”

* Gently, Slowly, Softly: How to Travel in Uncertain Times

* A New Year’s Epiphany in El Salvador

Working Through Creative Resistance

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how I work through resistance. And weirdly, it reminds me of a principle my husband is obsessed with: Bernoulli’s Principle of flight.

He’s been teaching himself to hydrofoil for the last couple years (a relatively new, niche sport). It’s a surfboard that—with enough momentum and energy—rises up and hovers above the water, balanced on a submerged mast. It looks like something from the future. Here’s a video of him flat-water pumping. You don’t need waves. Just thighs made of steel.

As he recently described how Bernoulli’s Principle works, it hit me: this is exactly how I’ve worked through creative blocks to find flow.

In hydrofoiling, the speed of the water above the wing creates low pressure, and the slower water below creates high pressure. This imbalance of the two pressure systems creates lift, allowing the board to rise.

My writing process feels like that.

If I can create “low pressure” by challenging my inner critic daily (and acknowledging it…oh, hello there) while also building “high pressure” under my feet by simply showing up—publishing posts, sharing ideas, creating connection (even when it feels like no one’s reading)—then I’ll create lift. Guaranteed. It’s physics.

That lift is the confidence that comes from building trust in the process, and ultimately, in yourself, over time. It’s not flashy. It’s not instant. It’s like an absentee parent slowly earning back a child’s trust: not with grand gestures, but with quiet consistency.

It’s hard f*****g work (excuse my language).

And then, suddenly, one day…you lift.

We love to think confidence comes from believing in ourselves. But the truth is: Confidence is the result, not the starting point.

(I made a video: “Confidence is a Scam” on IG and TikTok.)

When Lift Happens

Once that lift happens, there’s space for more…for new energy.

I hosted my first Substack Live conversation, Writing Life: Finding Your Voice and Moving Through Creative Blocks, with author and literary agent A. J. Van Belle. It was a kind of lift I hadn’t felt in a long time: real-time dialogue about creativity, voice, and showing up on the page.

A.J. shared something I keep coming back to:

“Even if what you write isn’t polished, your voice right now matters. Who you are today will never exist in this exact form again.”

I’ve been letting that echo. echo. echo. echo...

I won’t exist in this exact form again. There’s value in my voice now—not in some future, more evolved, more healed, more polished version of me.

But just like hydrofoiling, that lift isn’t a permanent state. If my husband stops pumping, the board sinks. If I stop writing, synthesizing, perceiving and seeing, I sink too. But we also need rest. Sometimes, we have to put it away, let things settle (let our thighs heal), and return when we’re ready. Other times, we need to push through.

Every small adjustment, every wave of persistence, every quiet decision to nurture your creative voice all adds up.

And still, I find myself circling the question again:

Why do I write?

Not just what I write. Not even who I write for.

But why I keep showing up, especially when it’s hard.

I write personal essays to help others feel less alone—and in the process, I feel less alone too. I write for the deep feelers and the overthinkers. For the ones who whisper, Is it normal to feel this much? For those learning to trust themselves again.

But if we’re being totally transparent here, that’s not the deepest reason.

I write because I’m a seeker. A sense-maker.

Writing is how I authorize my life. For so much of my life, I numbed myself. I gaslit my experiences more than anyone else ever could. I erased whole chapters—not because they didn’t happen, but because I didn’t know how to hold them. Writing is how I stop disappearing. It’s how I tell myself: Yes, that mattered. You were there. You felt that. And it’s real, even if no one saw it. Even if no one cried…or clapped.

I write to return to myself.

To say: I was here.

To whisper to you: You are too.

My mom recently sent me a video of a family friend doing something remarkable: he’s reclaiming his native language and refusing to speak English. An act of resistance.

It reminded me that language isn’t just how we communicate. It’s how we claim who we are. That’s why I write.

And if all I ever offer is wannabe wisdom from a fake guru trying her best, then I’ve done my job.

With love + rebellion,

Ashley aka Fake Guru

Question for the comments: Is there a part of you you're trying to reclaim through your creative work, or just through being more honest with yourself?

Hi friends,

Yesterday, I had the joy of hosting a live conversation with the brilliant A. J. Van Belle writer, agent, and lovely human being who shared so much wisdom. We talked about writing, creativity, Substack, and showing up authentically on the page.

A.J. spoke about the evolution of their voice through fiction, the healing nature of storytelling, and a golden piece of advice from their mother — one I’m replaying like a mantra.

I also reflected on my own writing journey—how Substack (Wannabe Wisdom) became a permission slip to write, despite being afraid to share myself, and to publish when I didn’t feel “good enough.”

Here’s the heart of it:

“Even if what you write isn't polished, your voice right now matters. Who you are today will never exist in this exact form again.” — A.J. Van Belle

We explored a lot in just over an hour.

* The power of writing from what excites you!

* Honoring your current voice, not waiting for mastery.

* Fiction as a place to safely rewrite the past.

* Substack as a web of meaningful, slow connections not vanity metrics.

And some of my favorite takeaways:

"Fiction lets us heal like children heal through play. It's a form of adult play where we can re-narrate the past and see ourselves more clearly." — A.J.

"I don’t want to be a trauma story with a ring light… but I do want to share myself." — Me

"Write your stories. Tell the truth. Don’t be silenced." — A.J.’s Substack mission

“Hard times are coming […] We’ll need writers who can remember freedom – poets, visionaries – realists of a larger reality.”—Ursula LeGuin

We closed with this reminder:

✨ You don’t need to be anyone else. Your weird little garden of thoughts is enough.

More to come soon. In the meantime:

Question: What’s your weird little garden growing these days?

Reply in the comments or message me directly. I’d love to hear from you!

Thank you Mary Crayston, Discover with Dina, Hal Gill, Katie Moran, Alexander Oakley and others for tuning into my live video with A. J. Van Belle! Join me for my next live video in the app.

With love + rebellion,Ashley

I’ve been experiencing writer’s block for the last couple of weeks. When this happens, I try to stay in motion. So, I journal daily. I circle around moments, sketch out half-ideas. I even wrote a 1,500-word, satirical essay on imposter syndrome. I scrapped it—it was too meta, clever, not quite real.

On Good Friday, my husband and I went to the beach to people-watch. It’s one of my favorite things to do, especially when I’m not distracted. We found an empty bench. I silenced my phone and pulled my notebook onto my lap like a signal to the Muse: I’m ready. The sun was hot against my black sweater, but the spring air still carried a chill. I pushed off my sweater and let the cold air brush my bare shoulders. Clouds streaked across the sky like soap suds. I wrote that down.

“Writing is more than expression—it’s a quiet understanding between who you are and who you’re still becoming. Each sentence says: Here I am. A moment, captured. And the instant I write it down, I’m already changing.”

A little girl, maybe two, wandered over—Asian, unsteady on her feet, followed by two men: her father, and who I assumed was her grandfather. She hesitated at the sight of my dog, Thor. We gently encouraged her to pet him, a ritual we’ve developed with kids. After a few tentative strokes, she lost interest. Her father thanked us and led her away.

But the older man stayed.

He wasn’t her grandfather. Just a stranger looking for someone to talk to.

Elderly, eccentric. Glasses. A bucket hat. A black hip-slung purse. I noticed his faded linen shirt—pink, blue, red stripes—thanks to the grounding exercises my therapist has me doing. (I wrote about that in my last piece: How Grounding Exercises Made Me (Slightly) Less Delusional.)

Thanks for reading Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

“What are you reading?” he asked, pointing to my notebook.

“I’m writing,” I said.

His face lit up like an arcade machine. “I’m looking for an editor!”

He pulled a bright blue book from his bag and handed it to me. The title stretched across two dozen words—something about a spiritual guide. I kept a straight face. My “this might get interesting” alert quietly buzzed.

My mother’s voice echoed in my head: ‘You never know when you’re entertaining an angel.’

His face struck me—uncannily like my father’s. I glanced at my husband, wondering if he saw it too. He did. Later, he’d say it before I could.

“I’m looking for someone who cares about the subject,” he said, “more than the money.”

He searched my face, trying to read my reaction.

The book was bristling with colored sticky tabs—over a hundred of them. It looked like it was wearing a shredded rainbow skirt. Inside were chapters, quotes, reflections. A personal spiritual journey.

I handed the book back and gently shifted the conversation.

“Have you ever thought about using AI to help you edit?” I asked.

His eyebrows lifted. “How would I even do that?”

“You’d need to open a tool like ChatGPT—or Deepseek. Then paste in your writing and ask it to copyedit.”

He handed the book back to me, then fished around for a pen.

“Can you write that down? —-right in there? My brain doesn’t work the same way it used to.”

I opened the front cover and scribbled a few instructions—just enough to get him started. He watched closely, nodding, like each word was a lifeline.

“That’s what writing is. It’s reliving. Re-narrating. A way to authorize your own story.”

His name was Ray. He said he had dementia. He smiled often, lips curved like a rainbow, teeth slightly yellowed. His warmth reminded me of my dad. That stirred something in me—a sadness, maybe. My dad and I are from different worlds—he, conservative, frugal, grounded in evangelical faith; me, more liberal, spiritually untethered, comfortable with abundance. Still, Ray’s presence made me remember the deep conversations my dad and I used to have about literature and faith.

Ray told me he never meant to write. But twenty years ago, something shifted. He became obsessed, writing fourteen hours a day. It poured out. My dad’s the same—always scribbling, always digging into something.

Ray talked about anxiety. How he grew up on a farm in Stony Plain, Alberta. One of nine kids. Little affection. He didn’t think his mother wanted children.

“If I kissed her, she’d wipe her face,” he said, showing me the motion of wiping a kiss of his face.

Then came the story about the well.

“The pump was broken. My father wanted me to fix it. I was nine.”

I pictured my nephew, who recently turned nine, being lowered into a well.

“They strapped me in with a rope and lowered me down. I found the pump. Water was spraying everywhere. I reached for the switch. Suddenly, electricity shot through me. My uncle pulled me up. I must’ve passed out. I don’t remember it.”

His voice softened. “I never realized how traumatized I was.”

His story brought something back. I was thirteen, at a sleepover in a country house in the Yukon. Three girls. Parents away in Arizona. Too many coolers. One friend stayed up and got confused in the dark. She wandered into the basement and fell into a hidden well. We didn’t hear her screams. We found her the next morning—covered in sawdust and mud, pants soaked and discarded, eyes feral. We laughed about it for years. But later, we both wrote about it. Because beneath the comedy, it was terrifying.

“Of course that would’ve been terrifying for a nine-year-old,” Ray said, as if hearing my thoughts.

He found a therapist and began to understand how deep it went. He believed he had to relive the trauma to heal. That made me think of ‘Age Regression’—a technique in hypnotherapy I was trained in. Clients return to their earliest trauma to re-narrate the event.

That’s what writing is. It’s reliving. Re-narrating. A way to authorize your own story.

Verlyn Klinkenborg, author of “Several Short Sentences About Writing” wrote:

“Being a writer is a continual process of self-authorization. No one else can authorize you. No one. This doesn’t happen overnight.”

Those words stay with me.

Writing is more than expression—it’s a quiet understanding between who you are and who you’re still becoming. Each sentence says: Here I am. A moment, captured. And the instant I write it down, I’m already changing.

It’s not about being understood. It’s about witnessing myself—then letting it go.

Can I drop the mask and be seen?

How close can I get to that raw center?

Ray said he’d gone to the Philippines, hoping to make peace with his past. I meant to ask why there, but I forgot.

He found a well. Sat beside it. Imagined himself—a boy, terrified, at the edge. He grieved: for the fear, and for the feeling of not being wanted by his parents.

That night, back in his room, he wrote everything down. As he did, he felt a surge—like electricity, like lightning. It knocked him to the floor. He came to with a ripping sensation in his skull. It scared him. An aneurysm, maybe? He couldn’t be sure. But something shifted. His sleep apnea eased. His anxiety quieted.

He believed it was Kundalini—an ancient concept from Indian spiritual traditions. Dormant energy at the base of the spine is said to awaken and rise, leading to intense spiritual or physical transformation.

“Have you heard of Kundalini?” he asked.

Funny enough, I had.

“I’ve experienced it,” I told him. “Years ago, a Kundalini yoga teacher on Granville Island guided me through breathwork. She made me comfortable, lying down. Placed her hands beneath my head and told me to breathe. At first—nothing. Then a pulse, head to toe. I ugly cried. Something left my body.”

He slid closer on the bench.

And told me again: he never chose writing. It chose him. And now it won’t stop.

Me too.

I keep asking: Am I delusional to think this writing matters? To put words on a page and share them? Who cares? Who am I to write with so much 'I'? But I can’t stop. I’ve kept a journal since 1993.

So if I’m going to write, I might as well keep getting better. How does someone become a better writer?

“Start by learning to recognize what interests you. Most people have been taught that what they notice doesn’t matter.” - Klinkenborg

Ray interested me. So I noticed.

Before we left, he handed me a business card.

It read: Soul Man.

“You can email me,” he said, “but you probably won’t.”

I wondered if I would.

Question for the comments:

How do you authorize yourself to be who you are? What small steps do you take every day to claim your voice? What’s a story you’ve avoided telling? Why? What might happen if you finally told it?

Thanks for reading friends,

Ashley aka Fake Guru

If you’d like to share this article with a friend, subscribe to Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru, or leave a comment, you can do all that here:

💬 Let’s Talk (Live!): Exciting announcement:

On Thursday, May 1 at 1PM PST, I’m hosting my first-ever Substack Live conversation with my brilliant friend A. J. Van Belle author, new Substacker, and recently turned literary agent.

We’ll be talking about writing, creativity, voice, rejection, reinvention, and why it’s so hard to say what we really mean sometimes. (Whether you’re a writer or not—you’ve probably felt that.) We’re also going to talk about writing for Substack and strategy!

🌀 Come for the insight, stay for the honesty. It’s free, it’s live, and it might just leave you feeling a little more clear, brave, or seen.

Subscribe to my Substack to ensure your spot! Or just show up right here on Substack May 1 at 1PM PST.

You know that feeling when someone asks how your week’s been—and you genuinely can’t remember what you did yesterday? Same.

In this video version of my latest Wannabe Wisdom essay, I share how a grounding practice involving alarms, bullet points, and the occasional whiff of my hair - has somehow made me feel less anxious, more present, and a tiny bit more creatively open.

Also featuring: my dog Thor (emotional support lab with zero respect for personal space), some thoughts on Rick Rubin’s book on Creativity.

Watch the video—and let me know: what’s your version of staying grounded?

What do you think of this video essay format? I’m starting to bring my words to life—giving them a voice, a rhythm, a face. If you prefer to read or listen, you’ve got options: the original written essay lives here—How Grounding Exercises Made Me (Slightly) Less Delusional—and the podcast version is just a click away on the right.

Have a great day!

Ashley aka Fake Guru

If you’d like to share this with a friend, leave a comment or subscribe to Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru, you can do all that here:

I’ve been experimenting with video essays—and today’s the first one I’m sharing with you. It’s based on my written piece, The Philosophy Hidden in a Workout Class, where I explore how connection, movement, and Matrixial Theory all collide in the most unexpected places: the fitness studio.

If you’ve got feedback—thoughts, reactions, constructive criticism—I’m all ears. This is new for me, and I want to keep growing in this format.

And here’s a question I asked in the essay, but I’ll ask again here:

Think back to a time when a stranger’s kindness lifted you up—or when you became that lifeline for someone else. What did it feel like?

Did you feel it in the moment, or only recognize it later? Let me know in the comments—I’d genuinely love to hear your story.

xo,Ashley (aka Fake Guru)

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Episode Description:

What if a workout class was more than just exercise? What if it was a mirror for how we connect, support, and shape each other—not just physically, but emotionally and politically?

In this episode, I explore the unexpected philosophy hidden in movement, weaving together insights from Matrixial Theory, Ubuntu, and collective energy. From the subtle power of suggestion in a fitness class to the deeper ways we are shaped by the people around us, this conversation asks:

🔥 Are we truly independent, or are we formed through connection?🔥 How do our smallest interactions ripple into something bigger—both in our personal lives and in the world?🔥 Can embracing interdependence be a radical act in today’s hyper-individualistic culture?

With humor, personal reflection, and a touch of feminist psychoanalysis, this episode is about more than just fitness—it’s about the invisible threads that connect us all.

💬 Join the Conversation:Have you ever had a moment where a stranger’s kindness shifted something inside you? Or a time when you unknowingly lifted someone else? Share your thoughts in the comments or on social media—I’d love to hear your story.

📖 Read the full essay on my Substack: Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru →

🎧 Listen now and explore the philosophy hidden in everyday moments.

Hi friends!

I spent years thinking I was an introvert... turns out, I was just afraid of judgment. 😳 If you’ve ever questioned your personality type, this one’s for you.

Are you a real introvert or just afraid to show a truer side of yourself? Let’s talk.👇

Let me know your thoughts on this video format! My plan is to write a long form essay every few weeks, and post couple 2-5 minute videos like this every week. Also, if you want to see a transcript OR if you want to listen to this on Apple podcasts, just click the button below (to the right)!

If you enjoy this content, please consider sharing it with a friend and/or liking and commenting.

Have a beautiful day!

Ashley aka Fake Guru

Happy Sunday! Today is January 26, 2025, I am on my way out to walk my dog, who is making his presence known to me by grumbling by my feet. But before I go, I want to share a thought I’ve been holding onto this week. Check out this 5-minute video.

After you’ve listened to it, let me know what comes to mind when you hear the ideas behind this video. I truly would love to know! I’m going to be writing on this topic and would love to consider you’re perspective.

Also, let me know your thoughts on this format! AND if you enjoy this content, please consider sharing it with a friend or liking and commenting.

If you want to see a transcript, just click the transcript button and you should be able to read what I say in the video.

Happy Sunday!

Ashley aka Fake Guru

Hi friends!

I hope you’re well. I want to share a video I recently made about anxiety. I’ll be posting more video content in the future, so make sure to let me know what you think! If you liked this video, you’ll love my long-form essay “Understanding Anxiety: Why It’s Not All in Your Head” coming out tomorrow, Monday, November 18th, 2024.

Ever feel like your anxiety isn’t just in your head? 🙋‍♀️ Reading Anxiety RX by Dr. Russell Kennedy has been eye-opening; he explains how anxiety often starts in our bodies, and how traditional therapy sometimes misses this crucial piece. Have you experienced this too? Let me know in the comments—I'd love to hear your thoughts! 

Like, comment, screenshot, and share! Forward it to a friend! You are reading Wannabe Wisdom, Diaries of a Fake Guru by Ashley Evans. I’m on Instagram and Tik Tok.

xo

Ashley aka your Fake Guru!