• You need a master’s degree to be a librarian.

• JAMS is a legal term.

• Sight reading is a thing.

To elaborate:

• I’m a big fan of the Netflix show Queer Eye (no longer just for the straight guy). I’m behind on seasons (don’t shame me), but the most recent episode I watched included “making over” a male librarian in Sin City. During this episode, Billy, our hero, explained that in order to become a librarian, you are required to have a master’s degree in Library Science.

WHO KNEW?

I’m an avid reader and have often daydreamed about working in a cozy bookstore or helping the masses find the right historical fiction book in a library full of them.

I have a new respect for Mrs. Grove, my elementary school librarian.

• I was recently tasked with creating a contract (yes, one of those legal things). I am not a lawyer nor have I ever aspired to be one, but this task was thrust upon me with confidence, and so I made it my mission to deliver.

Did you know that there are templates for these kinds of things in Google Docs, Word, etc.? I digress.

While researching this contract, I came upon something called JAMS.

JAMS (Judicial Arbitration and Mediation Services) was founded in 1979. It’s a private organization that provides arbitration, mediation, and dispute resolution services. Companies often include JAMS in contracts so that if a dispute happens, it goes to arbitration through JAMS instead of a public court.

Never heard of that, but apparently they are a well-known thing!

• I was texting with my sister-in-law this week, and she mentioned that my nephew had a choral concert that evening and would be graded on a sight-reading exercise as part of it. I gave a thumbs up emoji, as if I knew exactly what she was talking about, when in reality, I had no clue.

She later sent me a video of my nephew, along with 20+ other kids, belting high notes with papers in their hands.

“What is happening? Why do they have papers?” I replied.

“That’s the sight-reading. They haven’t seen it before and they have to prepare it,” was her response.

In music, sight-reading, also called a prima vista (Italian meaning “at first sight”), is the practice of reading and performing a piece in a music notation that the performer has not seen or learned before. Sight-singing is used to describe a singer who is sight-reading.

Ya learn something new every day.

Take from this what you will. There is no deeper meaning to me telling you about this odd assortment of items. They are not connected in any way, nor do I believe I will need to pull them out of my back pocket any time soon to discuss them at length with my neighbor. I’m not waxing philosophical to drive home any other point than this: always keep learning.

The value isn’t in memorizing every oddity the world happens to throw at you, but in remaining curious enough to notice when they pass by.

Maybe you were already familiar with everything I’ve just explained — or maybe you’ve learned something new this week, too.

I started teaching an after-school STEM class through the YMCA almost by accident. It’s one of several roles I’m juggling right now, alongside my freelance design work. Of all of them, this one surprised me the most.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s physically exhausting. By the end of each session, the tables and floors are covered in project remnants: baking soda, food coloring, glitter, and goo.

Watching the kids dive in with both hands, unafraid to get messy — wearing bowls as hats, using spoons as drumsticks, asking if everything is edible — they see the materials as a world of possibility. They aren’t confined by intended use or practical rules. They lead with instinct.

As an art director and designer, much of my work is guideline-driven; templated, structured, and ruled by best practices. There’s a proven method to follow, an approach designed to minimize risk.

But the best creative ideas don’t come from playing it safe. They come from the gut. They push limitations. They break out of the template.

Watching the kids work has made me realize how much of professional creativity is actually unlearning: the fear of being wrong, the need to impress, the urge to over-polish before experimenting.

The kids remind me that creativity isn’t about control. It’s about trusting your instincts before consulting the guidelines.

The most compelling campaigns I’ve been part of didn’t emerge from rigid plans. They evolved through collaboration, happy accidents, and a willingness to let something imperfect take shape.

The same energy I see in a room full of seven-year-olds with scissors and cardboard is the energy I look for in creative teams: curiosity, play, and courage.

And maybe that’s why, despite the exhaustion, this class has become the most energizing part of my week.

In a world obsessed with polished outcomes, kids remind me what creativity looks like before it gets cleaned up.

It’s messy.

It’s loud.

It’s brave.

And it works.

They say you’ve got to run with the man to beat the man. And for me this month, “the man” has been writer’s block. So much so that the only thing I could think up to write about is all the various ways that I have, in fact, avoided writing this very piece.

But I profoundly believe that not all time spent blocked is wasted — or at least I tell myself that. So here are my top six go-to methods to overcome writer’s block (temporarily, obviously) and really lean into procrastination as a curated skill.

Because I have more than five, but seven feels excessive.

Okay, LAUNDRY.

I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is yes. Yes, I have walked around this basket (or multiple baskets, come on, mother of two) of clean laundry for weeks now. But this is one of those instances where it just *is* the right time. And there’s no explaining it, sometimes you just know. And other times, there’s just this thing you have to write, but you simply cannot — until this basket is empty and returned to its home.

But first, vacuum

This is more logistical, because in our laundry room lives a litter box, which — wait for it — holds cat litter. That is, it’s supposed to, but my laundry room floor would tell you otherwise.

And if you’ve ever had a cat or know someone who has, then you know it’s akin to glitter. It’s everywhere. All of the time. Hard stop.

And truly, how can anyone focus on laundry when the floor is littered with litter?

So, naturally.

Also from a logistical standpoint, I may as well scoop the litter box while I’m here. Which will surely require a quick follow-up vacuum.

Hopefully the laundry is still there when I’m done.

Dishes (this will only take a minute)

After you fold, you put it away. Everything in its home, including dish towels. And while I’m here, I’ll just get these few dishes done; five minutes spent now is often 30 minutes gained later in my household. And this will be quick.

Deep clean my makeup brushes

It’s one of those things that doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should — though realistically speaking, I apply makeup maybe once every eight or so weeks, so it could be worse.

It’s also one of those things that takes virtually no time to do. And I’m reminded of this every time.

Emptying out the fridge + pantry

Truly, my nirvana. I wrote about this last month, but excess in all forms is generally the bane of my existence. And this is especially true for an overpacked refrigerator. “Overpacked,” of course, by my own standards; I really like (read: need) to be able to see everything I have all at once. And as you imagine, this often extends into the pantry.

Depending on what all I have still to write, condiments may or may not be included.

This just in: I officially have an incredibly vague understanding of the Japanese abacus, or Soroban. Kind of.

And no, I don’t mean the colorful ones in Montessori. I mean the foundation of the calculator, which predates certain written languages, I’ve learned. The Japanese abacus, or Soroban, is more than a method to develop mental math skills, it’s an art form: certain fingers are meant to move certain beads based on direction, and I fully intend to find videos of Soroban experts doing so at light speed.

I highly recommend you do the same.

I fell for AI’s trick.

It happened slowly. Like a frog in water being brought to a boil, I didn’t feel it while it was happening. Thankfully, one simple question from a college student turned my pain receptors back on and woke me up.

That question was this:

“When I use AI for thought starters, I worry that my creativity will be limited by what the AI gives me. Where else can I turn for inspiration, ideas, or thought starters?”

When I tell you that this question had me leaping from my seat and gushing in front of a room full of students about how thankful I was to her for asking that, I am not exaggerating.

Where else can we turn for inspiration, ideas, or thought starters that don’t involve prompts, artificial thinking, or the same old phrases and images every time?

I’m so glad she asked.

And you should be, too. Because here is my answer:

Life. The world around you. Not in the places you’d least expect, because expecting inspiration to strike seems silly. But simply by keeping your eyes open, allowing your day to surprise you, and noticing when it does.

Noticing is a hard habit to build. So, as the title promised, here are three places to start.

1. Your inbox

Your personal inbox, that is. Where Target sales emails tempt you to save on a T-shirt you don’t need. Where Amazon recommends the same blazer you just bought. And, hopefully, where the brands you truly love have been welcomed into a one-to-one conversation with you and are keeping up their end of the deal.

A good marketing email is a bit of delight. It might look pretty or sound clever or even give the impression that it is talking right to you.

Try this: For the next week, when you open up your inbox, take that extra half second to open a handful of the marketing emails in there and save any you like to a separate folder (mine is called “inspiration”).

2. Your mailbox

The physical one, attached to your home address. Where the Crate & Barrel catalogs and credit card direct mail sits.

I used to keep a stack of catalogs and magazines in my office. Eight and a half by eleven inches (sometimes even smaller) is not a lot of real estate for creativity. So the people who put together a catalog spread or a magazine ad are playing a very specific game. And how they’ve done it might just give you a new perspective.

Try this: Pause between the mailbox and the recycle bin. Save catalogs and any flyer that catches your eye. Keep them nearby where you work for easy access.

3. Your wanderings

A billboard on your road trip. The conversation behind you in line for coffee. The grocery store’s new logo. The clever name of a shop you pass every day but never noticed before.

Try this: Indeed, the hardest habit to build is this one. We wander through the world on autopilot quite a lot, and for good reason. Staying hyper aware of the world around us at all times is, in the year 2026, too much. But commit to one outing a week with eyes wide open. And when something catches your attention, take a picture.

Just don’t tell Claude about it.

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Running a social media video campaign on your own can seem manageable at first, especially with the rise of AI tools and large language models that help generate scripts, captions, or basic visuals. These tools are great for saving time and sparking ideas, but they often create content that looks and sounds just like everything else online. It takes more than generic posts to grab attention in today’s crowded feeds, and that is where a marketing agency makes a real difference.

A professional agency brings strategy, creativity, and originality to your campaign. They help you set clear goals and identify your audience with real data and insight from experience. Instead of relying on AI generated templates, agencies craft custom messaging that reflects your brand’s personality, values, and tone. The result is content that feels authentic, connects emotionally, and drives stronger engagement.

When it comes to budgeting and planning, agencies also guide you in using your resources strategically. They know what kind of investment each platform requires and how to balance high-quality production with efficient content scaling. Having a professional team ensures nothing is missed, from scheduling shoots to handling approvals and managing edits.

On the creative side, agencies combine the efficiency of AI with the originality of human storytelling. They can use AI tools to speed up editing or brainstorming, but the heart of their work is custom production; every video, image, and caption is made specifically for your brand. With experienced writers, designers, and strategists on board, your content will stand out and never feel like it came from a cookie-cutter AI output.

Agencies also excel at post-production and optimization. They understand the technical specs for each major platform and can tailor content for Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, or LinkedIn. They track data, analyze performance, and adjust strategies in real time. AI might tell you what is trending, but agencies know how to shape those insights into original creative that feels personal and compelling.

Handling everything yourself can quickly lead to burnout, especially when automated tools deliver results that blend into the noise. Hiring a marketing agency gives you access to a dedicated team that manages the workload, pushes creative ideas, and keeps your brand distinctive. You can focus on your bigger goals while professionals handle the creative process with care and precision.

AI can be a helpful assistant, but it cannot replace the originality, intuition, and brand-focused storytelling that an experienced agency provides. Working with one transforms your social media video campaigns from basic content into meaningful, high-impact stories that stand out and strengthen your brand identity.

Everyday I see my kids enjoy simple things. They laugh over silly things, and they scream and fight over silly things too–but most of their time they spend it playing. In their play, there is no fear of mistakes, they just do it. There is no such thing as a mess, nothing is too dangerous or too chaotic. They let their imagination and curiosity be the driver. And yet here we are in adulthood, worrying about the mess, the hideous task of cleaning everything up that makes me dread sometimes to even start something at all. And that makes me wonder…

Before creativity became work, it was simply play.

My children remind me that creativity begins without permission. Watching my 5-year-old draw freely without worrying if it’s “good” or seeing her build forts with absolutely every pillow, blanket and chair she can find in the house, just so she can sneak in her little brother and her plush toys and have a world of their own. This reminds me of how much I urge to rediscover that same freedom for myself. We often worry too much about perfectionism, deadlines, or productivity, but the truth is, without having at least some creative freedom, artists struggle.

Before having kids, I would intentionally find at least 15-30min a day to draw in my sketchbooks, practice literally anything! Yes, practice makes you good at your craft, but honestly it was just sketching without a specific goal. Making something just because it feels good, or experimenting with new/unused materials. Not everything must become a finished product. And to be real, these are the times that I’ve felt the most “me”. Unintentionally just playing with textures or colors, without following a brand or brief. Now that motherhood has taken place, my time is more stretched thin–yet I try to find ways to reconnect with play through their eyes. Reminding me that it’s okay to slow down, to allow mess, imperfection, and spontaneity. Sometimes it might look like a set-up art table in our back porch or a dance party, or even a play dough session, regardless my children have become both teachers and collaborators in my creative life.

In a way, I guess play has never truly left me. But as adults, we must find ways to reconnect to it, and protect the time we have to experiment without pressure. I believe this can be extremely meaningful as a professional creative, because you prioritize process over outcome. In life, we might not always land the job, get the client, or reach metrics, but play (or call it however you want) can be just as significant.

‘Remember when’ is the lowest form of conversation – Tony Soprano

OK, so that opening quote from Mr. Soprano — maybe a little harsh. Like many Elder Millennials, I’m far from immune to the warm pull of nostalgia. The films, TV shows, music, and snacks (Gushers!) of my childhood still inspire a sense of longing and a nagging urge to exclaim, “It was just better then! You weren’t there! You wouldn’t understand!” But, as much as I may love the occasional dip back into the past, I know I can’t live there.

1990s nostalgia has been inescapable in recent years. From the resurgence of John and Carolyn-coded style to Gen Xers, Millennials, and Zoomers lulled to sleep by the glow of Friends reruns streaming in the background, all caught under the spell of time and place that some of them never actually even experienced.

It’s easy to understand why the 90s remain more alluring than ever, especially when viewed through the lens of *gestures broadly* everything going on today. It was inarguably a simpler time. The internet was more of a curiosity than a lifeline. Your cellphone (if you had one) was truly “just for emergencies.” News and information was easy to come by, but just as easy to tune out. Items on a fast-food dollar menu only cost a dollar (or less). Oh, and people seemed genuinely happy most of the time! I’m sure that had nothing to do with any of the above.

But here’s the not-so-rose-colored part of nostalgia: it’s incredibly easy to exploit. In fact, it’s one of the simplest ways to manipulate emotions. There’s really no lower-hanging fruit on the vine. Nowhere is this more crudely on display than in commercial advertising.

February’s Super Bowl broadcast included spots featuring the stars of 1993’s Jurassic Park shilling for Xfinity; not one, but two, commercials soundtracked by Backstreet Boys for T-Mobile and Coinbase; and a Ben Affleck-fronted Dunkin ad stuffed with pretty much every 80s and 90s sitcom star you can remember (or not), plus Tom Brady for good measure. It was nothing short of a nostalgic onslaught, and in the month since these ads aired, odds are you’ve forgotten most of them — or at the very least, what they were pitching.

Ironically enough, when I hop into my way-back machine (my first car, a black 1996 Dodge Intrepid, if you’re curious) and reflect on the commercials that stuck with me, my mind doesn’t jump to any that featured any sort of nostalgia-baiting stunt casting. I think of Apple’s 1984, the Budweiser frogs, the “Whassupp?” guys, and the E-Trade baby. There were no shortcuts taken in these spots. The original moments became nostalgic in time due to their unpredictable nature and inspired creativity.

Nostalgia, like most good things, is best in moderation. I’m not arguing that any ad referencing the past is inherently bad, but I am concerned that culture has gotten a little too cozy dwelling in the past. Brands especially shouldn’t sacrifice true forward-thinking, boundary-pushing creativity in favor of a cheap and easy gag. Yeah, it was better than, but that doesn’t mean some things can’t still attempt to touch greatness now.

It’s cold. Mountains of snow cover the ground.

The only mountain I’m hiking right now is the giant pile of plowed snow at the end of my street. We’ve had weeks of freezing temperatures, with more frigid days ahead. An inch-thick icy crust has formed over the snow, it cracks underfoot like a crème brûlée and has turned my North Jersey backyard into something closer to an Arctic glacier.

When the snow first falls, it’s perfect. A clean white blanket that softens everything. Familiar landscapes become unrecognizable. Sound dampens. Animals disappear into snug hiding places. The world goes quiet, broken only by the crunch of boots and the occasional thunk as a thin branch gives way under the weight.

It’s peaceful.

But now the snow is salted and sanded. Dirty. Heavy. Lingering past its welcome. I’m ready for it to melt away.

I’m ready for the first crocus buds to push through the ground. For warmer sun. For air that smells like rich, healthy dirt.

Soon, I’ll head up to the Mountain Reservation and take my first real hike of the season. Sun will stream through newly leafed trees, dappling the path with light. Birds will swoop and chatter. Small animals will dart across the trail. The river will be full, rushing, alive.

There’s something about that first hike back that always resets me. Not in a dramatic way — just enough to clear the noise. Enough to make room.

And when I come back, things tend to move more easily. Ideas feel lighter. Decisions feel less forced.

Maybe that’s all renewal really is: a moment of space, a change in light, and the permission to begin again.

Renewed.
Energized.
Peaceful.
Warm.
Open.

Have you ever been at an event, but you couldn’t hear the speaker clearly due to other people being loud around you? Imagine if your headphones could simply turn up the volume on the speaker just for you? With SAM 2 from Meta, that ability is steps closer for the hearing impaired.

Ref media announcement:
https://ai.meta.com/blog/sam-audio/

Imagine you’re watching your child play their instrument from the back of a theater, and noise from the hallway is spilling in; just pop in a headphone and your phone selects to easily lock in on the live musical performance, quite literally tuning out all other noises, allowing you to hear the moment clearly and be present without distractions. With SAM 2, you can simply type into the interface what you need the audio to separate — maybe it’s removing the train from the background of that Zoom call you recorded, or having that beeping fire detector in your coworkers video meeting automatically reduced. No longer will people have to walk around with giant parabolic microphones like it’s a sporting event. Math will simply read the audio and pull out the specific equation selected through the prompt.

Meta has also partnered with Starkey, the largest manufacturer of hearing aids in the U.S., and 2gether-International, a leading startup accelerator for disabled founders. While there are still some challenges ahead, such as singling out one performer from a chorus for example, it’s a step in the right direction for live audio enhancement to help the hearing impaired.

Back in November, I had one of my paintings exhibited at City Arts as part of the Art Pollination project, which started early in 2025. And something really heartfelt happened to me that night, that I want to share because, if you’re like me and constantly suffer from imposter syndrome, you might feel identified by this story, too.

I was standing next to my painting, and a girl came by because she said it seemed familiar; a couple of months before, she had visited the location where a group of artists (myself included) were painting different murals for the same project, so she remembered! Continuously, that got the conversation started, and after a couple of questions, she asked me how long I’d been doing this for, so I told her this was my first time exhibiting things at an art gallery — as well as my first time painting a mural that was outside the walls of my home or family’s homes for that matter.

She seemed surprised, so she asked how I got into it, and I explained the city had organized a call to artists back in January, which I applied for, and a few weeks later I received the email confirmation letting me know that I was accepted. Then she asked if I had applied to other things before, and no — this was my first time ever (at least for things of this nature). Her eyes started tearing up, and then she said “OMG, I’m so happy for you! What does that make you think about yourself, that it’s the first time applying and you got picked?” Immediately after, she started crying (granted, there may have been a couple of drinks involved — it was a nice inauguration event, after all), but it was very impactful, especially coming from someone I don’t know.

I remember thinking multiple times ‘How on Earth did they pick me in the middle of all these other incredible artists/muralists that have years of experience behind them?’ Of course, I’m a graphic designer by profession, and although the line between design and art is finely blurred, this experience was both humbling and extremely gratifying. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve decided not to move forward with something because I thought I wasn’t up to par. But this is me telling you to do the damn thing anyway. Because life might surprise you, and the truth is that you don’t lose anything just by trying!

I find it amazing how the words of a complete stranger can be so touching, how they can be exactly what you need to hear at that exact moment. And I will be forever honored that she shared those tears with me.

I left that night feeling incredibly grateful and proud. Because I might not have 20 years of experience painting murals, but everything I do, I do it with heart. And the little girl in me would’ve loved to hear “Keep going because you’re doing great”. <3

I am the matriarch of a family of four.

Six if you count our animals.

12 now if you count our Labubus.

Transparently, we were embarrassingly late to hop on the Labubu bandwagon, adopting our first two just a few months back as add-ons to bubble milk tea orders. One of my baby daddy’s most valuable characteristics is his willingness to splurge on whatevers, just because. Also transparently, even with my partial Asian ethnicity and my profound love for cute things, I’d heard of them, I’d seen them around, but my gigil was always stifled when my logical mind inevitably begged the question — why.

gigil (“ghee-gill”), n. & adj.: a Tagalog term referring to the overwhelming, irresistible urge to squeeze, pinch, or reach physically to something or someone incredibly adorable; signifies “cute aggression” that may cause a person to clench their hands or grit their teeth.

Also this 👇🏼 just to personify things.

Tagalog (“tag-eh-log”), n. & adj.: translates to “grandmother” in an Austronesian language, the basis of the Filipino national language.

Why. Because as delightful as it is for kittens to be donned in shrimp, fried and also not, or for Little Monsters to gaze back at you with grins all at once jarring and endearing, these things serve no function. The functionality is simply not there.

And if I know absolutely nothing at all,

I know about excess.

I am a chronic purger. And I don’t blame that solely on my mother. After all, my instinct to rid my atmosphere of anything that doesn’t serve a purpose or that might distract from essence, I have to think, is much of what landed me where I am.

I mean that professionally and personally.

I have been trained to identify and eliminate excess. It’s a trait of mine that takes no prisoners: words, characters, my sons’ toys and “masterpieces,” Tupperware containers, greeting cards, yearbooks. All victims, many distant memories.

And why.

Because their purpose has been depleted; handwritten sentiments successfully received, H.A.G.S. notes and phone numbers collected — no explanation needed for the containers. Or it’s because I’m being paid to ensure that your brand’s copy is direct and succinct; messaging that gets the point across while fighting the current that is the modern person’s 3-second attention span, but still creates impact.

But I do understand and experience sentimentality. The volume of half-finished drawings or school worksheets by my kindergartener that has seen inside of the trash can is, indeed, high. But so is the stack of them that lives in my nightstand. Marie Kondo calls these things tokimeku. Sentimental items, but also things that spark joy for no other reason than they just do.

Fighting my natural instinct is hard. But I’m learning. I am actively learning to differentiate between excess and seemingly arbitrary sparks of joy, and to welcome the latter. Because, admittedly, some things you just want to have.

Like Loyalty (pictured).

Hello. My name is Lee and I’m a habitual rule-follower. I don’t speed (10mph over the limit doesn’t count). I patiently wait my turn in line. I pay for the exact number of bags I use at checkout AND I return my cart.

But there’s something I must confess: I don’t think I could tell you off the top of my head what a split infinitive or dangling participle is. I’ve been a professional copywriter for more than 15 years. I’ve worked for multiple household brands. I have written countless headlines, emails, blog posts, social media captions, and just about anything else you can think of. And yet, I’m sure I’ll leave a modifier or two dangling in this very post.

Sure, I keep a copy of The Elements of Style at my desk, and at some point in my schooling I considered myself pretty knowledgeable of its contents. Yet, I couldn’t tell you the last time I opened it – or even really felt compelled to. And that’s not a knock on the work of Mr. Strunk and Mr. White. Without rules, there’d be anarchy. Right…right?

Now, I realize this might seem akin to a mechanic who can’t explain the difference between a starter and an alternator, or a dentist struggling to identify what’s a canine and what’s an incisor. But you’ll have to trust me when I say this: Sometimes when it comes to writing (especially the kind that graces our feeds and screens), it’s about what feels right in the moment.

I recently read a novel that got me thinking a lot about rules. Daniel Kraus’s Angel Down tells the story of a World War I grunt who happens upon a wounded angel (yes, the kind with an actual halo) amidst the carnage of battle. It’s quite the premise, and a riveting yarn that asks big questions about man’s propensity toward violence, desire, faith, and courage. I tore through the book, which is significant not because I’m a notoriously slow reader, but more that I did so in spite of its quirks.

The story is told in a third-person, stream-of-consciousness point of view that unfolds as one continuous sentence, separated into “paragraphs” that each begin with “and.” I was nearly halfway through when I realized I had yet to see a single period, which wouldn’t come until after the final word, on page 304.

It would be easy to label this technique gimmicky or unnecessary at a glance, something akin to the works of Faulkner or Joyce, which, great as they may be, are not breezy reads. The rules of modern writing champion clear, concise prose that goes down easy. Today’s popular fiction just isn’t supposed to do this. And yet, it works because the story demands it. Really, what other way could the author depict the frantic mindset of a protagonist faced with the constant onslaught of horrors that is war while also trying to comprehend the supernatural?

Now, 300 pages of third-person stream of consciousness with no periods won’t be the right choice probably 99.7% of the time. But you won’t ever regret asking what’s best for the story you’re trying to tell, trusting your gut, and giving yourself a little grace when it comes to breaking the rules.

What happens when someone is forced to face the world completely alone? In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, this question becomes the center of a lonely monster’s existence. Created by Victor Frankenstein and then abandoned by him, the monster is left to navigate a world that will never accept him. He begins with kindness, but after facing rejection from everyone, even Victor, that kindness turns into rage and violence. Through the monster’s journey, Shelley illustrates how essential compassion is, and how its absence drives isolation, pain, and destruction.

The monster’s first experience with companionship comes from the De Lacey family, even though he never interacts with them directly. Newly born and wandering alone, he discovers the family and watches them from afar, learning what it means to belong and what compassion looks like. He explains, “The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys” (120). Although physically separated from them, he forms a deep emotional attachment. In his thoughts, he refers to the De Laceys as his friends, showing that psychologically, he so badly wants to belong with them.

As his attachment grows, he begins to imagine himself as part of their family, loved and accepted by them: “I formed in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me” (123). These thoughts reveal what becomes the monster’s main motivation for the rest of the novel, companionship. He so desperately wants to belong that, in his mind, he already does.

However, this desire only deepens his awareness of how lonely he truly is. After reading Paradise Lost and learning about God and Satan, the monster begins to compare his life to Satan’s. He angrily thinks, “Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested” (142). Even the devil has friends, while he has none. This realization shows the moment when he understands that he is completely alone, and it fuels his anger toward Victor for creating him.

Accepting that the human race will never see past his appearance, the monster believes there is only one solution to his loneliness. He confronts the one who made him and begs him to create another being like himself, someone who shares his suffering: “I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me” (158). This plea reveals just how obsessed he is with having friends. Rather than asking to be made more human, he asks for a companion, showing how badly he wants to share his life with someone who will accept him.

Although Victor initially agrees, he soon realizes the danger that could come from it. He admits, “I compassionated him… but when I looked upon him… my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred” (162). This moment represents Victor’s lack of compassion, as he denies the monster the companionship he needs. With this, the monster says, “I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn” (192), and vows, “If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear” (160). The monster turns to stone, vowing to cause Victor all the pain imaginable, even though it will never measure up to the pain Victor has caused the monster. 

Through the monster’s journey, Shelley demonstrates how essential companionship is to life. Born with the ability to love and learn, the monster is shaped into something cruel only after being isolated again and again. In Frankenstein, the true tragedy is not Victor’s suffering, but the monster’s journey through a world that will never accept him. When companionship is denied, even the kindest of people can turn into monsters.

I roll out of bed somewhere between 4am and 5am each day. A remnant of my past life slinging coffee that will most likely never leave me. I don’t have to get up at this ungodly hour, but once my brain has been activated, there is no going back.

I let the dog out while slamming my K-cup into the Keurig machine, walk into my office and grab my computer (or, on weekends, find my book wherever it happens to be lying around the house), and mosey back to my most comfortable bed, still littered with stuffed animals (mainly manatees — yes, the seacow) from the night before. 

I ask Alexa to “turn on bedroom tree” while I crawl back into bed with my coffee and laptop (or book), fire up the TV, and log in to YouTube. 

Side note: I think everyone should have lit greenery in their abodes. 

Here, I will commence working or reading for the next hour or so, while jazz music plays over a scene of a snowy village complete with candles flickering in cottage windows.

I’ve reached my happy place. 

I didn’t fully understand how much this little ritual mattered to me until one day it followed me everywhere. A single YouTube video — Cozy Winter Jazz Cafe Ambiance — provided the quiet soundtrack to my day from morning to night. It started in my bedroom while I woke up, migrated to my office as I worked, and eventually settled into the living room while I read before bed. Nothing happened in the video. No story, no instructions, no sales pitch. And yet, by the end of the day, I felt calmer, more focused, and strangely attached to this nameless cafe, like it had quietly kept me company. That was the moment I realized this wasn’t just background noise — it was a cherished, calming ritual.

These ambiance videos don’t ask anything of you. They don’t interrupt or demand attention. They just exist alongside you, offering coffee-shop murmurs, crackling fires, rainy windows, or softly lit libraries. I don’t feel like I’m being sold to, I feel accompanied. In a world where ads pop up, shout, and beg to be noticed, this kind of content gently slips in and stays. It makes space instead of taking it.

Over time, that consistency starts to matter. I find myself returning to the same channels again and again, trusting them to shape the feeling of my space. Choosing a “vibrant carnival” or a “snowy city night” feels intimate and personal, like I’m selecting a mood or a version of myself for the next few hours. Without realizing it, I’ve built routines around these sounds and scenes, letting them blend into my daily life until they feel familiar and comforting.

And maybe that’s the point. In a culture oversaturated with noise, urgency, and constant selling, there’s something powerful about simply setting a mood and letting people settle into it. From where I’m sitting — coffee in hand, jazz humming softly in the background — it feels like a glimpse of where things are headed: quieter, more intentional, and a little more human. 

I hear my thoughts as a monologue in my head.

(Sometimes I hear the responses too, making it more of a dialogue. But we digress…)

A few years ago, I learned that not everyone experiences this. Some people simply have no internal monologue.

On the one hand, I don’t understand how these people function without being able to overthink about challenging meetings in soliloquies, weave fan fiction about the woman in front of them at the grocery store, and craft acceptance speeches for made-up awards they were honored to win, all in the space inside their heads.

On the other hand, I envy them. Not only must they enjoy a delightful quiet between their ears, I like to think that they don’t fall victim quite so easily to the evils of negative self-talk. 

The inner monologue can be a tricky trickster. When mine is not convincing me that I have no talent and should stop swindling my clients, it is whispering sweet nothings about how I can grow an empire all by myself.

Neither is true. The first is cliche. The second, believe it or not, is infinitely more dangerous.

Those sweet nothings sent me straight from corporate life into the freelance world, twice. Why work alongside a team when I can sit in my office at home and spin straw into golden campaigns all on my own? They also made me think twice about bringing on my first team member once my workload picked up. I thought even harder before bringing on my first designer and video editor. Harder still before bringing on an operations manager. I can write, manage projects, create passable designs and videos, and bring in new business as a one-woman show. Why do I need a team?

Ever heard that cliche: Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should?

It’s one of my 2026 mantras.

Because sometimes, when my team does the exact work I hired them to do, I feel bad. My inner monologue barges in, asking things like, “Why didn’t you do that already?‘Why did they think to do that? You’ve been in this business since day one, and it never occurred to you? Who are you to run this business when they figured these things out so much faster?”

The answer, of course, is that I did think of it all, in words I can hear inside my head. 

I have the skills to do all of the things my business requires. But here in the vacuum with me and my inner monologue, there is no air or light to give life to fresh ideas, new perspectives, or innovative ways of doing things. There is not enough time in a day for me and my brain to think through every task, project, or goal and then take thoughtful, efficient action. When things are hard, my thoughts do not talk me off the ledge. When things go well, this party of one is a downer.

Just because I can make a business all by myself, doesn’t mean I should. 

Humans were meant to work and create together, each of us bringing ourselves and our unique talents to contribute a verse. 

Because the truth is, you wouldn't be reading this right now if my operations manager had not given me an actual deadline by which to complete it. And without my copy editor, it would've been riddled with typos and embarrassing grammatical errors. 

My inner monologue might try to convince me that needing help to write a 600-ish-word piece is a failure. But the joy of collaborating with my team is one of my favorite examples of success