Ebb & Flow
Surfacing again after a digital spiral + my easy, lowkey plans for summer
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in my now 40+ years of living — something that fundamentally shapes how I see the world — is that everything moves in an ebb and a flow.
We see it in the obvious places: tides rolling in and out, flowers blooming then fading, winter’s cold hush giving way to summer’s wild abundance. These changes ask nothing of us — no fixing, no forcing. They just happen, all on their own.
The same rhythm plays out in the less visible parts of life too—because honestly, everything is energy.
Focus, attention, time. Creativity, clarity, connection. Patience, purpose, motivation—even resources like money.
It all moves. It all shifts. Sometimes it’s right there—easy, abundant, accessible.
And other times… it’s just not.
I try to trust that rhythm.
To wear life like a loose garment. To resist clinging too tightly to any one polished version of myself or my days.
Because being human means holding both—the expansion and the contraction, the clarity and the fog. And when we meet the ebb with compassion, we leave room for the flow to return.
Almost immediately after publishing my last piece, I slipped into a deep ebb.
I stopped reading books.
I stopped writing morning pages.
I stopped writing anything at all.
After nine steady months of flow—writing and sharing these little letters, feeling creative, focused, and inspired (and honestly quite impressed with myself for sticking with it so long and consistently!)—I hit a hard stop.
I couldn’t even open the Substack app.
Couldn’t look at a draft.
Couldn’t summon the energy to form a single worthwhile thought.
The brick wall of resistance shot up fast, and the creative lights blinked out just as quickly.
But I didn’t panic. I let myself drift. I trusted that if I went under for a while, I’d eventually come back up. That if I surrendered to the ebb, the flow would return.
And I was right! Here I am again!
But it wasn’t just the writing that disappeared—I did too.
Right into my screen.
A full-blown, no-holds-barred relapse into screen-time chaos.
At first, it felt harmless—just a little extra scrolling, a little numbing out. But before I knew it, I was completely untethered.
I’d gone from creative flow to full digital dissociation.
There has been a lot of low-quality scrolling (I re-downloaded TikTok like a true addict), and more time than I’d like to admit spent on mindless phone games where I sort tiny virtual objects onto tiny virtual shelves—a masterclass in illusion-of-control.
I refreshed my email 100 times a day. I rotated through the same five websites on an obsessive loop like they would give me the answers to all of life’s questions.
Readers, they did not.
The more time I spent online, the worse I felt—and yet I couldn’t summon the will to stop. The days blurred into a haze of grim headlines and a growing sense that the world, as I once understood it, is tilting off its axis.
The longer I scrolled, the more unmoored, unfocused, and frazzled I became.
And not just because of the content itself—but because of how it replaced my real life.
I took the quiet pockets of motherhood — the ones that could’ve been calm, restorative, even gasp productive — and filled them with content that either numbed or agitated me.
Worse, I started actively seeking out the things that hurt. Posts that spiked my anxiety, stories that fueled my fears, content that made everything feel heavier and darker.
It was like I was trying to prove some grim thesis: Yep, everything’s broken. Yes, it’s all falling apart. Of course we’re doomed.
So why fight it? Let’s all just sink into the swamp, shall we?
I feel overwhelmed by… all of it.
I try to remind myself that life has always been hard and messy and beautiful and worth it. But now we see it all — instantly, constantly — through the haunted cyber carnival of our phones. And it’s not just the never ending bad news. It’s the massive volume of voices reacting to it, arguing about it, commenting on each other’s reactions to it.
It’s too much for any one nervous system to hold.
And yet, I’ve been drowning myself in it anyway.
In these scroll-hole ebbs, my thoughts loop around the same worry: the future, and my kids. It feels like the systems and institutions around us are unraveling in real time, and yet we’re still trying to prepare them for… what, exactly?
A future with no shared ground? Where everyone lives in algorithmically curated bubbles, with their own facts, their own truths, their own overly confident black-and-white takes on the most complex of things?
How do we raise kids—curious, compassionate, resilient kids—in a world that feels like it’s coming apart at the seams? When the trouble only seems to pile up and compound on itself? Where every thread leads to somewhere scary, and dark.
This is where my brain goes when I’m in an ebb, when I’m spending too much time on my phone. It is not fun. It’s definitely not cute. But it’s real—and it’s all a part of the rhythm.
This particular ebb lasted about two months. Each day ended with that familiar blend of overwhelm, depletion, and low-grade dread. And still, I made no move to change course.
Until this week.
I hit the end of the internet. Truly. I scrolled so long I felt my soul leave my body—and something inside finally whispered: enough.
I’m not quite back in the flow, but I’m inching toward it. It’s starting to feel within reach again.
So how do I help the flow along?
I don’t wait for it to show up fully formed. I call it back by returning to the things that have helped me before. The simple, tangible rituals that reconnect me to who I am and what actually matters in my day-to-day life.
Morning pages—three handwritten, stream of conscious pages to clear the noise in my brain. Sometimes I write them right after waking, other times hours later, but they are my favorite way to brain drain and reset no matter the time. A lot of it is just loops and rambles: to-do lists, intentions, weird repetitive gobbledygook. Magically, it all works. I never, ever regret writing morning pages.
Gratitude lists—even if it’s just: hot coffee, clean water, and the small miracle of nobody needing me for ten uninterrupted minutes. Also: my home, my family, and Taylor Swift, of course.
Reading a physical book—something I can hold in my hands, not swipe through. I used to be a pretty solid Kindle reader, but recently came back to loving physical books. I take the serendipity of Little Free Libraries quite seriously, and love letting books just come into my life like found treasures. Recently picked up: Crush by Ada Calhoun, Animal Farm by George Orwell, City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert.
Time outside—bare feet in the grass, slow walks beneath the trees, sun on my face with no screen in sight. Being outside in nature is not the only antidote to the digital vortex, but for me, it’s the best and most satisfying way to remember I’m more than a set of thumbs and eyeballs.
Back into my senses: I sometimes do this as part of my morning pages, sometimes on its own: Five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear, two I can smell, one I can taste. Easy, simple presence.
Creating instead of consuming—writing, making something with my hands, rearranging a corner of the house, pulling weeds from the garden, cooking, baking, messy arts and crafts with my kids. Anything that helps me feel active rather than passive.
And most importantly?
I put. the goddamn. phone down.
Even when it calls to me like a siren. Even when it promises distraction, relief, or connection. Even when I just want to look up one more thing (spoiler: it is never just one more thing!!).
Because if I want to feel better—more grounded, more present—I have to stop disappearing into the feed and return to my actual life.
The time feels ripe for a shift.
It’s summer, baby, and we’re going old-school. No camps, no packed schedules—just long, hot, sticky days held together by sunlight, sand, and way too many snacks.
I still can’t believe that we live an only short walk from the ocean. It’s our first summer out of the city, now with a backyard for barefoot mornings, a garden that’s seriously blooming, a driveway made for chalk and scooters, and not one but two glorious hoses—because as you may know, water play is basically child crack.
My hope is that most days feel like a low-key vacation: ice pops and Mr. Softee, splash pads and night swims, siesta naps, bubbles, bowls and bowls of cherries. And soon, our annual off-the-grid trip to the big house.
This summer, I’m planning to lean all the way in—to the heat, the slowness, the stickiness, the sweetness.
Read sun-bleached paperbacks by the sea.
Eat watermelon every chance I get.
Swim my way through the summer quadrifecta: ocean, lake, river, pool.
Bury peach pits in the sand and try to convince my kids a tree may grow.
Think about our whale.
Float in the waves, even if I just washed my hair.
Blow bubbles with my baby.
Make popsicles from whatever fruit is in the fridge.
Feet in the kiddie pool, cold seltzer in hand
Rent DVDs from the library for old school family movie night fun
Finish book 3 of Harry Potter with my big kid
Baseball games with my baseball-obsessed kid (major league, minor league and little league alike!)
BBQs at dusk, more evenings than not.
Boardwalk bike rides during golden hour.
Collect shells to paint and hide around the neighborhood
Card games, board games, puzzles indoors and out
Sidewalk chalk masterpieces, washed away by summer rain
Teach my boys how to catch fireflies (I’m weirdly good at it!)
Ice cream cones on evening walks, dripping down our arms.
gotta start them early on the fine art of beach reading!
My kids are at such sweet, funny, curious ages—and honestly, I’d much rather marvel at them than spiral on Reddit about the collapse of Western civilization.
I want to work the boredom muscle—for them and for me. To make space for rest and openness instead of rushing to fill every gap. If this is a skill I want to teach them, then I have to practice it myself.
So, if you’re in an ebb right now—blurry-eyed, overwhelmed, full of existential dread—I see you. I’ve been you. I am you, on and off. I hope the flow finds you again soon.
And if you’ve got a summer reset plan of your own, or a favorite offline ritual that helps bring you back to life—I’d love to hear it.
Relatable af and so comforting to read ❤️❤️
😎☀️🌞wonderful