What We Have Time For
A summer spent choosing family over the churn — and the embarrassingly simple thing I understood between the meals, the stories, and the long afternoons.
Essays and stories shaped by memory, intimacy, and becoming.
A summer spent choosing family over the churn — and the embarrassingly simple thing I understood between the meals, the stories, and the long afternoons.
On one Saturday I moved between Brazil, Haiti, and New York — and felt both what sport still gives us and what the country hosting it withholds.
A painting at the Norton Museum made me realize how uncomfortable I've become with doing nothing at all. Danielle Mckinney's women understand something I'm still learning: that authority over your own time may be the greatest luxury there is.
A red couch in New York. The friendships that built me. A personal essay on staying open, staying curious, and the girl who still lives inside.

Travel offers visibility—moments captured, documented, remembered. But not every experience moves with the same ease. In some places, you are seen everywhere, and still not fully accounted for.

Slowing down is not a mindset - it’s a rhythm you have to relearn.

Community was not something we searched for - it was something we lived inside. This is a reflection on what happens when that disappears, and what we begin searching for in its place.


An essay reflecting on childhood and memory, shaped by the landscapes that first taught me what it meant to belong.