For some, love is defined by space—the ability to exist independently while still feeling secure in the connection. For others, it’s words that consume.

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I once had a client say to me, frustrated, “I’m awake. I’ve done the work. And I still don’t feel fulfilled.”

For as long as I’ve shared my offers, my brand has centered around finding balance between the spiritual and the human experience.

Have I always succeeded? Absolutely not.

There were days — sometimes weeks — when living in the spiritual realm felt safest. Meditations, oracle pulls, readings, Reiki — they were my haven. And then there were other seasons when I wouldn’t meditate or pick up a deck at all. I was completely in my head about life.

Even now, I have to practice awareness through each season. I have to notice when I’m escaping upward… or spiraling inward.

Sitting in that in-between can feel uncomfortable. Unpredictable. Because it means you actually have to act.

It looks like having the hard, vulnerable conversation you’ve been rehearsing in your head for weeks. Booking the solo trip to the destination you’ve been dreaming about. It looks like ending the relationship that feels wrong in your body, even when it still looks good on paper. Or like starting the business you don’t feel ready for.

It means saying yes when your learned behavior wants you to say no.

It’s looking at your life through a magnifying glass and noticing the waves you’ve been riding simply because they were easy. It’s letting the rain touch your skin. You’ve done the healing but how do you know you’ve learned to regulate? How do you know you can embody the energy you’ve visualized?

If we don’t put what we’ve learned—both in the 3D and the 5D into practice, how do we really know who we are as humans? How can you live with purpose without taking the step… and the next… and the next?

Trusting the intuitive nudge, and acting on it takes courage.

Being human also means staying informed, speaking out, showing up—rather than only retreating into spiritual practices as a way to avoid what’s uncomfortable or very very real.

We don’t do spiritual by passing over here.

Healing doesn’t have a destination. It expands your capacity. It builds your tolerance for what once would have triggered you, made you anxious, avoidant, fearful — reactions shaped by what you learned in order to survive.

All in hopes that you no longer self-abandon — not your soul, or your body. The unlearning is both human and spiritual. We chose to be here at this time, living this story. And getting caught up in the mystic can keep us from actually experiencing life fully. To truly live means balancing the scales. Remembering you can break the cycle by choosing the other. Your connection to spirit is a tool; it becomes second nature rather than performative.

If something feels scary, that might mean it matters. It may be stretching you beyond what’s familiar. Growth rarely feels certain. It feels like expansion.

Things don’t magically change once the work is “done.” The real work begins when you integrate.

When you immerse yourself in the human experience. When you can start your day with gratitude, connected to source and plant your feet on the floor fully grounded once you’re out of bed. Embodied. Lived in. Messy, but structured.

Alignment comes in different shapes and sizes. It isn’t one-size-fits-all. But what is meant for you fits — energetically and physically. It can arrive as an idea, a location, a relationship, an opportunity.

Life itself is an invitation to think expansively while holding space for the versions of yourself that existed before this one — in this lifetime and maybe past ones as well. It’s also an invitation to hold space for others: loving partners, community, family both chosen and given.

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To allow physical touch and in-person conversations to pull you out of familiar mental spirals. The kind that don’t bring you back to yourself, but further and further away.

That inner knowing, that if you want something deeply enough, you are responsible for moving toward it.

That pull toward something or someone is your soul’s call and your body’s sanctuary. One doesn’t live well without the other.

Balance. Harmony.

Our bodies and souls yearn to be nurtured. To be held with compassion and a gentle, reassuring touch.

Creating that can look like honoring physical, mental, and spiritual wins; movement, thoughtfulness, presence, and connection to source.

Penciling in joy on your calendar. Always having something to look forward to.

Reading instead of scrolling. Journaling instead of spiraling. Therapy instead of bypassing. Dancing in your kitchen instead of dissociating. Calling a friend instead of isolating. Saying yes to someone you like even when the algorithm says wait. Texting back when the timeline says don’t. Trying a new recipe. Taking a workshop. Long walks in nature. Planning a trip. Sitting in a café and people watching. Exploring a new neighborhood. Co-creating.

Ordinary things but sacred when you’re present for them.

What makes us unique is our messy humanness and the magic that sparks beneath the surface when we’re lit up by the experience.

Live and love a little, your soul is begging for it.

xx,

Sapphira

If you are ready to explore what clarity and alignment mean for you on a soul level, my calendar is open for a Self and Soul readings and The Clarity Note.

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A Witchy Word

We were asked to pause, rest, and gently plan for what’s to come. Stillness became the place where clarity lived—where we were met with our most authentic energy and reminded that healing is no longer the focus; the work now is living, putting what we have learned into practice.

Growth, shift, and evolvement are no longer avoidable. The only way to know whether peace has truly been cultivated within is to challenge it through new experiences.

The Month Lived

January asked me to look a little deeper. Not move as quickly as I wanted, but to reflect on the behaviors and limitations created by an old version of myself that still lingered. I was met with resistance, rejection, and moments that led me back home to myself in a way that allowed me to see more clearly. See—oh yes, I saw. Not only myself, but those around me. What masks had been held up for far too long and were ready to fall. What relationships were worth holding onto, and the ones that had reached their limit and served their purpose. These connections highlighted where I had abandoned myself.

I was asked to move forward, show up for those who can meet me, and if they can’t—let them drift away. As someone who has always overextended herself, this was a tough one. A realization that I can no longer be the one who holds space, carries conversations and dreams, leads with curiosity, and remains present—always a mirror. I would catch myself holding back, dimming my light in fear of bringing discomfort.

It felt like diving headfirst into shallow waters. A reminder that I looked to be held by people who lacked the desire to go into the depths of themselves. My soul aching for alignment, to be met with open arms that knew how to hold me.

My word for 2026 is devotion. Being devoted to self means standing firm in my beliefs, standards, and boundaries. My hand will be extended, reaching out—but only for those who will hold their hand out too.

Moving through this felt like a final shed. A true promise to self.

Rituals & Wellness

I have talked about my love for journaling and the importance of sitting with your words, but this month I set out to make it a non-negotiable part of my morning. As my coffee brews, I prep my journal at the table and lean into what I can feel bubbling beneath the surface. Once the coffee is poured into my mug, I sit down take a few deep breaths and write without filter or fear.

It has now become a habit that sets the tone for my day. Self-care looks many different ways—skincare, bodywork, sitting in silence, meditation, reading. This time in the morning feels like the gentlest way to give myself a safe space to reflect and honor the emotions I move through.

And speaking of movement, I have finally found a rhythm for exercise that feels manageable and less daunting than forcing myself to do something I don’t have the energy for. Listening to what my body needs has been the greatest act of self-care.

I re-read All About Love by bell hooks, a book I held close to my heart once I finished it. When I first read it, I was bitter yet hopeful—my emotions tucked away, still clinging to the words, hoping they would heal me.

This time, as I reached the last page and read the final paragraph, I shed tears for every version of myself who believed I was undeserving of something I was, in truth, overflowing with.

Sometimes my body just needs a good cry, an unapologetic release.

A Place to Retreat

With the month asking me to remain present and lean into the space around me, I started going on phone-less walks. Highly recommend. No music, no podcast, no stopping to take a photo. Just me, my thoughts, and nature. This time invited reflection around where my thoughts drift when I am not distracted by life’s chaos.

I watched the branches sway on a windy day, the snow accumulate on the ground, and listened to the sounds of birds chirping. I noticed the pace at which I walked with no destination in mind.

Rarely did my mind go quiet—that required practice. At first, I forgot where I was. As time went on, I invited other people’s energies into my orb, and then eventually, it was just me. A walking meditation, if you will. So simple, yet an unexpected retreat.

Through meditation and dream state, I found myself in the ocean—floating in what looked like specks of light beneath me. My aura, energy, and body welcoming in cleansing and flow. Now, I revisit that ocean when I’m in need of clarity.

The Closing Spell

Looking forward, February will move a little quicker and ask for a little more. We will no longer be able to hide behind the walls that have been built. This is your reminder that you have the power to break them down—to re-enter as a more replenished, awakened, aligned version of self, without apology.

In time, connections that currently exist, as well as new ones, will feel as though they were crafted by a higher being just for you.

How can you begin to move with intention today? How can you nurture what means most to you?

Want to work with me?

If you are interested in clarity that feels like recognition in the month of February, my calendar is open for Self and Soul readings and a gentler offering, The Clarity Note.

Book A Reading

xx,

Sapphira

This essay includes discussion of surgeries, medical trauma, and emotional distress related to body and reproductive health.

The scars take getting used to. My first look in the mirror caused my eyes to immediately shut with the realization that my body had changed—unwillingly, again. But it’s the scars you can’t see that leave a greater mark. Those run deep. I don’t trace those with my fingers in hopes they lighten, but I do pray to never experience it again. They don’t sell a cream for the emotional damage of having three surgeries in a four-year time span. The mental toll of not knowing. Of wondering what I did to cause this.

There’s something about the month of July…

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The first few days of this year arrived with disgustingly abrupt reminders of what I can’t take with me.

Knock knock.

This isn’t working anymore.

Do something.

I lost my cool.

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I lie in bed staring at my ceiling, then glance over at my Hatch to check the time.

9:15 a.m.

I guess I should get up.

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There’s no shame in tears, but there are questions. Ones I don’t want to answer. Ones I’d rather not give life to, because that means giving life to parts of me I worked tirelessly to protect. So I learned early on that my coping was best done in private, where I knew it was safe from questions and judgment — or perhaps too heavy for someone else to carry.

Healing and I are close. We’ve been close for a while. But crying — crying in front of someone else still feels foreign. Unknown territory. Whenever I felt the pressure build in my throat and the tears well in my eyes, my first instinct was to apologize. Why was I apologizing? At first, it was because I didn’t want someone who didn’t cause the pain to bear witness to it.

But after a few sessions of silent tears, then light sobs, something shifted.

I felt free.

Liberated.

Liberation. My word for 2025. When I chose it, I didn’t know what it would demand of me — how much power it held, how much I would have to let go of in order to actually feel… liberated.

My initial intention was simple: let go of what no longer serves me. I didn’t realize that letting go would strip me down to what felt like nothing. A newborn state — not in the spiritual rebirth sense, but in the way you realize you are truly starting from scratch.

From scratch.

What does that even mean?

A blueprint never existed for me — or at least not one I was aware of. I had never been this person before: this age, this alone, this version of myself. So even when a path felt apparent, it felt foreign. A reminder that I knew how to survive, but not how to truly live.

Over time, I learned how common this feeling is. Conversations with family, friends, clients, social media — the same themes repeating. We’re taught to accept what we’re given and call it a life, but that isn’t living at all. We’re constantly fed information that spikes our nervous systems, instead of creating peace within — the kind that allows things to bloom with ease. What we cultivate instead is chaos.

Each month, something new weighed on me: my health, heartbreak, rejection, the unknown. There was always something. There always has been something. Therapy became the only place where I felt safe enough to shed the layers that had kept me protected for so many years. Not a reflection of the people currently in my life, but because starting over is challenging when so much has already begun and ended.

How did I let all this time pass me by?

A thought I return to often.

But I also remember everything I learned, everything I became, and everything that died along with it.

I committed to liberation, and liberation committed to peeling back every layer until I was forced to look in the mirror and really see. See who I was without everything I thought would follow me to the end. Without this. Without that. Without them.

Life became one big question mark. I expected it to feel lighter. Less painful. Instead, it was excruciating — and some days, it still is. I know a date on the calendar doesn’t magically take pain away, but it does soften it.

Over time.

Liberation slowly became acceptance. Acceptance didn’t arrive as peace. It arrived with a less tense jaw, longer exhales, and quiet mornings without armor. Not just of past versions of myself, but of the future I thought I would have. I accept that I may not get the love I once dreamed of, or the life I used to visualize — not in a pessimistic, I’ll die alone kind of way, but in the freeing, I have choice kind of way.

I accept that I no longer want a life built on constant detachment and letting go.

I want something that is mine to keep.

I was forced to think about the now — not just this year, but the years that created the version of me writing this. The one who can articulate these truths at all. The tears. The trauma. The work. The breakups. The friendships. The re-parenting.

I could choose to be naked and afraid. Or I could choose gratitude for the wings I grew anyway. Wings that carried me to new places, new perspectives, new understanding.

We’re often placed into roles we never chose. Roles that exhaust us. Roles that stunt our growth. We’re thrown into them without instruction and expected to perform. Over time, life stops feeling like ours. Fear takes center stage. Limiting beliefs become the script. And when we finally make it through, there’s no applause — just us behind a curtain, waiting for the next act.

But then you realize you can exit the stage and remove the masks.

Liberation is choosing yourself. Accepting every story you told yourself just to survive, every private cry, every journal entry, every quiet quitting and brave beginning. Leaving what no longer fits and landing safely.

It’s a reminder to be. Be every version that got you here. And every version that brings you to your next destination.

Be the things you wish you had.

Be whoever you decide that morning, that year, that life.

Be everything and anything.

Be free.

xx,

Sapphira

“ Healing can feel like dying a thousand deaths and no one attending your funeral.

…But the rebirth feel’s like waking up with 20/20 vision, throwing a party and having full control of the invite list.” — Sapphira

Thanks for being here and supporting my writing <3

I haven’t chosen my word for 2026 just yet, but if you have I’d love to hear it!

I want to write about love but…

I don’t know which story to tell; my body knows one and my soul another. There’s the story I lived and the one I imagined. At first, I would close my eyes and visualize what I wanted, what would feel good. Then I got so good at it I could do it with my eyes open—on the train, sitting at a table with friends, behind a desk at work. You name the place and I was likely somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

I imagined a gentleness you can only describe with the pads of fingertips and soft lips. Words that would lift me and hold me there when my pain felt too heavy.

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New York is my first love. I was born here, raised here, all of my most memorable moments — here. I’m talking tokens to orange and green metro cards. Dragging my feet across the piano at FAO Schwarz, my tenth birthday party catered by Dean & Deluca, freestyle, salsa, and hip-hop playing on Saturday mornings mixed with the smell of Fabuloso and Clorox. Grabbing alcapurrias and morcilla in the LES before visiting my great-grandmother on Pitt St. Fresh white AF1s every summer and Timbs in the winter.

Chips and a 25-cent juice from a bodega on Dyckman for my walk home from school. Happy hour at Blockheads, late-night bites at The Coffee Shop in Union Square after a night of drinking and dancing, taking the train at unspeakable hours and still making it home safe. Saturday afternoons walking through Barneys — oh Barneys, how I miss you. Nights like Fashion’s Night Out made the streets feel alive. Pure glamour and chaos. And don’t get me started on Loehmann’s.

Some memories still linger, but many I’ve packed away deep, deep in my mind. Yet the New Yorker in me is obvious. It’s in the way I move, the way I talk, the way I consider people — sure, it may not be with a smile, but yeah: I’ll hold the door open for you, walk on the right side of the sidewalk, point you toward Fifth Ave when you ask for directions, move to the side when the train doors open.

Whenever I’m asked, “Where are you from?” the answer is always New York.

New York’s magic has always been its people — a constant, glorious collision of cultures.

Sometimes I forget what a privilege it is to be here, to be from here. They say if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. I believe that to be true, but not always in the way people expect. Fast pace, grit, attitude — it’s in our veins, but it doesn’t take us all to the same place. Sometimes it takes you to the “top,” and sometimes it’s what saves you when you leave.

Everyone wants to experience it, breathe it, live in it — but with constraints, of course. Staying within the walls of what can be Instagrammable, standing on lines wrapped around the block for… what? Not even they know. New York is where cool was born, now cool is defined by refined aesthetics, being chased down the street by a tiny mic and noise complaints, with authenticity dead as a Midwest night.

With the idea of home being so potent for me right now, I think about how much this city has changed. I almost don’t recognize it. Now new construction towers over the pre-war buildings I grew up around — a giant welcome sign for more congestion, more inauthenticity, just… more. The air has shifted, and I don’t know in which direction. There are pockets I visit to feed my nostalgia, but even then it doesn’t feel the same, taste the same, spark the same feeling. A city that once breathed together now bears only exclusivity and disconnection.

I sit in Central Park and mourn the city I once knew — the one that raised me.

This city never sleeps, there’s always something happening, but when you show up it feels empty. Has New York changed, or have I? Has New York lost its heart, or have I just lost my love for it?

I always thought we’d grow together, but really we’ve just grown apart. In this season of learning to let go, I keep holding on to a New York that has moved on without me.

Everyone wants to be here. I just wish the New York I loved was still here too.

xx,

Sapphira

The truth, my home doesn’t feel like home at all.

I walk in after a long day and wonder what the walls would say if they could speak, after watching me move through so many versions of myself these past four years: laughter, sadness, indifference, confusion, isolation, healing.

I can almost hear her whisper, “you have come so far, child.”

There were the gatherings I hoped would bring me closer to… what? I’m still not sure. Maybe a feeling. Wholeness. Something like “home.” I rearranged furniture until the floors were scratched, white walls stained, each new layout another attempt to make it finally feel right. Setting up dinner parties, holiday gatherings, coffee with friends each felt like a way to honor the space, but also to honor my journey. Each clink of glasses a toast to survival. I thought about all the years I didn’t have the freedom to host, to bring people together, to show my love through food and curated drinks in a beautiful environment.

But even in those moments, something was missing. The apartment held me in the ways I needed—stability, space, protection but not in the way I secretly wanted: connection that stuck, warmth that lingered after everyone left.

These were moments I once prayed for. I finally had them yet the feeling I hoped for never arrived.

I’d express gratitude every morning for a safe place to call my own. I’d yell “I’ll see you later, casita” every time I left. The meals I made in my kitchen and ate alone at my black marble six-seater table have blurred together. Yes, I’ve grown here but I’ve also suffered. Unprovoked screaming matches. Days of isolation. Crying in the dark after my third surgery since moving in. Holding the walls for support, counting my steps, with each breath, feeling so alone. one…two...three. Wishing I could be held, but knowing my home couldn’t hold me.

I filled it with everything I love—books, plants, furniture, my Pinterest board brought to life. I lit candles at my altar for protection and clarity. Movie nights with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s gave me something to look forward to. Waking up to the sun in my bedroom. Lighting incense not just for me, but for her too.

I did everything I said I would. Everything I dreamt of doing once I had a place to call my own. And still, it wasn’t enough. Where was home? Where is home?

Every morning, making coffee and sitting on the floor in my living room, I look around and take it all in. I think about what I’d change, what’s perfect as is, who I wish sat beside me, the stories I’ve lived within these walls—this place that kept me warm in winter and cool in summer. A place that watched me move through growing pains, heartbreak, and curiosity.

And still, there were small ways she showed up for me. The mornings she let the sun wake me gently when I wished not to wake. The nights she stayed quiet while I pieced myself back together. Not the kind of holding I longed for, but a kind of holding all the same.

I once thought this place would support my liberation for years. But now the air feels expired. My mind foggy. Uninspired. Stagnant.

I know she can feel me writing this. I hope she can forgive me. But we both know you can’t force home—whether it’s a place, a person, a feeling.

I feel like I’m on an endless search for something I’m not familiar with. Something I wouldn’t even recognize if I walked right into it.

But maybe that’s the lesson. I’ve outgrown the version of myself who thought home had to feel a certain way. Maybe finding it starts with admitting I’m finally ready to stop forcing what’s already let me go.

xx,

Sapphira

This is part of that return.

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This year has been a difficult one — one I’d never want to repeat. I’ve sat in isolation, ruminating, replaying, reliving all the moments that broke me, creating new possibilities that kept me still. Or maybe I should say stuck. I was being asked to retreat.

Traveling allowed me to transport into a new reality, a portal to a new version of myself — the catalyst for each breakthrough after every breakdown. Experiences and lessons I wouldn’t have faced had I not leaped. Flown.

Each moment left me longing for mental stimulation right at home. A riveting conversation with a loved one. A vulnerable debate that ended in union, understanding, forgiveness. I craved connection so deeply — still do. Depth, I need depth.

But no, that wasn’t my soul’s plan for this chapter. I was forced to sit in the discomfort that would liberate me. To detach from a reality that no longer sang for me, no longer danced with my light. Nothing fit anymore. The surface-level conversations, the work, all of it became a facade to avoid the questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Eventually, I let it all wash away as I curled up on my living room floor, wishing it was the next day — or better yet, the next life.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a manifestation of my ancestors who longed for stillness. A living embodiment of the quiet moments they wished for, wrapped into one.

How could I have it all together one day, and unravel the next?

Holding space for others was something I longed to do, but couldn’t. Out of respect for my practice — and for the energy of others. I couldn’t pour from energy that was depleted and trying to find its shape again. My soul connections drifted with each passing day, replaced by very human experiences that have made me stronger. Wiser. More aware. Tired.

I’m observant — I catch it all, even the things I wish I couldn’t. This sensitivity has always made me feel more alone, cast out. Repetitive conversations, agreeable personalities — I see them all. The energy behind the words. I’ve watched people pick up scraps of love left behind, hoping to piece themselves together. But it doesn’t fit. Nothing fits.

As I think about entering the new calendar year, I intend to welcome aligned energy; clients, friends, work, and opportunity. The sacred pause, though longer than I ever expected, taught me to view life from a new angle. These are the things you can’t plan for.

My world has been shaken. I sat in isolation, welcomed new people into my orbit — mirrors reflecting my pain, love, uncertainties, and possibilities back to me. I’m learning to trust the journey, even in the most chaotic, unforgiving moments that broke me.

A bridge between the physical and the spiritual. A map, a guide, a path written specifically for me. A constant call to surrender to the unknown, exploring new territory with an inner knowing: it will work out. I can handle this.

A test of my strength and resilience. My heart, always my reminder that everything I do comes from that place. Never compromising my authenticity. Always showing up as me — only me.

Learning when to step back, when to rise, and when to begin again. This year didn’t just break me. It was rebuilding a bridge I let burn.

xx,

Sapphira, a woman yearning to be described as anything other than resilient

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october is the perfect month, don’t debate me. november comes in at a close second. i could write poems about my love for autumn, sit and stare at leaves falling while drinking a hot cup of coffee, book in hand, wearing a chunky knit sweater kind of love. aesthetically, it’s beautiful, but energetically it’s life-changing… if you let it.

this season feels like an internal reset, a time to allow nature to take its course but also take control of how you want to show up in your personal relationship with yourself and with others. it’s not a time to overcomplicate but to simplify. what’s working for you, what isn’t? what new habits would you like to start? what recipes have you been dying to try but haven’t taken the time to begin—and i don’t just mean food. what concoctions would you like to put together to make something special, more you?

let’s hit reset:

journal —

write a love letter to the version of you that survived summer, and ask your autumn self what they need now. journal on: what am i ready to let go of? what’s one small thing i want to invite in before the year ends? Make a ritual out of it by lighting incense, and setting an intention for the new season.

some of my favorite journals: muji notebook | travelers notebook | leuchtturm A5

fall/winter closet reset —

pull out the knits, coats, and boots, but also take the opportunity to release the pieces that no longer feel like you. donate, sell, or swap them. curate a closet that actually matches the season of life you’re stepping into.

holiday planning —

instead of waiting for chaos to hit in december, set your boundaries and priorities now. what traditions do you want to keep? which obligations can you gracefully decline? planning ahead means you get to experience joy, without overextending yourself.

autumn ritual to welcome the season —

it doesn’t have to be elaborate. light a candle, make a seasonal tea, or take an intentional walk in nature. mark the shift with something grounding and symbolic that tells your body: this is a new beginning.

check in on your curiosity roadmap —

it’s not about productivity, but keeping wonder alive in these trying times. is there a recipe, workshop, or creative practice you’ve been curious about? pick one thing and give yourself space to explore it before the year closes. if you missed it, i created my own curiosity roadmap to keep my wonder alive.

autumn reading list —

this season, i want books that feel like companions. a little magic, a little reflection, a little story to get lost in on a gray day. here’s what’s on my list right now:

• the burning times — a dive into the histories of women, witchcraft, and power. it feels like the perfect moody read.

• braiding sweetgrass by robin wall kimmerer — grounding, poetic, and deeply reflective.

• cleopatra and frankenstein by coco mellors — messy, modern love and life in all its beauty and chaos.

and when i don’t want to dive into a new story, i pick up a familiar one from my shelf.

my autumn ritual

every new season, i like to mark the shift with a simple but intentional ritual. fall especially calls for release and renewal. i start by cleansing my space both physically and spiritually—getting rid of what i no longer use or need. then i burn sage to clear the energy, and light a white candle for clarity. finally, i place a cinnamon broom by the door to welcome in abundance. it’s a small practice, but it shifts the energy of my home and my own mindset, reminding me that i get to choose what comes with me into this season. this year i’m actually creating big shifts by getting rid of some items at home that no longer feel aligned with my new story. remember, everything carries energy.

autumn isn’t asking us to do more—it’s inviting us to do less, but with more presence. it’s a season of noticing: the shift in the air, the changing leaves, the small comforts, and the way change can feel gentle. your reset doesn’t have to be dramatic. start small, stay consistent, and let this season carry you where you’re meant to go.

journal prompts

• what am i ready to release?

• where in my life do i crave more simplicity?

• what habits or rituals could help me feel grounded as the year winds down?

• what would feel nourishing to explore before this year closes?

xx,

Sapphira

earlier this year i stepped away from offering intuitive readings (i miss them!) to focus on my own journey. i noticed some of my clients reflecting back what i actually needed; space for self-discovery, healing, reflection—time to figure out what’s next.

my word for 2025 was liberation. but for the first 6 months, i didn’t feel liberated at all. i clung to stories, versions of myself, and energy that no longer belonged to me. i tried to control the narrative, i asked for signs and quickly looked for them, forgetting that receiving only happens through surrender.

surrender, for me, hasn’t always looked like some grand spiritual moment. it’s been in the small moments, and stubborn places: choosing rest, letting a friendship drift instead of forcing it, sitting with uncertainty instead of trying to define what’s next. it’s allowing myself to be cracked open by grief and still trust that something new can grow from it. every time i’ve loosened my grip, life has surprised me with something gentler, more aligned, than what i was trying so hard to script.

i lost myself once again to the human experience, putting my gifts aside for the sake of ‘connection’ but that tight grip led me to disconnection—especially from the aligned friendships, experiences, and spiritual expansion. and yet, letting go of the version of myself who chose liberation feels, ironically, liberating.

looking back, i see that the painful moments, the decisions i resisted, the ache in my chest they were all small freedoms. proof that the path is never linear, but always written. the bumps are part of the journey.

the writing, reading, and learning has helped shape my view on what surrender looks like at this age and the welcoming of new ways to live, has made it feel less lonely. allowing myself to flow towards the gravitational pull of; a place, person and feeling.

the version of me who chose liberation was yearning for trust, surrender, and a cracked open heart. and i gave her that. living out my souls desires one step at a time.

i’ll come back to this reminder when i forget that i’m still mid-story. maybe you need that reminder too: liberation isn’t a destination—it’s the release.

xx,

Sapphira

when i notice bits of myself in someone else, or a change in behavior after a deep conversation, i wonder—did i inspire that? did i plant that seed?

for much of my life, i’ve been the built-in security blanket. the one people run to for advice, for reassurance, encouragement, an applause. in friendship my giving was taken for granted, my presence expected, care consumed, loyalty assumed. i learned early on i was valued more for what i provided than for who i was.

i was once told i felt like home by someone i felt deeply connected to, as we lay in each other’s arms one night. the words have lived with me ever since, but even then i knew—i was only a stop, not a destination.

it solidified what i had already been feeling for so long. i offer comfort that is recognized instantly, but rarely chosen to be kept. and that knowing has left me with self-sabotaging thoughts. a destination with an expiration date. what about me says, i’d like to stay but i can’t. i’d like to say thank you but you don’t deserve that. i think about the phone calls and texts i receive, not because of who i am, but because of what i give—the answers, the listening ear, the comfort.

and then as my body developed i learned a different kind of dismissal. i was sexualized before i even understood desire. reduced to curves, whispers, the way men’s eyes lingered too long. i was overvalued for my face and body and undervalued for my being. admiration turned into objectification, connection into consumption.

the lover girl in me carries so much sadness. often desired, often lusted after, but rarely valued. it’s heavy, and it has gotten heavier with each passing day—with every realization of the bright red flags i chose to ignore. i wake up whispering, ‘i forgive you’, so my heart knows it’s still safe to lead sometimes. but i can’t help but wonder—who am i really forgiving? them, or myself for staying longer than i should have?

sometimes i try to leave a little bit of the weight behind. i tuck it away in my apartment or hide it in a hotel room when i travel. i convince myself the feeling will pass, that fresh air will lighten the load. but the ache lingers, haunting me. i catch it in the corner of my eye, in synchronicities that pass me by, in little reminders i can’t run from or mask with a brave face—because my heart still aches loudly.

i think about the flowers i never received. so i buy them for myself now. the small wins i never heard an applause for feel like past life memories—distant, faint, drowning in my overthinking.

the subtle shift and tingle in my heart reminds me how much i have lived, and how much of it i have had to do alone.

maybe that’s the journey. maybe that’s the gift. constantly searching for my destination within, while holding on to the idea that i may very well one day be one.

because what’s for me will never pass me, right?

xx,

Sapphira

so, i decided to create a list of topics i’d like to know more about— made in collaboration with my inner child to keep things playful. so many of us want to learn new things but get overwhelmed. starting can be scary. failing feels even scarier and committing feels impossible.

i wanted to be excited about life again, to remind myself of all it has to offer —and all i have to offer. with this burst of playful energy and enthusiasm to know more came the idea for a curiosity roadmap.

an idea i hope will inspire you to get curious, play, and be reminded that it’s ok to start over… as many times as you’d like. it’s a simple way to stay engaged, stop doom scrolling, and evolve at a pace that feels comfortable.

if you don’t know where to start — start with yourself.

get curious about your own patterns, habits, and inner world. you can explore things like:

• what energizes you vs. what drains you

• what did you love as a child that you stopped doing

• what beliefs were you taught growing up that you no longer feel aligned with

• what parts of your body or health would you like to know better

• what feels like play to you right now

your inner world is the most natural entry point for curiosity and the more you learn about yourself, the easier it gets to branch outward into new topics.

Here’s how it works

• brainstorm your curiosities both big and small - make a list or a mind map

• sort into “deep dive” ( season long focus) vs. “light topics” ( quick, playful)

• assign a season to 1-3 topics - eg. Autumn 1 deep dive + 1-2 light topics. this structure makes this feel like more of a low lift. give yourself a start and end date

• create a resource folder - dump all of your resources into a physical or digital folder for when it’s time to “study”

• set a small outcome - a project, journal reflection, substack article, or even a habit (this helps with commitment)

• track it - using notion, a journal or even a calendar

  

sample curiosity roadmap

season: autumn

• deep dive topic: ancient civilizations ( read a book + watch a docuseries)

• light topic 1: herbal tea blends ( experiment with 2 diy recipes)

• light topic 2: calligraphy ( practice 10 minutes, twice a week)

small outcomes:

• write a reflection on what surprised you the most about ancient civilization

• gift someone handmade tea blend

• create a hand-lettered affirmation

  

this isn’t about mastery, or achievement. it’s about wonder, curiosity, staying playful in a world that is designed to keep you small. it can be messy, and change every season. the point is to stay curious and watch yourself come back to life in the process.

xx,

Sapphira

p.s i chatted a bit about this in my latest youtube video.

it almost feels like i gave bits and pieces of myself to each person i crossed paths with— leaving nothing for me. when i was a little girl, i never felt comfortable fully vocalizing all the things i dreamt up; wanting to be a travel writer, hosting a cooking show, making things pretty and a host of other things my adult brain, sadly, can’t remember. where did it go?

for context, in my early adult years i had a passion for being in creative spaces. i wasn’t exactly sure what i wanted to do but i thought if i put myself in spaces that fed that bit of hunger — it would click. i spent years in fashion, and realized it just wasn’t for me. survival came next, and work took priority. years later, i then ventured into interior design, taking on my first apartment as my intro project then offering my services to friends, which led to paying clients. it fed something in me, it made sense. i imagined how far i could take this, i took classes to better understand the craft and started sharing my projects on social media. it felt like a win but somewhere along the line i lost it. the spark that i had kept alive long enough, but eventually it brought me to a state of confusion, or maybe it was self-sabotage.

i can’t say i was in the most supportive environment, and while that played a role — i allowed myself to stop— not pivot, just stop. it didn’t make sense why until i had my spiritual awakening and i realized there was more to my life than what i had chosen. i was always someone who wanted to do multiple things, not just one. that never really felt like living. why couldn’t i do multiple things at once? i was constantly told that i had to choose one lane, one path, otherwise it gets confusing and people won’t want to work with me. as if being multifaceted was unacceptable. i wasn’t looking to be accepted, but understood. i’ve detached from those emotions now but as a 20-something year old they had cut deep.

i think of content creation today and how everyone speaks of having a ‘niche’. i would argue a niche sounds limiting — whatever your passions are express them. if you enjoy baking pretty pink cakes in the morning and talking about your favorite horror books at night, great! this push and pull between leaning into our passions and childlike spirit, then trying to fit ourselves into a box to be more palatable leads to burnout and inauthenticity. it’s almost as if people feel they need permission to live authentically.

i believe you find your people when you allow yourself to dream openly, create fearlessly, and express with intentional, messy passion. as we get older, it becomes quite difficult keeping that spark alive. surviving takes precedence, and dreaming seems childish and irresponsible. when did we forget to play? be open to learning and being curious?

i admire those with interests that serve the deepest parts of them, that bring joy and a hunger to live to the forefront of their reality. choosing to romanticize every waking moment by being authentically them.

so where do the dreams go—for those who were once dreamers but chose a reality rooted in survival and linear thinking? maybe they are living in each person we’ve crossed paths with, or maybe they’re waiting to be discovered in the nooks and crannies of our unexpressed desires. maybe they live in the doing, the act of saying yes when our fears are screaming no. perhaps they’re one turned page away, a flight waiting to hit takeoff, or hidden in a personal essay on dreaming.

maybe starting again isn’t about going back— it’s about returning to what never left.

xx,

Sapphira

my bubble was quickly burst by the sound of a slack notification that somehow slithered past my ooo pause. i took a deep breath, checked the message, and looked out at the ocean, reminding myself to stay present.

in that moment, i remembered how powerful the mind is. i could’ve let that message ruin the moment, but instead, i chose patience and gratitude.

july, on the other hand, had a rough start. i’m currently healing from a procedure that’s keeping me from doing much, so i made a list — a joy list. things i want to do (or have done) that are no-fuss, easy, and support the slow summer vibe i’ve been craving. it’s a guide for grounding and pleasure, whether you’re solo or with someone you like.

if you're a new yorker, you know summer here is brutally hot, alive, unforgiving, and still, somehow, magical. there's always something happening, someone to become. but i’ll be honest — i’m not really feeling it this year. in fact, i haven’t for a few years now. i could dive into my desire to start over somewhere new (and yes, that’s coming), but for now, in the spirit of patience and gratitude ;) i’m meeting myself where i am.

here’s what’s bringing me joy this season. maybe it’ll spark something for you too.

picnic in central park followed by a sweet treat

ok! i know this isn’t groundbreaking, but hear me out. it’s a perfect 80 degree day, low humidity. you’re in a cute linen outfit, book in hand, blanket and your drink of choice in your bag. you head over to char-cute-terie, to create your perfect cheese board then walk over to central park pick a spot under a tree. you’re people-watching, snacking, reading or chatting — blessed with a breeze because it’s not august yet. once you’ve had enough of that, you walk over to magnolias bakery on 69th st and columbus ave to check out their new banana pudding bar. enjoy a walk on the upper west side with your pudding creation in hand. maybe end the day at scarlet lounge for a cocktail or mocktail!

enjoy a rainy summer day

i love summer rain— the smell, the feel of it on my warm skin. i like the way the trees and grass look like they have come back to life once it’s stopped. if you find yourself doom-scrolling or bored out of your mind on a rainy summer day. go for a walk in the rain. grab an umbrella, leave your phone at home and go for a 20 minute walk. take in the scenery, the sounds, the scent of what feels like an earthly cleanse. when you get home, journal about what you saw and felt. it’ll help you stay grounded.

old movie night

on a sticky not so perfect summer day, lean into it. make it an old movie night of it. order in or cook something from your saved recipes. i will definitely be trying one of hailee catalano’s recipes from her cookbook by heart.

learn something new

this isn’t just on my July list — it’s on my life list. knowledge is sexy. no matter how small or random the skill is — it’s cool that you know how to do it. since we’re on the topic, let this be a reminder that there is nothing cooler than being you and doing the thing that brings you absolute joy. even if you have to do it alone, especially if you do it alone. you’ll never regret following the path that leads you right to you.

if you’re feeling like a scholar this summer harvard offers free online courses.

more film, please

every time i travel i pick up a fujifilm quicksnap camera to capture little moments. i print the photos later — for my journal, my fridge, or to gift to someone i love. film feels special. try it this summer!

$65 facial

i had to add this one in. if you’re sweating, wearing makeup, sun-tanned or just need a good cleanse mario badescu offers $65 facials. i highly recommend if you are looking for a no-fuss, no-frills reset. good skin brings me joy.

junk journaling

we forget things. we forget the memories we’re actively trying to create. junk journaling is a fun creative outlet and a way to hold onto those little moments—ticket stubs, receipts, random notes. i mean, when will you be this age again?

if you’re looking for some inspo, pinterest has tons of ideas.

brunch and bactrosaurus

i clearly have a thing for the upper west side. it’s saturday, it’s hot, and you want low-effort plans. grab brunch at friend of a farmer and head to museum of natural history after (anywhere with a/c is nice).

take a day trip

i love a good day trip! if i can hop on a train and go, i’m going. hop on the metro north to cold spring or hudson. if you decide to head up to cold spring, start your day early so you can grab brunch at cozy corner cafe, stroll down main street, shop, get ice cream at moo-moo’s creamery and sit at dockside park. summer bliss.

no phone days

this one’s hard for some, but so worth it. put your phone on dnd and leave it in a room you won’t go back into for hours. i do this on sundays — it helps me focus, feel more present, and write more. solitude invites clarity.

use the time to write your own joy list(s) keep it on a post-it, or your journal—and eventually transfer it over to your notes app for a quick reminder of all the things that bring you joy.

august letter to self

at the end of the month, write a letter to your august self. reflect on what you’ve learned, unlearned, done, and what habits you want to carry forward. once it’s on paper, it’s real. it’s a record of your growth and effort. a tangible reminder that joy takes work — but it’s always worth it. add the letter to your junk journal for safe keepsake.

i can’t be certain what the future holds but i do know it’s good. i know it’s good cause i’m choosing good today and everyday after. it’s the only way to experience joy. the only way to truly know what lights me up and in turn lights up those around me. the world is a mess but my world doesn’t have to be. these small moments i am creating are making a bigger impact for future me, a version that already exist and is patiently waiting with gratitude for me to find her.

xx,

Sapphira

i wouldn't know a healthy love if it smacked me in the face.

for someone who has spent years healing, aligning, and following the whispers of intuition even when nothing made sense, i now find myself in unfamiliar territory. it's disorienting. and if i’m honest, a little shameful.

shameful because i have been someone others turn to for clarity. the grounded one, the mirror, the safe space and yet here i am; unsure and uncertain — human.

my intuition feels muted. my anxiety, louder than ever. i'm caught in a loop of overthinking—spinning stories about what could happen, what should’ve happened, what still might. i’ve asked myself, more than once: how did i get here? how is it already time to start over? i thought this was the beginning.

but some chapters are shorter than others.

i've always believed in my path, even when it felt uncertain — surrendering. i knew that clarity never arrived on demand, but that it would come, eventually, on the other side of surrender. and yet right now, i feel split in two. my heart pulls one way, my head another. my inner compass has gone quiet, like it’s exhausted from all the rerouting.

my soul is tired. i can feel its frustration humming beneath the surface.

for so long, i believed that to manifest what you want, you need to become an energetic match for it. while that remains true, here’s the thing: what if i don’t know what i want? what if the thing i thought i wanted was just another version of what i was used to?

healing sometimes looks like sitting in the uncertainty, not rushing to get to the finish line, not trying to make it perfect, but sitting in stillness and allowing it to be messy and incomplete.

i’m learning that not knowing is a sacred place, too. this new place i’ve found myself in feels foreign because i am experiencing life from a new lens, a detached but soft place. yes, i still carry fragments of who i used to be but in order to become who i am destined to be, fully i need to hit reset so i can be the version of self that recognizes love when it reaches me.

as i grieve the parts of me that existed, the parts that didn’t get a chance to blossom, and the parts my soul laid out a perfectly clear plan for, but i was too stubborn to become, i find myself engulfed by empathy. the kind i usually reserve for loved ones and the broken but repairable acquaintances who draw from my light, hoping i can fill the cracks i had no hand in creating.

but maybe that’s how this chapter begins, by leading with forgiveness and shifting my perspective on healing’s timeline. always giving myself permission to restart as many times as it takes to feel at home with my human experience and reminding myself it’s never linear, never perfectly packaged with an instruction manual, but a diy project, waiting to be created as my soul’s greatest expression.

if you’ve landed in the in-between, are in a season of shedding — it’s not the end it’s a turning point. your soul is leading you back to your truth. back home.

xx,

Sapphira