When I began this project, I had an assumption: If I could understand what I needed to live a beautiful, fulfilled life, all I needed was to do those things. If those boxes were always checked, I would look back at my life from my rocking chair one day, knowing I had lived my life to the fullest.

And…of course, it’s never that easy. What I’ve come to rea…

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— Sen no Rikyū, tea master, 1522-1591

Last week, I started with the assumptio…

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I was never the best at math, but I do know a common denominator when I see one.

This week, play came up during multiple conversations with neighbors, classmates, and lovers alike, which feels like a sign. It appears to be the antidote to a lot of things: a stressful day at work, your lunch burrito landing face-down in the dirt, realizing you were walking around all day with your zipper open. It’s also an enhancer, the thing you add to a joyful moment for extra oomph, and the elixir for sadness.

Which begs the question: if play is so great, why is it one of the last things we reach for when we’re down? We tapped into it so easily as kids, and somewhere along the way we, the big kids, forgot how to use it.

My friend Bradley, who drops wisdom over a morning latte with alarming regularity, said something recently that I haven’t stopped thinking about: to love someone is to bring out the play in them. If you can create the conditions for someone to express themselves playfully, you’ve given them love. Which, honestly, is such a gift. Bradley, you’re so right.

Play is a lot like art in that it can’t really be made useful, or at least its usefulness isn’t obvious right away. There’s no real point to it, and yet we all know that when it disappears from our days, things go stale. This is where I need to be putting my attention, even in my painting. If I’m not having fun, if I’m not being a little goofy with the palette, I won’t want to do it at all (hard to admit, but I've been feeling like this a lot for the past couple of weeks). It becomes a task, another box to check on the good ol’ checklist. And I don’t want that.

I’ve never been the “serious” painterly type. I’ve always been drawn to whimsical, silly scribbles, which is probably why I dove headfirst into abstract shapes and movement over a decade ago. And now that I’m thinking about it… how does an abstract painter become a serious painter? Can those two things live in the same room?

I can access my playful side pretty easily. But recently, what I’ve unfortunately been noticing is a gear shift straight down to fear when the road ahead isn’t clear, when I’m nervous about doing the right thing, when I feel like I’m in trouble or being judged or should be hustling harder. When the “shoulds” pile up, play leaves my body fast.

So what if we designed a life around play? Play looks different for everyone. It might be a ball and a sport. It might be sticks, mud, and cardboard, where hours melt away with just those three things. And is there a way to bounce back when we get overwhelmed?

Could play also be gathering everything you love, putting it all in your corner, and seeing how one thing looks next to another? What if I lined them all up in a row with the other things I like? Maybe play is the chance to frolic around your inner landscape, ask questions, and inquire about yourself. The hardest thing these days, to be and to find, is honesty. I struggle with it, and then I’m back to fear again.

Last night, before going to sleep, I had a small, interesting, breakthrough-ish moment.

About a month ago, I started talking with a sales coach about art, what to charge for paintings, and goal-setting for my business. In one of those chats, we did an exercise where we tried to get into our bodies and notice how it felt to say things truthfully: I’m an artist. I’m a painter.

He asked how each felt, and which sounded more like me. I’ve been saying “I’m an artist” and “I’m a painter” for so long that they didn’t feel right or wrong coming out of my mouth. They just felt like words.

Then yesterday, a month later, on my way to bed in a slight dream state, the words came out unprompted:

I’m a collector.

Huh. Whadayaknow. That sounds right.

These are some of the play personalities that I’ve discovered this week:

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RESEARCH THIS WEEK:

▲ The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

▲ Podcast: Armchair Expert with Cas Holman

▲ Question: What is your oldest memory of play?

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Okay, so. This project started as an attempt to figure out what it actually means to live a beautiful life. Not happy, necessarily, not easy either, but beautiful, which I think is its own thing and looks different for everyone (even more of a moving target). Over the past two years of being in New York, I kept saying yes to opportunities that looked good on paper but in all honesty, didn’t fully align with WHY I came to New York in the first place. It made me think about what it actually looks like to be in the right situation, one where I’m designing a life that I love, instead of just reacting to what’s in front of me. So, at the beginning of August, I decided to leave my job. And it was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. But I wanted to learn what it actually looked like to live a beautiful life, for me.

This is a compilation. Fieldwork, recipes, to-do lists, whatever helps me actually use the tools I already have instead of waiting for some big creative epiphany. I like to paint. I like to look at things for way too long. I like making stuff with my hands, ceramics mostly these days. I like putting books together, like this one. I like research, and I like talking to people, mostly to ask questions I already know don’t have clean answers...which, if I’m honest, is the whole reason I start any project. There’s always a thread I want to pull on and explore. It’s less about the answer and more about figuring out how I and others tick.

It’s been about three weeks since I’ve been self-employed again and, it’s slow, but I’m starting to remember things about myself. As a kid I collected things: Scooby-Doo junk, stamps, earrings, whatever tickled my fancy, I just needed to see it all lined up or bulked together. Once I started traveling, I couldn’t keep collecting objects, so I started collecting days instead. Notes on what made one day good and another day just fine. Was it the conversation? Selling a painting? Feeling useful? Getting a job I didn’t expect? Being in that state where everything just flows? I’ve been waking up with this question for a couple of weeks now, which is annoying, honestly, because the second you start trying to live beautifully is usually the second it stops working. The good stuff shows up when you’re not looking for it………which is a very inconvenient thing to build a project around.

Last week I came into the conversation with my mentor Eli Neugeboren (whom I’m building out this independent study) with a lot of “good student” energy, which isn’t really how I want to do this. I know that it’s important for me to check off all the boxes of my to-do lists, make sure people know I’m serious about this project, but I’m not interested in sit-down interviews where I ask “so, how do you live a beautiful life?” like I’m filling out a form. Too stiff and no chill. So now I think I’d rather ask the roundabout stuff and see if the real answers sneak up on the side.

I’ve been having a conundrum. I want to check all of the boxes, complete all of my to-do lists and do it well, and make sure that I’m fulfilling my four pillars properly: Documentation, Studio Time, Community/Public Engagement, and Research.

Like Eli and I chatted today, don’t go into this thinking you’re going to do all the things in equal parts perfectly… The point is that I’m going to set out to do this thing, and there will be weeks that it won’t go all to plan. And that’s okay. You will freak out in the beginning. But that’s okay too, because that will subside.

I started to think about this course and get nervous: Am I even doing the thing I invited for myself wrong? And then putting pressure on myself to “succeed”, like if I hit all four parts in equal measure, I’ll get the beautiful life prize. How to live a beautiful life — how do you even put your hands around air? It’s a mercurial thing, and I keep trying to grip it too hard. Maybe don’t define it so rigidly.

The Cult of Optimization. Why do we feel this need to build ourselves a castle of to-do lists? I think about my upbringing— no real structure, so now I impose it on myself, obsessively, like I’m making up for lost time. Maybe it connects to the tea ceremony, somehow…the ritual of it, the discipline for its own sake. Where does this need to check boxes actually come from? Why this urge to capture and do it all in one little life? It’s the optimization cult again, always. Living a good life doesn’t always mean living an artistic life. There’s probably a formula somewhere, but I think I’ve already figured it out and the answer exists within all of us, not with a spreadsheet, definitely not with AI.

And oh…and…

Can someone tell me why we need to count our steps in the first place?

Finally sitting down to carve this matcha bowl back at home after four or five hours of walking the Independent art fair. Meeting people, being part of the community for a bit. Definitely don’t have to worry about getting my 10,000 steps in today, not that I actually ever worry about that. Luke and Rowland at the Weinstein Gallery are genuinely good people. I feel lucky to know them, and happier that they feel like family.

Walking through, I had two intense feelings at once, which is annoying but also kind of the point. One: I need to go home and paint, immediately. Being hit with all of this amazing art, I had instant inspiration. Two: looming dread, because you’re in a room full of people with the buying power to decide whether you get to call yourself a successful artist or not. Which is a strange thing to feel pressure about, considering most of the work at that fair was made by artists who aren’t even alive anymore to feel it.

But there it was…this urge to impress, to fit in, immediately followed by the fear that I don’t have whatever it is you’re supposed to have to fit in. I talked to Reylia about it after, and she’s right. I don’t actually need to worry about any of that. The only job is to find interesting opportunities and talk to people. Throw yourself into the thick of it, and allow yourself to feel delight and surprise. Be brave enough to be yourself, no matter the room (this No pressure.

I don’t totally know why these two feelings need to be at war, or why I’ve decided they can’t coexist. Why can’t I make art for two different crowds? I don’t think it has to be exclusive, or as serious as I’m making it—honestly, the seriousness is what’s getting in the way of the actual making.

So… surprise surprise, the big lesson here is to just keep making.

RESEARCH THIS WEEK:

▲ elseship: an unrequited affair by Tree Abraham

▲ https://www.theideasletter.org/essay/the-cult-of-optimization/

▲ Question: As an artist or creative, how do you price your work?

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The question of how to live a beautiful life came to me during my first year of living in New York in October of 2021. I wrote down five pillars for my life, to better understand what a decent existence could look like and the daily reps must put in to make it a reality. Turns out, it appears to be a moving target, surprise surprise…and the process of figuring out what a good life is will look different for everyone.

Is a beautiful life one full of art? Is it one where you landed a cushy job no longer have to worry about paying next months rent? How about days full of sitting at a coffee shop people watching? Yup, that all sounds great— but is that all there really is?

I decided to be extra and committed myself to a deep dive of the topic by choosing it for my Independent Study for the remainder of the year. I’ll be compiling research, documenting my practice, and figuring out if there does happen to be a one-size-fits-all, a recipe book of some kind that people could follow, for artists and non-artists (is there such thing?) alike.

After deliberating for two months on a framework I met up for coffee with Eli Neugeboren, my mentor, professor, and friend whom I’m tackling this with and broke it up into four areas: Studio, Public Engagement, Documentation, and Research.

Studio Practice: Above anything, to prioritize the studio. Experiment with all kinds of work and hold nothing back. Haikus. Abstract paintings. Ceramics. Sumi-ink paintings, zines. The next three months will be myself putting all I have in my tool box out into the world to better understand my voice in a world where artists are tempted to look and sound like everyone else.

Public Engagement: This looks like going to art galleries, museums, collectors homes on a weekly basis. We don’t live in a vacuum, and I’m not the first one to do what I’m doing. Understanding what I’m drawn to and take inspiration from the community is so important, for both the art I want to create and world I want to live in. We don’t live in a vacuum, we need others to both lift us up and tell us when we could be doing a little bit better.

Documentation: I had a chat with a new friend who is a fabricator at Tom Sach’s studio, he shared that the documentation piece is almost more important than creating the work itself. Once you sell a piece of art, its out in the world and you no longer have control of it. However, if you properly document and compile, you will forever have that first touch point.

Research and Reflection: This will look like: reading pre-selected books by my mentor and I, consuming good content, interviews at Nako with my favorite arts and humans to get their perspective on what it means to live a good life. Journaling on a daily basis, maybe even doing it in community.

In the end, I have a few goals for this project at the top of my head this evening:

1. Produce— not just insight, but something concrete by the end (the zine, a small show, a body of work) that shows the framework actually produced a body of work.

2. Collect outside perspectives — a specific number of interviews (I’m going to set the goal for 5) with artists/non-artists on what "a beautiful life" means to them, so its not just my voice in a room.

3. A framework—that myself, and maybe even other creatives and artists can return to when the vision becomes muddy.

Is there a calculation for how to live a beautiful life and create an artistic practice that is both sustainable and nourishing? Can or know if it can it be measured, predicted, planned?

Let’s see what I will find.

I’ve just spent the morning peeling ginger and juicing lemons, making little shots to fuel and give my body zippy energy for the remainder of the week.

While I’m doing this prep, I reflect on my very full year thus far. I’ve been busy — but the good kind, literally getting my hands dirty playing with mud at a local pottery studio.

This new pursuit, ceramics, has been feeling so different. And like a new crush, I’m nervous…I don’t want to come on too strongly and like it more than it likes me or invest too much of myself, but honestly — I’ll just come out and say it: I found something I can see myself pursuing for the rest of my life.

In the beginning of my ceramics journey, the clay flipped and flopped despite my best efforts—it was hard, but I loved that it was challenging because it’s a humbling process. When things inevitably don’t go your way at the wheel, the fury one can feel is almost child-like, and that was fascinating to me. Emotions I thought I left behind two decades ago were still present in my body, and them returning gave me a sense of homecoming.

And now after a half a year of ceramics, I wanted to share some small lessons I’ve scraped up so far. Every potter comes across these in the first few weeks, so don’t worry, I’m not spoiling anything for you.

1- Centering

I pride myself on having the ability to remain steady, of having a solid center, and of being consistent. I joke that my super power is that I never let anything phase me. Except…until…last week: when I had the humbling realization that, under the right conditions, I can lose my center just like everyone else.

How can one find their center once it’s lost?

I’ve been toying with the answer to this, but maybe like anything, starts with being brave enough to ask the tough questions.

You can either get angry at the amorphous ball of clay or you can inquire: What did I do wrong? How can I do better next time? What needs to change for me for a different result? Can this be better? Do I need to begin again?

Man…it’s so hard to ask these, both on the wheel and in life.

…Especially when I want the answers right away.

…Especially when I so badly want to be right.

…Especially when I’m just plain afraid and it feels better to stay where you are instead of moving forward.

But the wheel has been teaching me that if you have somewhere you want to be, it starts with centering. And to me that doesn’t mean that you have to become a zen master, calm your mind, meditate for years on a rock, yadayada.

To me, centering means you just have to be brave enough to try again.

2- Clay has memory, clay gets tired

During my first class my ears piqued when the teacher told the room that clay has memory. That if you accidentally bend it one way, you can bring it right back because it remembers where it was and wants to settle back into that space.

I loved that visual and the anthropomorphizing of clay. It made me feel like the cups I made were both an extension of myself and it’s own entity.

In the making of all of these vessels, mugs, and cups, I started to think about what shaped and continues to shape me: the gift of growing up in Japan as well as the trauma of it, the hustle and grind of moving to New York without a safety net, coming across a video of a woman painting 15 years ago that jumpstarted my art career…or my first cup of coffee. All of these events have an effect and influence us as people— how can they not?

Even if the experience vanishes from memory, our bodies remember each way we are bent, pulled, and molded. And more so if we are in a vulnerable place. It’s a sad thought, yet a beautiful one, that as with creating ceramics that we are imprinted with each experience we have.

But the good news is that through frustrations, and through whatever encounters we have, that you are gifted with a wider, more informed version of yourself and your capabilities. When you are stretched beyond what you deemed possible, impossible simply becomes another foot in front of the other.

3- You have to be dramatically okay with things not working out — and that weeks of hard work and toil could all be for nothing…. except it isn’t for nothing

What I wrote Monday, 16th:

Anything can go wrong in the process from mud to mug:

When you are throwing at the wheel the centrifugal force that is making the clay spread outward can turn a well-intended espresso cup into a saucer. The drying process could crack the clay before you even bisque it. A double-glaze that you were excited about could get way too thick, run down, and ruin the piece. Even someone chitchatting in the studio could bump their elbow the wrong way and knock over work.

When I first encountered these mishaps, I was shocked, offended, saddened, when I couldn’t salvage something I had worked so hard on. And then it happens again and you are more okay with the hardships that come with the deal. Accidents, both sad and happy ones, are all part of the process. Even if the mug didn’t make it to a home on someones kitchen shelf, it wasn’t all for nothing, because something can be learned from it.

Throwing on the wheel parallels the work of personhood. After making so many mugs and mistakes I feel a little like I’ve been reborn. I’m thrilled that my technique is improving, but even more grateful that I’m reminded of patience and impermanence almost daily now. And I have to work with the tools on hand and cross my fingers that the universe conspires to help make my coffee cups. And it’s comforting to now know that if the elements of wind, fire, nor earth weren’t on my side one day, it’s okay, because I will brave the forces again.

Warmest,

Johnna

==========

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Alongside my twin sister (Reylia Slaby), I’ll be displaying new pieces in Brooklyn this July. There will be new pots, paintings, and photos.

I’ll be sharing details on my Instagram for those that want to come by, we would love to have you.

Growing up in Japan was a little bit of a mind trip.

On top of being raised in a very religious household, I was homeschooled alongside my four sisters. I don’t remember leaving the house much, but I do remember always wanting to see my friends—or anyone really.

When I turned thirteen we converted to Messianic Judaism as a family (not including my father), which automatically meant Friday and Saturday were off limits for anything social.

Because we didn’t interact with many people outside of our own family often, there was no baseline for what a normal childhood was or could be. I just accepted the situation, and did what I was told without questioning it.

“What it was like being born and raised in Japan?”… I get this question often. I find it hard to answer because I always feel tugged towards explaining all of the baggage. I end up satisfying the ears and curiosities of most people and regale them with tales of waking up to spring-time sakura trees, being awe-struck by passing views from the windows of the bullet train, and midnight wanders through lantern-lit streets of Kyoto.

But for some reason, despite how hard it was at home, I was happy. Or… content? Something. I woke up each day with a willingness and excitement to keep going.

Now being an adult, no longer Messianic Jewish, not living in Japan anymore, I look at my background as an archaeologist would—not giving into the “Why ME” but with a heart of “How curious…” I’ve started to think that perhaps I could use the unique lessons I’ve amassed to help others put one foot in front of the other. I’ve had to question certain identities that I’ve held onto so tightly for years, and it’s only since breaking them and then piecing the shards together, that I feel that I’ve come out on the other side.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t have expectations, wishes, or desires of change. I still have plenty of hopes for my life. However, what I am saying is, it can be nice to switch off the expectation facet and allow yourself to not take life personally or let others disappoint you.

Therein lies the question: How to have no expectations?

My entire life I was defined by a few main things:

Being a foreigner born and raised in Japan.

Being a twin.

Being homeschooled.

Being an artist.

Obviously theres more to it, but I held on tightly to these in particular, gripping at them to buoy me through life’s currents. I was so worried that if I lost any of them or stopped pushing for acceptance in Japan I would lose the fight. Even though I knew for years I wanted to move to New York, I couldn’t bring myself to leave Japan. My identities tied me down, and I let them stop me from traveling the world.

I gave myself conditions. I told myself that I would not move until I visited all 47 prefectures, because maybe…just maybe…if I checked off all the boxes, I would finally feel accepted by the country I was born and raised in.

Fear was the main driver then. It was terrifying to think that if these labels were stripped from me, I would cease to be myself. Who would I become? Who was I, at my core? And was that enough?

The stories you tell yourself shape your identity. If you’re thinking that you’re not good enough, that you still have a ways to go, or that you will never make it…then, that’s it. That’s as far as you will go. It’s so easy to let these negative thoughts loop in your head like a broken record. It is possible to take it off the player ourselves, but I’ve found that outside forces are what really help push the needle. In my case, my boyfriend at the time encouraged me to do what I’ve always wanted to do, so I moved to New York.

—

It didn’t take long to finally start feeling like myself in the city.

I made friends at the art school I worked at who welcomed me— they felt like home. It was a community of misfit toys that offered love and support freely when I needed it.

Thanks to those dear people in my new life during my early days of the city, I learned to embrace these identities and not feel controlled by them. They showed me that I can use these trying experiences to my advantage to connect with people. Share stories. Give others inspiration or their own journeys.

It’s because of people who gave me a chance that I’m writing this to you in my cozy plant-filled Brooklyn home right now. I will forever be grateful.

They showed me that when you are in control of your narrative, you are free.

My most recent read is the book Green Lights by Matthew McConaughey— whooo-we, what a guy.

The whole autobiography was pieced together scrapbook-style chronologically, with tidbits of wisdom that he had gathered from the time he was 14. The entire book was centered on the green lights, signals from the universe that you’re Good to Go. To Pick Up Your Head. Move.

I love thinking about life in this way because it’s a reminder to be aware of the tools at your disposal and to creatively about the moment you are in. Sure, at times you need to patiently wait for the light to change, but when it does change…and it will…you better put your foot on the gas.

His book got me me thinking about the green lights that were present in my own life, one of them being my current job.

Two years ago, I started to work for a social-impact accelerator program here in Brooklyn. I liked it enough in the beginning and everyone was wonderful in the office, but I had no context for what was happening on a deeper level. I had imposter syndrome up to my ears. Before this, I had never touched Slack or AirTable—heck, I barely checked my email. Switching to a fast paced environment while being in school full-time for the first time was overwhelming.

I told myself: I’m doing this to support my art.

But it didn’t take long before being a full-time student, working four side hustles, and maintaining an art practice started to weigh heavy. I knew I needed to cut the fat. So I decided to stop studying, choose one job and just give it my all.

When I did this the stress started to lift. It didn’t take long for it to dawn on me I had my dream job this whole time—I just didn’t see it.

But I’ve been there…it’s not easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy to have a job you don’t love. Sometimes it can be a slog. Up until this particular job, I worked doubles and late-night shifts at a ramen restaurant in LIC, a company that left me riddled with stress and exhaustion. But even if I didn’t love my past jobs wholeheartedly, I pushed myself to do my best because I felt I was working hard towards a goal. That there was something waiting for me on the other side, even if it wasn’t obvious what it was.

As I was reading this book, I found myself nodding with each page and agreeing with all of his quips, “McConaughey, you may be on to something!” I agreed with so much because I already believed in the values in the pages. It’s so essential to look at your options and think: Ok, we’ve got this to work with. How can I make this situation better? What can I learn from this? How can I creatively work my way out of this situation? What if I just…do it? I’ve always been interested in working with the various shards of life and see how I can piece them all together into something stronger, kintsugi-style. You will never know what works until you try it.

Another thing that I took from the book is to not be disappointed when life doesn’t go your way, but simply chalk it up to an experience that wasn’t meant for your. And when a green light does present itself, take the time to notice it. Be thankful. And hit the gas.

Alright alright alright.

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Growing up, every night before I went to bed I prayed to God.

I gave thanks for the day that I just had. Some evenings it took me longer to find something, but I worked hard each night to pick out the good even if it wasn’t immediately obvious. I traced my day starting from the moment my eyes fluttered open…all the way to the moment I hit the pillow. I examined both the good and the bad neutrally, thanking my Heavenly Father for any and all of it. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it developed into a pretty effective gratitude practice.

Then I left home at 17.

I began to question my beliefs and slowly started to step away from organized religion. I read more. My friends challenged me. I took a few solo trips to South East Asia and meet voyagers who believed in all sorts of things that got me thinking. And I eventually stopped believing. Because I eventually stopped believing in God, the habit of saying thank you each night also fell away.

I don’t know when I stopped praying.

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It was only after a few months after moved to New York by myself in 2021 that the ritual returned to memory.

I was about to fall asleep on my $20 air mattress of four months. It was a pretty grueling day at the restaurant and started to replay some of the challenges that had shaped my first year living in Brooklyn, adding fuel to the pity fire.

Arriving to the city smack dab in the middle of pandemic with no family to lean on wasn’t easy. Each day on my way to work, I passed long lines of sneezing, coughing folks in the dead of winter who were waiting to get their covid shots. Not knowing what could happen to me or my family who were on the other side of the planet terrified me.

I was also in a long-distance relationship. Being so far and living by myself, I felt a longing for love that hurt like no other. Everything felt difficult, but what took up the most real-estate in my head was my incurring debt and not knowing how I was going to pay it off in the city. I worked multiple jobs to save as much money as I could and only allowed my main source of food be noodles and salad from the ramen restaurant I waitressed at.

Whirling around in my brain like little koi fish, I agonized over these worries and more. I could feel the middle of my forehead lines tense up when I decided to take a deep breath in, hold it and count to three.

Breathe in: Smmmmm…

Hold: One….two….three…..

Out: Phewwwwwwwwwwww….

When I let the air out of my mouth I started speak my favorite things out loud.

Dear friends that magically found me on Instagram by chance….having a roof over my head…a job at a ramen restaurant that fed me…being close to the best bagel shop in Brooklyn…a loving parter who ordered groceries when I was bedridden with Covid…an art practice that nourished me…the local pizza man who gave me a free slice said to keep my chin up…fascinating work at an art school in Ridgewood…

I did that for about 10 minutes.

As I started to flesh out this laundry list of gratitudes, I started to think of God again for the first time in years.

Then it hit me: this was the same thing I did for years as a child, a practice that gave me strength each day. When did I give it up? How did I give it up?…

That day forward, I worked to remember what I liked and focus on the good. It was so simple but it worked. I felt lighter and happier. When I started focusing on all the good, I could’nt help but notice it everywhere.

My situation didn’t change over night, but I stopped thinking that life was out to get me— instead everything felt like a win because experience itself was the goal.

There’s so much more digging I need to do on this. Gifting myself acceptance is a daily practice, one that I’m grateful to have imbedded in my days. It took exactly that—practice. But I hope that for now, this semi-fleshed out idea of where my happiness stems from can prove to be helpful and weather a storm or two for you.

Expectations are hard not to have no matter who you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re from Japan or not. Whether you choose to move half way around the world or want to find happiness on the block you grew up on. But my advice to you is if you want to expect anything, always try to expect something good.

There is a right way to run a marathon. And I think I got about 75% of the way there.

Most things I did were, honestly, pretty perfect. I paired a lot of intentionality with a healthy dose of “let’s just see what happens.” I spent way too long deciding what color to wear, trained on and off (emphasis on off—life stuff happens), and said yes to whatever vaguely athletic challenge came my way. My boyfriend coordinated people, signs, and the Partiful—basically acted as project manager of joy. Friends showed up, strangers cheered, I ran, I smiled until I thought my cheeks would fall off.

Would I change anything? Maybe one or two small things—some pre-race logistics, a slightly less chaotic checklist, more carrots less cake—but honestly the day was pure magic.

My “right” way to run a marathon might not be your right way. But if you’re a planner, and you like to add a little bit of glitter and wonder into your future endeavors, you’re going to have a great time.

Pre-Marathon Prep

Tip 1. Don’t overthink the plan.
You can drive yourself crazy researching the perfect training program, the best gel, the exact shoe that will make you 2% faster. If you’re a first time Marathon runner, just pick something and commit. I followed a plan… loosely. I also sprinkled in various exercise challenges over the past 8 months like the “Unofficial Official NYC Walking Marathon,” a spontaneous decision to do the Brooklyn half, and a sprint triathlon in Cohasset, MA because…why not. I wanted the things surrounding the hard thing seem less hard. My main surprise during my training was that I started liking the long runs more than the short ones—something about losing track of time and just being out there, sun on your back, wondering if you still have toenails.

Tip 2. Run with people (or don’t).
At first, I thought I needed running buddies to stay motivated. But once I got into longer runs, coordinating became impossible. Different paces, different schedules, different vibes/moods. So I started going alone. Just me and my audiobooks. Turns out, solitude can be a surprisingly good training partner.

Tip 3. Make it fun.
I ran for my friend’s nonprofit (thank you Brave House for your support!), so fundraising was part of the deal. I hosted something called The Mini Olympics, which involved finding tiny versions of useful things—mini tape measures, mini Vaselines—and handing them out as prizes. It was absurd and delightful. Making the process feel like a party (or at least an art project) helped keep the whole thing exciting.

Tip 4. Document the process.
I was… not great at this. I wanted to take videos, write about it, turn it into an art piece. But I got burnt out. Even writing this now feels like reliving something almost too big to put into words. Still, my future 80-year-old self will thank me for capturing any of it.

Tip 5. Health matters (shocking, I know).
One sign during the race said, “Create generational health,” and it really stuck with me. Mostly because I haven’t quite managed that yet. Let’s just say my taper week diet leaned more toward “celebratory” than “nutrient-rich.”

Day-of Tips

/ When you see your friends cheering? Bask. In. It.
I made the mistake of rushing through photos—smiling, waving, but not really locking eyes or soaking in who showed up for me at my cheer zone. You only get those few seconds once, and they’re electric.

/ Work on your fit! I went full dopamine dressing. Glitter, color, joy—if I was going to run for hours, I wanted to look like the human embodiment of confetti.

/ Things to pack: bandaids, homemade bars, portable charger (lifesaver), tissues, anti-chafing stick. They’ll hand you all sorts of things throughout the course: bananas, bagels, gels, jelly beans, gummy bears, but bring enough snacks to keep yourself from panicking BEFORE you start the race. Eat breakfast—something boring like oatmeal and a bagel—and hydrate a bunch early on. It will also be cold in the morning, I saw a lot of people in bathrobes and bed sheets that they wore then donated. Wonderful idea.

/ Say yes to running with strangers. Some of my favorite moments came from chatting with people mid-race. Seventy thousand humans, all voluntarily running 26.2 miles for their own reasons. It’s weird and wonderful and very New York. Hands down THE best day to be in the city— energy at its finest.

Post-Marathon Reflections

Why did I do it? Why run 26.2 miles…?

It was pretty simple for me. At the beginning of the year, I met a stranger over breakfast in Colombia who told me he picks one hard thing every year. Everything else in life becomes easier because of it. I loved that idea—the challenge as a compass. Misogi as some people call it.

For me, exercise has always been a work in progress. I get bored easily. But this marathon—this chaotic, colorful, unpredictable marathon—felt like the first time I truly committed to something hard and saw it through. At least 75% of the way…but hey, I’m running in the right direction.

A huge thank you to those who donated and helped me cross the fundraiser finish line. I couldn’t have done it without you and your support.

Until the next challenge, keep wandering,

Johnna

It’s been a happy and sad birthday. Grateful, because I got to be with family. Absolutely gutted, because of why. It’s hard to accept, but like the changing leaves, we have to make peace with change, with goodbyes, with the last slice of birthday cake.

So, while celebrations are being postponed to NYC Marathon Day, I’m calling this my soft launch into 33 — and sharing 7 memories from the year that feel worth remembering.

1. I decided my marathon training plan would be... not a plan. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing — obsessively following a ChatGPT schedule, overanalyzing long runs on Reddit, or over-comparing gels and electrolytes. I just wanted to listen to my body, do what lit me up, and make it fun.
   That’s how I ended up at the NYC Unofficial Walking Marathon, hosted by Caroline Weaver — a small-shop legend here in New York. We walked 26.2 miles from Columbus Circle all the way up to Wave Hill in the Bronx. Early morning bagels with strangers who somehow became friends — easily one of the best days of my year.

   

2. A friend of mine—Gaby, an incredible painter I met at Grand Central Atelier—painted this door she found in Barichara, Colombia. A sun-worn, lavender blue perfectly imperfect door. It looked like it had seen things, it looked like it had secrets.

   I had absolutely no business going to Colombia. None. But as soon as I saw that painting, I knew I needed to find it. Like, physically stand in front of this door and see if it was real. So I booked a flight and went.

   Barichara was one of those places that doesn’t try to be charming—it just is. I met new friends in hostels, visited a paper factory that smelled like earth and lime, ate the best bread of my life, and drank coffee that ruined me for all future coffee. Somewhere between getting lost, missing a bus, and saying yes to every invitation, I attempted to deal with the unexpected as best as I could.

   Incredible experiences were gifted to us—all thanks to a door.

3. “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today” My uncle lived by this. As a farmer, he didn’t really have the luxury of waiting for “the right time.” I try to live like that too — not in a frantic bucket-list way, but in the sense of asking: Who can I share this with? Who would make this moment better? Because it’s rarely about the thing itself.

4. Discovering our favorite neighborhood coffee shop: Nako. From the moment I stepped inside, I knew I wanted to do something there so right before our trip to Japan in the summer I shared paintings I created over past year. It was perfect — donuts from Cloudy next door, 37 of my favorite people, and the kind of night that makes the city feel like it’s conspiring with you.

5. Planning the Mini Olympics to raise money for the Brave House was honestly the best kind of chaos. I spent hours scheming tiny prizes—mini tape measures, mini Vaseline, mini anything that was so charming yet useful. Playing cards, a harmonica, and of course— I’M SO HAPPY YOU’RE HERE stickers. Little things that felt like they could sneak a smile into someone’s day.

   And then the day itself. We wanted it outside, so we rolled with it—and rolled it did. A monsoon poured down like the sky was testing us, but somehow, it was perfect. The crew that showed up laughed at the shifting plans, moved with the rain, and turned every soggy setback into part of the fun. Honestly, the planning was the thrill; the doing, messy and wet, somehow made it even more special.

   

6. Biking to LaGuardia before getting on a flight. Getting LASIK. Moving into my place in Borerum Hill. Coffee in a hotel lobby with a stranger who becomes a friend. The big moments are great, but it’s always the small ones that stick — going out of our way to catch the sunset, the handwritten love letters on post-its, long squeezy hugs from family.

7. Learning to let it be both: This year taught me that things can be beautiful and brutal at the same time. A happy birthday and a sad one. A marathon that’s more walking than running. A door that opens and closes in the same breath. I’m learning to live in that in-between space — to let joy and grief sit at the same table, probably drinking something sparkling, probably laughing too loud.

   Here’s to 33 — my Jesus year, my favorite of favorite numbers. To more marathons, or anything that asks just as much of me — patience, stamina, surrender. To the people who make you feel so seen that you can’t help but become a louder, truer version of yourself. To the sweetness you can extract from everyday life — the ripe peach at the bottom of the bowl, the friend who texts you back immediately, to the crisp crunch of the reddest apple, or the moment the light hits your coffee just right and you think, okay, maybe I’m doing fine.

Keep Wandering,

Johnna

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1. The leaves are starting to go full drama— transition, and bloom into bursting fireworks of vermillion and gold, like they’ve been waiting all year for this. It was incredible to run under the canopy of trees. Another 18 miles in the books, this time around Bantam Lake in Connecticut (which, by the way, I officially know how to spell— yay for personal growth!). Immediately afterwards I rewarded myself with raspberry ice cream from Arethusa Farm Dairy. Not the most nutritionally sound post-run decision, but honestly, it was perfect. Cold, creamy, a little tart — there I was happily shivering outside of the shop in my running shoes, proud and exhausted.

2. What do you actually like, what are your favorite things? After listening to a conversation with Ezra Klein and Brien Eno, this question is really sitting with me. It’s one of the most important questions to continue to ask yourself. With all of the influences surrounding us humans from ads on the subway to political pamphlets, everything is an attempt to steal a connection with yourself.

Here’s a direct quote from the podcast you need to digest:

Ezra Klein: I understand one argument you’re making about art, which feels true to me, is that it’s a way of practicing our attunement to our feelings. I think that opens something interesting here. One thing in the book that connected for me was a quote from a musician friend of yours, Jon Hassell, who asks, “What is it that I really like?” — and says: Being able to answer that is the most important question. Why?

Brian Eno: We are being told probably about 10,000 or 12,000 times a day what we ought to like, what other people like, what some people would prefer that we liked. We’re told that in the form of advertising, in the form of political messages, in the form of all of the things that try to persuade us to think or believe one thing rather than another.

3. Humans of New York is doing a takeover of Grand Central Station (!!). I’m loosing my mind a little. I’m going to try to stop by when I’m back in the city but if I can’t, please go in place of me. Don’t forget to report back.

4. I started an anonymous feedback form for myself. I think it’s a good idea. A writer I admire said having a place where people could share honest feedback changed her life. I’m curious if it’ll change mine—or at least make me a little tougher. Right now my spine is basically a pool noodle, and I can get unreasonably hurt when I think someone’s upset with me. But I do want to know my blind spots.
   Share your secret thoughts: https://www.admonymous.co/johnna-

6. I can’t believe I’m turning 33 this month. My “Jesus year.” It feels significant, but also not at all. Between the marathon coming up and the general chaos of… life, I haven’t really thought about it.

7. On that topic… for the second year in a row I’ll be celebrating my birthday without my twin sister, Reylia Slaby. I miss her so much. She just moved back to Japan so send her some messages, presents, and love for me?

IN MARATHON GRATITUDE THIS WEEK:

A very dear thank you to the Hylants, who have quite literally changed my life. I’m barely recognizable from who I was two years ago. They’ve taught me how to take better care of my body, how to pay attention, how to notice what fits (and what doesn’t). Even down to clothes—what looks good, what feels good, what feels like me.

It’s the kind of care that reshapes you quietly, until one day you realize you’ve changed.

For those that would like to cheer me on, join the cheer zone party here. The donate link is here.

On the very last day of summer, I sat down and wrote a few things out. And I’ve meant to send it out to ya’ll at that very moment but I didnt. Because honestly? Time got away from me.

Time feels slippery lately — like it’s falling off the calendar faster than I can catch it.

1. The past two weeks? Honestly, literally *chefs kiss* perfect. Blue skies…crispy autumn air...watching New Yorkers trade in their summer fits for transitional jackets. Can’t explain it but the whole city feels like possibility is in the air —alive, a little wild, and …well…. Buzzing. Maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s me. I keep asking myself what feels honest, what feels right, what feels good. Lately I’ve stopped forcing what doesn’t work and leaned into what makes me feel awake, alive, curious. It’s a good season for that.

2. Five-minute challenge for you: look around your home. Find your favorite thing — that chair, that mug, that framed photo — and ask yourself why it’s your favorite. Why is it where it is? What if you moved it somewhere else? Sometimes intention shifts with the season, and giving things a little movement can change how you see everything.

3. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s something deeply satisfying about being on top of my errands. Returning packages on time. Hitting my monthly finance goals. Sending postcards. Meal prepping. It’s not glamorous, but it’s… grounding. The quiet joy of being a functioning adult.

4. I’ve been listening to Olivia Deans new album Art of Loving. Phew—what a title. I love asking people how they show love. Do you make coffee for someone in the morning? Do you write poetry on sticky notes? Do you take note of your friends’ all-time-favorite snacks? People are always telling you how they want to be loved— it’s usually right there, tucked between their words. It’s one of my favorite conversations…. Can you share with me some ways you love people?

5. Lately I’ve been thinking about goals and the fact that I’ve always kicked myself for never accomplishing them on time. I need to give myself more credit for always waking up with a heart that wants to keep trying.

6. What is a good balance between being happy with you are and pushing for where you want to be? I’m experiencing a feeling right now — a strange but wonderful feeling of being happy with where I am, but aware that I need to keep changing and evolving. Life is dynamic, rushing, static, there’s always something to do. So move at a pace that feels right, natural, organic. Ask yourself: What do I need in this moment? Take a big juicy breath in with me…

7. Today was supposed to be a BIG adventure — biking to Wave Hill in the Bronx (17 miles, not super heroic or crazy but still something). But instead, we ended up scrubbing the kitchen, tiling the front door with ceramics from Lisbon, laughing with friends/neighbors that live downstairs. Sometimes the biggest, most refreshing of adventures happen a foot away from home.

IN MARATHON GRATITUDE THIS WEEK:

Huge thank you to Joshua Berk — for the love, support, and the reminder that perseverance and doing what you can for others is everything.

For those that would like to cheer me on, join the cheer zone party here. The donate link is here.

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We had a full day of painting our apartment doors, meditation, listing to story-tellers on The Moth, and a birthday dinner in the city with dear beloveds. How was yours? I really want to hear.

My own reflections and recommendations from my past week are below.

1. Ran through the rain in the UK, soaked to the bone, eyes hazy from jetlag. It was 6:30 AM and was desperate to find a coffee shop with a bathroom. Thankfully, I found one. And Moroccan barista graciously allowed me in and even gave me free breakfast. We ended up having great conversation, and he told me he loves cafés so much that when he sees an owner drowning in customers, he jumps behind the counter and works for free. No résumé, no transaction. Just the pure joy of pitching in. The world could use more of that.

2. Lately there’s been a phrase rattling around in my head—leave room for oops. My boyfriend picked it up from my boss, and I stole it from him. In Japan, I tried to cram every moment with shrines, sushi, neon alleys. It was suffocating. Life needs gaps. Silence. Time for accidents and mistakes. That’s where the real stories are hiding.

3. Cate Hall said in her Ted Talk that life hides doors in its walls, if only you’re willing to look. She’s fast becoming a favorite of mine. When her Substack lands in my inbox, I stop whatever I’m doing. She doesn’t waste words. Every line feels like it matters.

4. Colombia still hums in my chest. Barichara—an oasis in the desert, where arid winds rip through cactus and Spanish moss and you find yourself chasing after a door you didn’t know you were looking for. Thanks to a friend, I stayed at Flo’s hostel, Nomad. Go. Just go.

5. What sticks with you isn’t just the highlight reel. It’s the screwups, the moments when things fall apart and you have to crawl back. Stories aren’t “a bad thing happened.” They’re “this nearly wrecked me, and here’s what I pulled from the wreckage.” If you don’t feel it, nobody else will.

6. I’ve started something called Homework for Life, coined by Matthew Dicks. One line a day, something story-worthy. A fight, a laugh, a look. Doesn’t matter if it’s big. What matters is catching it before it slips away. This week, everything seems to circle back to storytelling.

7. Most people know me as an artist. What they don’t know: I help run operations for Blue Ridge Labs at Robinhood. It’s wild, it’s fast-paced, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced and has been nothing short of life-changing. The people there—fellows, founders, colleagues who grind harder than anyone I know—remind me daily what it looks like to live to the fullest.

8. My boyfriend notices things. I move a single pot across the room, and he catches it. Most of us drift blind through our own lives. That little gesture made me ask myself: am I actually looking?

9. “What are the three most important moments of your life thus far?” — A question that was posed to me. I’ll take the next week to ponder it, join me in the thinking?

10. Ten miles in Prospect Park yesterday, one of my longer runs as I get ready for the NYC Marathon in November. (Come yell at me from the sidelines on race day!) This week I ran for Kyle, my first donor. Around mile seven, when my legs begged me to quit, I heard his voice in my head: you’ve got thissssssssss! Sometimes, that’s all it takes—one voice keeping you upright when your body wants to fold. Thanks so much Kyle and Happy Birthday!

Keep Wandering,

Johnna

I’m at the tail end of a trip to Japan, and excited to jump back into New York life. For now, here are ten reflections and recommendations.

1. Japan in August is no joke. Ninety-five degrees, humidity like a wet towel wrapped around your lungs—but we got through it together. My friends and I stumbled through the heat—but in those moments, the country (and especially Kyoto + my hometown of Ikoma) still found ways to sucker-punch me with beauty. My absolute highlights were meeting Juno and visiting her cafe Carinho, taking the cable car up to Hozanji Temple in Ikoma, and paddling a row boat to an island conveniently located in the middle of a lake in Nagano.

2. Case in point: kayaking on Lake Nojiri in Nagano. There’s nothing like shutting your brain off in the middle of a lake, a volcano in the distance, a temple perched on an island, mountains closing in all around you. Pure silence. It’s the kind of place that makes you question why you ever open your phone. Highly recommended.

3. Coming back to Japan after two years in New York is complicated. This is the place I was born and raised, but I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to the freedom in New York—freedom to move your body how you want, say what you actually think, exist without apology. Here, sometimes it feels like you’ve got to keep your elbows tucked in, even when you want to throw them wide.

4. Back in Brooklyn Heights, I’ve only got a few more days left of The Regular, my art show in collaboration with local shop Nako. If you’re in the neighborhood, go grab a latte there and say hi to Kat and Okan, the owners. Let me know which painting you resonated with the most. Purchases can be made here.

5. On the plane, somewhere between dozing and dehydration, I rewatched the first ten minutes of Dead Poets Society. Robin Williams’ voice echoed before I knocked out: Seize the day. Make your life extraordinary. It’s corny, sure, but it sticks. You only get one shot—so are you actually living it, or just running out the clock?

6. Other takeaways from this trip: stories are only as good as the scraps you bother to write down. A podcast reminded me of that—capture them, all the small details, before they disappear.

7. And then there’s loss. Andrea Gibson died in July and like so many others, I’ve been gutted by it. I never saw them perform live, but their words—tender, radical, unapologetically full of love—have this way of grounding you. A couple of my favorite poems of theirs still pull me back to earth when I need it. One of them you must listen to is called The Birds Wrote Me A Poem.

8. “How do you become a person of substance?” That question keeps circling me. Maybe it’s just knowing what the hell you want, or at least daring to admit when you don’t.

9. I’ve been moving a lot this summer—family, friends, flights. Now I’m in the UK again. I don’t have many new recommendations besides taking a stroll down Little Venice in London. The canals and narrow boats are a treat for the eyes.

10. One more thing: I’m running the NYC Marathon in November for The Brave House, my friend’s nonprofit for young immigrant women. If you want to support, donate, or just share some hard-earned marathon tips, I’m all ears.

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A mix of thoughts, emotions, and feelings have been rushing through my petite 5’1” frame this past week. A swirling storm of pride, disbelief, a bit of joy, and a loud nagging voice that saying Keep it to yourself. Everyone does this. It’s not that special. You’re 32, late to the game.

But the reality is, two years ago I came to New York from Japan with only a suitcase and an acceptance email from a school in Tribeca. It wasn’t an easy month—moving from sublet to sublet without a place to properly land was stressful, but I had a lot of optimism and a lot of luck.

To give you some background, I grew up in Osaka, Japan. I was homeschooled there my whole life. Which may sound romantic and free until you realize that “graduating” just meant closing the last page of a textbook in my living room and saying “I guess I’m done now.” No ceremony. No classmates.

I desperately wanted something more, a checkpoint of some kind so I contacted a friend’s mom to ask how I could get a real diploma. She referred me to an obscure company located in small town Maine that offers diplomas to homeschoolers. I sent the company my self-documented transcripts, paid the company $100 dollars, and then ta-da…. I received my diploma via Hotmail.

No string quartet, no bells and whistles, and honestly no real guarantee that it was legitimate. But I did it for myself to feel that I had graduated. To me, it was something.

But the question lingered for years: Will I ever go to school — like really go to school?

Since I was 5 years old, I have had a quiet craving to be a part of something bigger. I wasn’t exactly sure what it looked like, but I believed school was one of the missing puzzle pieces. I caught glimpses of the community and connection I craved in customer service jobs throughout my awkward teens and roaring twenties, where I would find joy in fleeting interactions with strangers. My twin sister and I also built pockets of good people to surround us with in Japan, even though being in a culture with xenophobic beliefs can feel like swimming upstream most days. Some part of me always knew I wanted to find my home —I just didn’t know where it could be.

Now looking back at myself five years ago, both leaving Japan and getting a degree felt impossible. Today I’m living in Brooklyn, one of my favorite places in the world with my favorite people, and have a diploma with my name on it. I have a home and a direction.

But it didn’t happen overnight nor by myself. I got here because of people. Friends who planted seeds in my life — quietly, steadily — and convinced me to keep going, like my boyfriend at the time who helped me navigate the Kafkaesque madness of the American education system. My piano teacher and friend, who was always there when I needed an ear to listen to my insecurities about navigating life in Japan. Good people.

So during these past two years, the impossible happened. I went to school, yes. But I believe learned far more from facing down my own voice of doubt, and from being reminded that most of the tools I needed — I already had.

Here are a few things I learned — or maybe just remembered:

Look at people’s faces. In Japan, I’d always looked at people — their faces, their eyes, the tiny micro-movements that tell you everything. It was my subconscious way of connecting to others and extending gratitude. But then, I stopped. I’m not exactly sure where along the line, but probably sometime during the years Covid plagued us. Then when I came to New York and I was immediately overwhelmed by the city. Too much noise, too many smells, and scary people. I found myself averting my eyes to shoes or subway floors.

But then — as slowly as it left — curiosity came back. The act of seeing. I started to look again — at classmates, at people on the train, at the stranger walking past my stoop while I drank my morning coffee. I find that luck lives in this exercise: not in some cosmic lottery, but in attention. In noticing.

I’ve been showered with serendipity this year and “good luck” because I’ve made it a point to pay attention and make sure I have my antenas up, whether it be in the classroom or when I’m waiting in line to buy oat milk. Bill Burnett in his awesome video on designing your life put it best: It’s about paying attention to what you’re doing and keeping your peripheral vision open. Because it’s in your peripheral vision where those interesting opportunities show up.

Watch your internal narrator. Your brain is a great fiction writer. It spins narratives 24/7 and a lot of them can be negative, untrue, and just plain gomi. Mine used to say: You can’t go to school. You’re too late. Too behind. It was only when people started telling me it was possible that I finally started to believe it for myself.

While I don’t believe in keeping up a façade of false rainbows and sunshine, I do think catching the stories you tell yourself and rewriting them when they no longer serve you is terribly important. I choose to romanticize my life and be grateful for each moment, not for Instagram, but because I believe it’s why we are alive.

Move. I learned this from professors in school, from my colleagues at Robin Hood Foundation, and from the guy I love. If there’s something to do — do it. Especially the small, annoying things. I’m human and I want to put off as many administrative tasks as I can, like returning Amazon packages or replying to emails. But, I know my future self will always thank me if I tie up loose ends quicker. Don’t listen to that voice that says I’ll do it later—have a bias towards action.

Maybe you’re not really trying. Yeah, this one stings.

This past semester I had a professor who made class feel like a dental appointment without anesthesia. Gloomy master copy assignments, incessant unnecessary critiques— I didn’t want any of it. I told myself that the reason I was completing the assignments with a lackluster attitude was because I was too busy, too uninspired to really give it my all, too annoyed at my professor for not seeing how his words impacted me and my fellow students. But in hindsight, a lot of my inaction bubbled up from fear. I was scared to try and still fail.

Until the very end—when I snapped out of it.

I realized I was more obsessed with the grade than the work. And worse—I knew I could do better. I wasn’t trying my hardest.

Don’t make excuses, instead get obsessed and dig in. Make something that makes YOU proud.

Document everything. There is a Mary Oliver quote I adore: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell all about it”

Four years ago when I first came to New York, I told myself that my M.I.T. (most important task) is to document everything. Blog it. Sketch it. Record it — whatever. I’ve been telling stories online for 15 years, so it didn’t seem like the biggest challenge. But juggling that with being a full-time student, working at a social impact org, and trying to have a life… it’s a lot.

Most days it feels like I’m trying to capture butterflies. Most memories escape, some I manage hold on to.

Like the first time I walked through the school halls looking for my class. The first time someone tried to cheat off me during a test. The first time I wore a cap and gown. The first time I received a diploma. Everyday as I fall asleep I run through the day and try to remember everything, from the tiny to the extraordinary.

At 7:00 a.m. last week, I walked to Barclays Center alone. I stood in line forever but I didn’t care—I felt happy. My boyfriend and dear friend were in the bleachers waiting, waving, whoo’ing, they even made me a sign for the occasion. I initially sat with strangers but made friends with an older gentleman—also graduating, also not on the usual path.

And MAN, did he have energy. He was the first one up dancing when the music started, shouting “BRING IT!” with his whole body. He was so happy everyone else got excited by just witnessing him. I loved how much he was loving it.

Sometimes I can be on the shyer side, so I couldn’t quite match his enthusiasm then but I danced a little, and then started doing more watching then dancing. Then he noticed I was watching him.

He grinned.

“You got to celebrate, it’s bigger than you — you know?”

And I did. I do. I will.

SPECIAL THANK YOUS: Reylia Slaby, Kevin Hylant, Karen & Steve Hylant, Scott Doty, Keiko Okumoto, Rashaad Eshack, Joshin Atone, Kelly Hewlett, Jake Adelstein, Emily Fish, Josh Berk, Kimo RedeR, Xico Greenwald.

-Brooklyn. Rain. A fluffy white poodle snuggling up on a fluffy white blanket. With spring break finally here, I feel like I’ve got time — real time. No serious deadlines, just enjoyed the clinking of a spoon in a mug of coffee this Saturday. People-wat…

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This post’s format is stolen from Sasha Chapin, who apparently stole it from Mari Andrew. Two creatives and writers who I admire to no end. Thank you for inspiring me to organize my brain today. 🧠

It’s been over three weeks since I left the frigid winter wonderland of New York in exchange for the sun-drenched chaos of Colombia— a journey that I had been hoping to take since last December.

Like any trip worth taking — or life worth living — it’s been a mixed bag of emotions and experiences, highs lows, and everything in between. Smooth sailing until, BAM, you hit a pothole big enough to swallow a Vespa. My boyfriend and I have a name for these moments: topes. The Spanish word for speed-bumps. It became an inside joke between the two of us last July in Mexico when our motorbike decided to get a flat tire in the middle of a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Before I get into the laundry list of our latest topes (or maybe I won’t; I’ll see what I feel like sharing), let me tell you about today’s highlight: I got a manicure. For the second time in my life.

Yeah, I know, a big milestone.

I spent a good 30 minutes on Pinterest scrolling through nail colors like a rookie — clueless but slowly got excited about treating myself again. And then, of course, the thought crept in:

Wow, you’re 32 and you’re just now figuring out how to do your nails?

But shame doesn’t get a seat at my table this year so I told myself to just focus on fun and zipped over to the only salon in town with a reference photo of a hand with burnt-orange nails.

Once I arrived, I roped two sisters from Spain mid-facial into helping me translate but I quickly realized that this little salon wouldn’t have the exact color I had hoped for—life, as usual, demanding compromise. So, in the spirit of rolling with it, I picked a color inspired by the door I’d come to see in town. Yup, a door. That’s the kind of thing I travel for.

As the señora worked her magic on my nails, I somehow managed to explain, in my basically non-existent Spanish, the story of how I ended up in Barichara, chasing a door. She nodded politely and smiled, then launched into a half-hour monologue of rapid-fire Spanish that I understood maybe 10% of. Still, the color turned out fine, so we’ll say I nailed it. *Ba dum tss*

Later, Kevin and I grabbed gooseberries and tomatoes from a fruit stand and made our way home on our sputtering rental scooter. The roads here are crummy, full of craters and cobblestones, but we managed to get through the turbulence another day—or so we thought. The next morning we spotted a massive crack in the fairing. Probably caused by blasting through one of the potholes in the dark.

But whether it be topes or tiny victories like a cute manicure or popping zesty gooseberries over a movie, it’s important for me to find humor in the potholes. I’m happy to soak it all in, jot it down, and relish in all of the yummy ridiculousness of life.

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“Fall in love first…” is what the German guy at the hostel recommended me to do after breakfast when I was asking him if my film camera was good enough or if I should invest in a better one.

Last year I started learning how to like things.

And not just like things in the casual, offhand way we all pretend is second nature. No, I mean really like things — and know why I like them. It feels weird to say, almost embarrassing because it’s one of those things you assume everyone figures out early on. Liking stuff? That’s super duper basic, right? A human instinct, like breathing or craving carbs.

But now I’m not sure it is.

Looking back, I’ve realized that growing up in a house with seven people — a constant circus full of noise and personalities — shaped my life in ways I’m just now learning to understand. In a crowd that big, the loudest voice tends to win, and it’s easy to just go along with the current. I wasn’t the loud one, and honestly, I never really wanted to be. There was always someone else with a stronger opinion, and I learned to follow. It ain’t good or bad — it just was.

But this year things shifted. I’ve done some work and digging into what makes me tick, peeling back some layers, and learning to advocate for my own preferences, no matter how small. And I’ll say this: liking something isn’t as simple as it seems. It takes effort. Practice. My boyfriend, and his effortlessly curious heart, deserves some credit here.

In a lot of ways, he’s been my personal trainer in the art of liking. Every time he asked where the flowers look best or when he pushes me for my opinion — then nudges me to even further explain why— a little workout for my neglected “like” muscle.

Because here’s the truth: liking things is a skill. It’s not innate to me; it’s something to flex, sharpen, and own. And if you don’t, you risk becoming a leaf in the wind, floating wherever some else’s preferences take you. You end up liking things because someone told you to, not because they sparked anything real inside you.

But when you stop and ask yourself what you like—and why—you start to see the world differently. It becomes about carving out a space for yourself in a world full of noise. And I think that’s worth something.

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In ending, some more things I want to do in 2025:

1. Always carry flowers in my backpack when I take the subway.

2. Plant lemongrass and rosemary in the house.

3. Bake more and arrange “drop-offs”, days where I bike around Brooklyn and be muffin Santa Claus as an excuse to catchup with friends.

4. Everyone has gratitude lists but I want to make delight lists, things that *it’s in the name so I probably don’t need to explain it* delighted me through the day.

5. Write one letter a month in April, for National Letter Writing Month. Maybe I can get a group of people to do it with me? SIGN UP HERE.

6. Start a tile collection.

7. Always have a poem in my back pocket to memorize.

Keep Wandering,

Johnna

January 1: Remembering

One random Thursday in last May, I walked out of school and got pinged: feedback on my English paper had arrived.

I had been waiting for this message from my professor for a while. It was my first piece of academic writing ever, and I’d submitted after three weeks of pouring my soul into it—agonizing over every word, revising and rereading. I asked friends, teachers, and anyone who’d listen for feedback. Even though I worked hard, I fully expected my professor’s comments to amount to a polite version of, “Nice try, kid, but better luck next time.”

But instead, I got something I didn’t expect at all: praise. I read the feedback slowly, then read it again. And again. By the fourth read, my eyes were welling up with tears.

It hit me: This is pride.

For the first time in 32 years, I realized that this is what accomplishment felt like. Kind of crazy I came this far knowing the word but not actually experiencing it.

Now, as I sit on a cliffside in Colombia on the first day of the New Year, lightning bolts splitting the night sky, I’m reflecting on that moment and what it means to feel pride—not just for what I’ve done, but for what I’ve chosen not to do.

For the most part every year-end reflection is the same story: What did I achieve? Did I hit all my goals? Did I keep up the hustle? But rarely do we pause to think about what we didn’t do. The temptations we resisted, the distractions we avoided, the bad habits we broke. It’s just as important but most people don’t talk about it.

For me, it’s been six years since my last sip of whiskey. Six years since I decided the fun wasn’t worth the hangover. I don’t even like whiskey—never did—but there it was in my back-pocket, my drink of choice at the time because I wanted to look tough, like I could keep up with the crowd. I gave it all up on 2018 New Years, and I’m proud of that.

2024 was a year of doing and not doing. I finished the semester with straight A’s, wrote a transfer essay I’m genuinely proud of (with the help of a few friends— you know who you are!), completed a couple of abstract painting commissions, and, by some miracle, stitched together a commissioned abstract piece by Christmas (7 hours of hand-stitching, mind you—next time, I’m getting a sewing machine).

But it was also a year of restraint. I didn’t let myself spiral into self-doubt (too much). I didn’t let distractions completely derail me. And I didn’t give up on myself, even when the voices around me—and in my own head—tried to tell me otherwise.

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This morning, as I held on to my boyfriend’s waist on the back of a motorbike, bouncing down a Colombian dirt road after a swim in a waterfall, we talked about words. Specifically, what word I want to embody in 2025.

For now, it’s steady.

Steady confidence. Steady pace. A steady person. I want to be someone reliable—not just for others, but for myself. Someone who shows up for their art, their writing, their relationships, and doesn’t lose sight of what lights the path forward.

And alongside steady, I’m carrying a new acronym into the new year: DND. Do Not Dwell.

No more “shoulda, woulda, coulda.” No more bottlenecking my creativity with the pressure to do it all, all at once. Instead, I’ll focus on what’s in front of me and trust the rest will follow.

So here’s to 2025. To finding pride in both the silence and the notes. To rebuilding, redefining, and rediscovering what it means to live in a body and mind I’m proud of.

Steady and DND. Let’s see where it takes me.

Love from Colombia and…

Keep Wandering,

Johnna

I’ve been sitting with a piece by Jenna Gribbon entitled Cast in a Surprising Light for the past month and have been adoring the experience of deep-looking. What is great about looking at paintings this carefully, pondering meaning behind the painter’s stroke and story hidden between layers, is that it takes me away from my own unnecessary worries.

In this whirlwind of a world and existence, it’s terribly easy to get caught up in your own self-importance. But art, stories, poetry… they nudge you to come down from your high horse, reminding you that the views not as good from there as you’d like to think.

I’m working to weave more simplicity in my life. Earlier in the year together with two people, a bud named Scott and my beau Kevin, shared and declared our “quarterly” goals. My only intention was: laughter and lightness.

Since that day, I believe I’ve embodied lightness well for the most part, but on days that I didn’t I went to bed exhausted by all the unnecessary weight I placed on my body and my heart. But art — it brings be back in alignment when my endless to-do lists rack up.

In the midst of my busy week before Thanksgiving, I found this special poem in-between copy paper and post-its:

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

Let’s go light folks, it’s the only way to travel.

I painted my face for the first time in a year today. Painting a portrait of yourself feels a lot like staring at your own reflection for too long: uncomfortable, a little cruel, and, ultimately, unavoidable. Do you know how to paint a portrait without making yourself feel awful? I don’t— at least not yet anyway. But I am getting better at sitting with that feeling, letting it gnaw at me, and somehow keep going.

Today was one of those days. A day full of small wins, sure, but sprinkled with some losses. My painting, the one I had worked on for two weeks, somehow got lost in the classroom. After searching for it for half an hour, my professor suggested I start over.

I braced myself for the pang of resistance against this task because starting a painting over is tragic. I spent a lot of time looking at the still life of eucalyptus leaves in that blue jar, now with no painting to show for it. But to my surprise, the feeling of pushback never came — I felt relief and that little voice within told me to try a self portrait. And I hate doing portraits.

So why did I feel excited? I think because I decided in that moment to give myself permission to stop hiding.

You see, I like to hide behind still life’s — fruit, vases, the safe stuff. They’re forgiving because if you fudge the objects they won’t be offended. But a face? A face doesn’t let you get away with anything. It’s brutally honest. You know who you are, what you look like. And if you get it wrong, you’re the first to know and you’ll hate yourself for it.

But today, I told myself to do the hard thing. The thing I didn’t want to do.

I decided that it’s not about getting the lines right or making colors exact to match. It’s about being unafraid. Or at least pretending you’re not.

I took the train to a birthday party with my friend Disha after class. She told me that she’s deeply afraid of marine life. I loved the answer, it’s the deep unknown, irrational stuff that we all suffer with at times. I admitted my own fear in so many words: being outed — not as something secret or scandalous, but as someone who’s afraid of consistency or responsibility. Not just of failing, but of succeeding. Of building a life, routine, a set of habits, and sticking with it. Because then you’re responsible for what happens on the other side.

Back to my classroom: I sat there today, wondering what it means to be unafraid. Wondering about the life I want to build, the person I want to become. And in that moment, staring at a blank canvas, I realized: painting yourself is like taking a good, hard look at your life. the lines, the shadows, the imperfections. The parts you wish you could fix but know you never will.

But you do it anyway. Not because it’s easy. Not because you’re good at it. But because sometimes, the hardest thing is worth doing. And sometimes the hard thing… the thing you were scared of doing… might end up becoming something you love…

… if you give it a chance.

Keep Wandering,

Johnna

Hello and welcome Friend. Thank you for joining me for another installment of The Wanderer.

I’m so happy to have you here. Giving this post a ♥ or sharing with your friends gives these letters life.

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Friends,

The Invitation:

I’m inviting you to meet me in Colombia in a tiny town called Barichara, but first I want to tell you why.

Twelve months ago, I became obsessed with a door.

It happened during a dooms-day scroll on Instagram earlier last year. I was overwhelmed by a combination of not having a place to live, going to school full-time for the first time, and a case of getting-used-to-life-in-the-big-city-syndrome.

I wasn’t expecting my fingers to stop dead in their tracks, but amongst the usual chaos of social media, I stumbled upon Instagram post that quickly changed my year.

It was a painting of a door— and I want you to find it with me.

At first glance, it’s unassuming and maybe most wouldn’t find anything special about it. But I was propelled into a realm of possibility.

99% of the time, the little voice of intuition is quiet. It’s muffled under the noise of daily life. But this time, out of the blue, it came through loud and clear:

“You need to go see it”.

To which I replied:

“…huh?”

And just like that, my mission was set. I’m going to find this door.

I guess I have to go to Colombia now

Doors are powerful.

They represent thresholds, choices, and possibilities. Some are easy to walk through, others can be devastating. Some doors can lead to places we’ve envisioned, while others can take us down turbulent roads.

My obsession starts with what doors represent — honoring curiosity, saying yes to silly dreams, and diving into the thick of things. It’s about not letting your goals become door-mant.

Life is messy, murky, sticky… sometimes we don’t hear the call clearly enough, or we let the voices of others drown it out. However, sometimes walking through the “wrong” door can lead to the right one.

Whenever we can, we should take the chances that feel right, no matter how strange they might seem to us or others in the moment.

And now, here I am, planning a pilgrimage to see a piece of wood in a tiny Colombian town.

And that’s where you come in— I want you to join me.

The Request

Was it a physical door, like your childhood home? A metaphorical one, like saying yes to an opportunity that terrified you? Or maybe… a door you missed and wished you walked through? What are some gateways you are passing through now?

Tell me about your doors.

You can share your story through this portal, or if I see you in person I can give you a postcard to write on—heck, I’ll even stamp it for you.

Let’s explore these questions together, and get better at following that little voice.

Because life is full of doors. And I believe the best ones are waiting to be opened.

Signing off with music and poetry,

Johnna