A woman with blonde hair tied back wearing a light blue shirt and dark jeans, seated on a chair with a fluffy white cushion, holding multiple books, in a cozy, brightly lit room with plants and art on the wall.

Writings

Writing is one way I discover what I think and feel. I sit down not knowing and let the sentences reveal what's been moving underneath, the thing I couldn't quite name until it was on the page. It's less a record of what I've already integrated than the integration itself.

Lucy Mae Sunday 7/6/26 Lucy Mae Sunday 7/6/26

What Moves In The Dark

For two springs, my dog Juniper has traded a bone back and forth with a coyote neither of us has ever seen up close. It's a small, wordless negotiation between a domesticated wolf and a wild one. But it's also where I found language for something harder to hold: the grief of a baby I haven't had, and the strange truth that no self, no longing, and no loss exists independently of everything else.

Lucy Mae Sunday 7/6/26 Lucy Mae Sunday 7/6/26

The Slippery Work of Staying

Grief, Belonging, and the Home We Can't Leave Behind

Lucy Mae Sunday 4/7/26 Lucy Mae Sunday 4/7/26

Returning to Ourselves, Returning to Each Other

Lucy Mae Sunday 4/7/26 Lucy Mae Sunday 4/7/26

Strong Back, Open Heart

Lucy Mae Sunday 12/28/25 Lucy Mae Sunday 12/28/25

Attention, as a Practice

We are always in conversation with sensation—before thought, before story.

Meaning emerges where awareness meets these signals. What we practice noticing, we practice having. Delight, even small and ordinary, can widen attention, holding grief and steadiness together.

Patient, gentle attention is a practice. It teaches the nervous system—and ourselves—that the present moment is complex, and that we get to choose how we live inside it.