I’ve been what some might call “chronically online” ever since I first got internet access. Initially, it was a refuge — a space where an introverted girl could express herself freely and find a tight-knit community of fellow oddballs. Back then, the internet, though far-reaching, didn’t feel quite as vast as it does today. Instead, it felt like a soft place to land for a person with sharp edges. It was a place to find friends without having to ask for a seat at the table. And maybe — certainly — I’m looking back on it with rose-colored glasses. But at the very least, the stakes felt lower and the pace was much slower. It wasn’t everyone, everywhere, talking so loudly and all at once.

Now, it’s my career. Let me preface this by saying I’m incredibly grateful. But today, instead of being a regular fish in a moderately sized pond, I’m a jellyfish floating around aimlessly in an endless sea of creatures big and small. There are depths so dark and unknown that I have no interest in exploring. 

I’ve watched those I once admired drift into those waters, slowly pulled toward something murky but magnetic. Did they dive in willingly? Or were they dragged down so gradually they didn’t notice how far they’d gone, or how much it changed them? Can you find your way back up when you can no longer see the sun?

And yet, I keep on floating. Because there is so much magic here. On a good day, I can’t stop marveling at the kindness, talent, and intellect around me. But on a bad day? Being different is still celebrated in the safe spaces, but it can also turn you into bait. And when that happens, I want to retreat to the shallows. Maybe even wash up on the shore and shrivel up in the sun. Anything to keep from drowning. 

And then I remember: I’m not a freaking jellyfish. I’m a fully-formed human being who can walk upon land, breathe fresh air, and touch some grass. I can leave the sea — of both terror and wonder, of chaos and beauty — and sit in the calm. I can dip my toes in the waves and play mermaid for a while when I am good and ready.

I’ll abandon the marine metaphors. 

At some point, the internet stopped being the escape from reality that I once desperately needed. For a while, I thought maybe it happened when I monetized my hobby and turned it into a career. But even when I’m logged off, my favorite thing to do is create: sewing, filming, editing, writing, making something just for pure fantasy.
I still do the same things for fun that I’m paid to do for a living. So, no, it isn’t just that. Something shifted.

I pack almost the same exact suitcase for each Patagonia trip, because I know it works for me. Here, I’m wearing a vintage sweater and vintage jeans with Uniqlo Heattech leggings underneath. And old beret, $15 aviators, my longtime, favorite comfy boots from UGG (I’ve had them for 7 years or so), and a wonderfully utilitarian backpack that’s only $25.99

Maybe it’s the ever-increasing noise.
The polarizing views with little room for nuance.
The constant discord. The insane amount of conspiracy theories. 
The pressure to tie your self-worth to numbers on a screen.
The never-ending chase for relevance. For the next trend, the next “must.”
The blurring of personal and professional boundaries, always feeling like I’m letting someone down.
I really shouldn’t have made myself the brand, because now everything feels personal.
Maybe it’s all of it.
Or maybe I’m just overstimulated and need a nap.

This Pendleton coat has traveled the world with me over the years. I’ve had the crochet beret since college. The shirt and pants are both vintage. The boots are Sorel. I highly recommend them!

Now, the real world feels like an escape. At least in certain quiet corners of this beautiful planet, and within the cozy little universe I made for myself. In this hyper-digital age, we are arguably more connected than ever, and yet somehow feel less connected than before. Disconnecting brings me an instant sigh of relief. Isn’t it funny how the place that once felt like freedom can start to feel like a trap — and how the things we used to run from become the very things that ground us? It doesn’t make for a stellar career trajectory. Not sure my agency would love to hear any of this (sorry, in advance). But my mental health holds more value than any amount of income ever could. And so, I have to take breaks. Even if it means constantly disrupting my momentum.

I’m learning to hold space for both: the joy of creating and the quiet of being. One foot in the waves of the unpredictable digital sea, the other on solid ground. 

And in hiking boots, no less. Who is she?