The Lighthouse Letters

In this episode, I talk about the beauty of showing up scared, the indomitable human spirit being made of hope, permission to do art during the daytime (during 'working hours', no less!), dismantling the idea of 'working hours' as an artist, ghosts and monsters in plays that I'm working on, being justified in my anger towards a situation where someone I trusted did not act with integrity, and the strange magic of being listened to and loved, entirely and fully.

This letter goes out to anyone trying something new despite being scared, feeling 'ugly' feelings, and still choosing to hope, against all odds.

In this letter, I’m talking about the kind of rest that fills you back up . The active, soul-filling sort that’s less about doing nothing and more about doing what lights you up.

I recap a weekend that swung between the heat (from both the sun and the sauce!) of a hot sauce festival, the joy of live music, and the unspooling of tense threads with a lake day with friends.

I reminisce about being seen by the people who know you best, and in carving out time for the work that matters most, like setting my play free into the world, and naming it. It's called Transmission: Wonder.

This is about making your own chances, chasing the things that tug at your soul, and for friends who not only fill your cup, but expand its size.

In this week’s Lighthouse Letter, I’m taking you through a weekend that felt like a love song. One written in stars, bike rides, goodbye hugs, and late-night laughter. I talk about what it means to feel deeply alive in tiny moments: stargazing inside on a Friday night with someone I love, city-hopping by e-bike (a la Lizzie McGuire) to three very different events in one day (including a DJ-ed house party… in space 🚀), and ending the weekend with an old friend, rosé disco, and a 4AM heart-to-heart beside one of my best friends.

This episode is about joy that sneaks up on you. About softness. About the kind of connection that makes you feel like the world cracked open for a second just to show you how good it could be. About realizing, and finally believing that you really are that cool.

Whether it’s romantic love, friendship, or the quiet magic of doing something just for you—I hope this one reminds you to look up, reach out, and keep your heart open to the wonder tucked into ordinary days.

In this episode of Lighthouse Letters, I reflect on a weekend that moved like a breath: inhaling joy, holding connection, and exhaling into freedom.

From feeling unexpectedly swept away watching my boyfriend drum at his album release, to showing up a little schleppy for a park birthday and being loved anyway, to learning how to sail with my friend Charlie, each moment pulled me gently back into presence. I talk about what it means to witness someone you love in their element, the quiet power of just being there, and the deep joy of catching wind with your own two hands.

This letter is a reminder that coming home to yourself doesn’t require polish. Just motion, wonder, and a willingness to be surprised. This one's for anyone who feels a little far from the home inside their heart.

In this letter, I reflect on what it means to choose yourself, on purpose, and often. I talk about the gift of solo dates, the kind where you take yourself to the fanciest sushi restaurant (that happens to be a 5 minute walk from your house that you've always wanted to go to but never let yourself) and remember how much you like your own company.

There are stories from this summer: some bright, some bruised. A beach day that introduced me to the sport of Waboba (yes, it's a real thing). A moment of a friendship shrivelling up in the sun like rotten fruit, and the slow work of making peace with that. I’ve also been thinking about content creation not as the cringe-worthy 'content creatorship output machine' but rather as memory keeping. Tiny ways to mark that we were here, that it mattered. Shouting that into the void. Maybe someone will hear us.

This one is for anyone learning to trust their own rhythm again. You’re allowed to be your own favorite person. Mostly, I hope this one reminds you to choose yourself, often and on purpose. Like a Pokémon.

In this episode, I talk about what it feels like to be loudly in love and how that love has quietly opened new doors in my creative life. There’s music again in the house. Harmonies made with just my voice. Fresh strawberries grown on my balcony. A three-legged dog on a wagon walk.

I share a few recent adventures, like getting into my first car “accident” (don’t worry, I’m okay), and how I’m learning to meet those moments with a little more softness and a lot more self-trust. I explore the idea of active rest: rest that is chosen, sacred, and restorative, and the creation of something I’ve started calling The Yes Room: a space in my heart where art can happen without guilt, even if no one else ever sees it.

This letter is also about empathy. The kind that shows up slowly, over time, and the ways we stay connected to one another through care, curiosity, and courage. Wherever you are on the sea tonight, I hope this one helps you find your way just a little closer to home.

In this episode, I reflect on recent wanderings: from a birthday weekend in Jordan River to a wedding in Golden (yes, that's really what it's called) and what it means to live inside the wide, awe-soaked present. There are stories about sea waves and waterfalls, secret slides, unexpected tenderness, and the way connection sneaks up on you when you're paying attention.

I talk about the beauty of being alive right now, the weight of impermanence, and the gentle rebellion of choosing joy in a world that tries to sell it back to us. There’s some wondering aloud about commercialism, beauty, and what it means to really feel things.

If you’re looking for a little permission to romanticize your life, or need a reminder that your worth is not your paycheque, this letter’s for you. ❤️

In this episode, I’m thinking about the quiet after joy: the soft comedown and the steady heartbeat of something real taking root. I share a few recent moments that left an imprint: a glam camping trip (yes, real hot showers!), playing mermaids at a pool party, watching my balcony flowers bloom, and that little pang of comparison/jealousy when I visited a friend’s stunning home.

We also go somewhere deeper — into what it means to witness pain in the world when you're a sensitive soul, and how heavy that can feel. I talk about community care as one of the fiercest forms of rebellion I know, and about learning to hold space for both longing and gratitude.

This one’s for anyone feeling a little tender, a little in-between, or quietly rebuilding. You’re not alone. The lamp is lit, and the lighthouse shines for you.

In this lighthouse letter, I reflect on:

✨ a recent camping trip under the stars

🪐 finishing my space play

🎨 what it means to create without pressure

I talk about the joy of small moments, the rediscovery of childhood passions, and how community can spark creativity. There’s also a little rant about spatial awareness (Costco edition), and an invitation to let yourself want big, beautiful things—even if they scare you.

This one’s for anyone learning to rest without guilt, create for joy, and soften into their own becoming.

This week, I didn’t participate in Run & Gun, the chaotic and magical 48-hour film festival—but somehow, I still found myself in the middle of a deeply creative weekend. In this episode, I’m reflecting on the act of creating without pressure, the magic of returning to childhood hobbies with adult tools, and the quiet, radical work of learning to rest without guilt.

There’s a field note from a rainy walk—mossy trees, puddles, and a movie moment with my own reflection—and a gentle reminder that joy doesn’t have to be productive to be real. If you’ve been craving softness, stillness, or a little spark of inspiration, this letter’s for you.