Although I would’ve probably benefited from a little more Type B in my life, I couldn’t fathom the alternative: floating through my day without a meticulously planned schedule, trusting other people’s competence, and not packing a plethora of granola bars for the off-chance I might get hungry between meals.

This strong self-identity followed me through my teens as I built an unshakeable Five-Year-Plan.

I’d go to UCLA, major in a fluffy social science (despite being Type A, I still knew I couldn’t shapeshift myself into a career in STEM), and probably end up at law school…just as my double-lawyer parents hoped. To put a bow on it, I’d marry my high school sweetheart and have kids by the time I was 23.

It was safe, secure, and most importantly: I felt a sense of control over my future.

But my senior year of college, my carefully curated vision showed its first signs of cracking when my then-boyfriend and I broke up. It was the first time The Plan had…NOT gone to plan.

I was left with a blank canvas for my life: no idea how I’d fill it OR who I’d spend it with.

...I did NOT like this.

As the foundation was ripped out from under me, I began to question everything.

The uncertainty shook me to my core. It felt like a free fall which landed me in a hole of undiagnosed depression, or at the very least, severe malaise. (This was 13 years ago, so who really knows what Mental Health was !)

The rain cloud lasted a year or so, and only began to ease as I made the first of many decisions that went against my conventional programming. Rather than the path of law I figured I’d eventually resign myself to (I got straight A’s in college JUST IN CASE), the free fall gave me permission to *officially* decide I wanted to work in fashion and do this thing called social media.

At the time, I didn’t personally know anyone else in a similar career. I didn’t have any expanders to show me a rough outline of the path. And it was 2013, so posting on Facebook was barely a legitimate career and certainly not in the parent-approved Doctor/Lawyer/Engineer trifecta.

But to my surprise, despite going off-script, my adult life began to take its own shape. Slowly, the haze lifted. And suddenly, I turned 23—no kids in tow!

That year, I fell in love with a charming Londoner living in NYC, managed to snag a different job in social media that could actually pay my rent, and moved across the country. There was still a lot to figure out, but I’d catapulted myself out of my postgrad angst in LA and onto a coast that felt better suited for my energy and preferred color palette.

—

In New York, I began again with my familiar Type A tendencies: planning the next five years, thinking about my next promotion, and ensuring my decorative pillows and kitchen towels had a similar aesthetic.

Except…something within me was shifting. The Five-Year-Plan was beginning to feel like an outdated model I could no longer wrap my head around.

The biggest turning point came when I left my corporate job in 2018 without a grand plan of what I was going to do next.

My step into entrepreneurship, again, felt like free falling.

But rather than the abyss I’d found myself in during my early twenties, this one landed me at the foundation (less dirt hole, more firm mattress) of the kind of life I knew deep down I was best suited for.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there was certainly an initiation period on this path.

When I first started my own business, I felt unusually anxious and (TMI) broke out in a mysterious full-body rash that took months to abate. In retrospect, it’s easy now to see that my mind and body were slowly adapting to a higher degree of uncertainty than my iCal-Is-My-Bible self was previously accustomed to.

The ups and downs of self-employment took years to get comfortable with. But this also afforded me more flexibility and adventures than would’ve ever been on my 18-year-old self’s Bingo card.

These years solidified my belief that comfort with uncertainty is KEY to building a life on your own terms.

I think about this idea a lot.

Growing up, I (and the entire millennial generation?) was given a prescribed path. Study well, get into a good college, find a stable career, get married, work hard, buy a house, have kids, work even harder, and eventually retire. And if you’re lucky, spend your golden years taking Alaskan cruises and fixing things around a house that is too big for empty nesters.

Not knowing anything outside the beige-lined streets of my suburban hometown, I submitted my application to this school of thought early on. There was comfort in this dream.

Ironically, my parents, who were big proponents of this traditional path for ME…had done the exact opposite for most of their adult lives.

They spent their twenties traveling and working odd jobs, and most of their thirties living between India and a commune in Oregon. When they finally emerged back into the mainstream, they used The Plan to put down roots and tether themselves to conventional society.

But growing up, I heard very little of their pre-Me adventures and a lot of “you need to go to Kumon so you can get into a good college.”

While I’m very thankful to have had the privilege of being raised in a house where higher education was the expectation, I’m also spending a lot of time unraveling parts of this traditional narrative as I figure out the kind of life I want to continue to build.

I completely understand why most people find comfort in having things mapped out. But while some may feel a sense of “security” (this gets quotes because: Man plans, God laughs 😅) knowing where they’ll spend the next few decades...I often find myself with a distinctly different reaction.

Where’s the fun in having the next 25, or even the next 5 years, planned out??

Although my Type A roots still looove a routine and would be happy eating a chicken salad wrap for lunch for the next century, I also find delight in letting the bigger path slowly unfold before me. Despite the uncertainty, the joy that comes from finding obscure clues and little breadcrumbs along the way, makes up for the discomfort tenfold.

The past few years have, again, felt like a free fall. But this time, with two previous rounds under my belt, I’ve noticed my tolerance for uncertainty has increased.

What would’ve felt like a dive straight into an ice bath when I was a newcomer, feels closer to a brisk dip today. And what gives me even greater comfort is: I don’t think I’m alone on this path.

My hunch is, with how rapidly technology is changing and how the economics of The Plan no longer add up for most, a lot of people’s blueprints are due for a massive reevaluation, too. And those who have suffered at the jaws of their own Type A tendencies over the years…may be the ones needing to make the biggest shifts of all.

For those of you reading this who firmly (proudly!) identify in Camp A and shudder at the idea of off-roading it to Camp B, I’m not suggesting you go rogue and start venturing places without looking at the Google Maps ETA. I’m merely offering an off-menu alternative.

Like most things in life, we rarely fit into the boxes we’re asked to pretzel ourselves into. Maybe Type A feels too rigid, while Type B feels unmoored…

But what about: a Type C? Perhaps a “Create Your Own” category is the option we actually need to navigate the unknown.

It’s planning when you need to, while trusting your own competency to handle whatever comes your way when you don’t.

It’s pulling out a pocket-sized weathervane, rather than a windbreaker, when you feel a strong gust in your direction. Calculating its velocity and leaning in, rather than complaining how cold it is.

It’s maintaining your own agency, while relinquishing control.

It’s looking at the menu, not loving the options, and remembering that everything can be customized. (Once the people pleaser in you gets over the discomfort, I SWEAR there’s joy in choosing *just the right* amount of salad dressing)

It’s trusting that if you’re entering uncharted territory, if the path before you isn’t clear: what’s truly yours is probably a lot closer than you may think.

So what is it, really? Competent, calculated, customized, (crazy)…or perhaps all of the above??

The best part is: you get to choose.

Welcome to the club 😘

Hello from Tokyo! I wrote this on our 12-hour flight where, by the grace of the travel gods, my husband and I somehow snagged a row with an empty middle seat. Yes, we are the couple that books a window and an aisle seat and chances it with the stranger in the middle. And no, we don’t (always) pass snacks back and forth.

For part 2 of our extended honeymoon, we’ll be in Japan for the next month, and then the plan is to explore Thailand and Vietnam for a couple months after that. Itinerary is TBD (very Type C of me??), but I welcome any recommendations if you’ve been to the region and have a spot you love.

While I’m away, I’ll be doing my best to stay consistent with Recalibrating. Weekly(ish) is the rough plan, but as I learned in part 1 of our trip, travel brain is real. So holding this schedule lightly and leaving room for adventure and play in between.

More soon and thanks, as always, for reading ❤️

-Melina

In case you missed it…

Photography © Melina Peterson. All rights reserved.

^{*If we’re going by the book, envy + jealousy actually have different definitions. But IMO, language is not just dictated by Merriam-Webster, so I’ll happily be using them interchangeably :)}

But here, the stakes felt decidedly higher. These moments of unintended comparison weren’t just playing with my emotions—they were impacting my mental health.

Ironically, the biggest sting came when confronted with past versions of myself. Seeing an unprompted “memory” on Apple or Google Photos was triggering. Being reminded of a time when I was happy, beautiful, well, left me with a lingering sadness that was hard to verbalize.

So: I went No Contact. I didn’t even need to order a Brick, I just deleted Instagram and clicked some setting on Photos that limited the random slideshows I never asked for. And, it actually…worked.

Slowly, I got better.

As my own reality improved, so did my capacity to receive updates from the outside world. But coming out of a rock bottom, so close to the fray, I was in a liminal space. I didn’t want or need a seat at the proverbial table. In fact, I preferred a comfortable pouf on the floor, close enough to hear the gossip but far enough away to not have to engage.

This in-between lasted a year or so.

I noticed that when you don’t really want anything specific, it’s a lot easier to *rise above the noise* and simply witness everyone else’s success and triumphs, lovingly detached.

This probably requires further inquiry into Buddhist philosophy, but I found there were two sides to the coin of non-attachment:

On one hand, I didn’t feel the same pang of apéritif envy (I don’t even LIKE Aperol!!!). But, I also didn’t feel the desire and aliveness that comes with really wanting something.

Since starting Recalibrating, and in the months preceding it as I fought the see-saw of inspiration <—> insecurity while gestating its existence, I’ve noticed my old friend. That twinge of jealousy, showing up for coffee dates I didn’t plan and drinks it wasn’t invited to.

In 2024, exposure to anything that seemed out of reach (aka: everything) felt like an operation on a raw nerve. But today, it feels closer to a subpar acupuncture appointment. There are all these tiny, seemingly invisible, trigger points that are mildly uncomfortable. But every once in a while, a misplaced needle to the scalp and, ouch.

It’s not always overt jealousy, envy, whatever you want to call it. Sometimes it’s just a tug you can’t quite place.

Before I took my sabbatical, burnt out and still trying to *make it work*, examples of #girlbosses with successful, flourishing businesses and shiny personal brands would’ve made me feel some-type-of-way…especially if they were in the agency game. I didn’t even want to build a massive agency, but their existence was an example of everything I hadn’t lived up to and the motivation I couldn’t bring myself to muster up.

In this new phase, I’ve noticed different things diverting my attention.

A former fashion editor making a full-time living from Substack. A community-builder with an engaged audience. A consultant turned executive coach turned author. An agency founder turned “burnout” expert. And basically any influencer with a nonfiction book deal, ever. ESPECIALLY the ones that aren’t very good writers.

There’s a concept that Lacy Phillips (manifestation expert/wellness entrepreneur) uses called “Expanders.” It’s the idea that specific people can expand your worldview and stretch your capacity. They may be a few steps “ahead” of you in a given area of life, but are physical manifestations of what is possible for you, too.

Elise Loehnen expands (no pun intended) on this concept in her book, On Our Best Behavior.

I find this an incredibly productive reframe of jealousy.

That discomfort you feel when you look at someone who has something you want? Perhaps that’s expansion, not envy. Or maybe…it’s both??

Whatever the feeling, I like to think of it as an invitation…

To lean towards what makes you bristle and inquire: What is it about this person’s experience that makes me want more?

Rather than going down a guilt/shame spiral, can I metabolize this feeling into something useful?

Expanders can also change the set point, for better or worse.

One of my favorite scenes from Succession is when Tom and Connor shut down cousin Greg’s excitement about inheriting $5 million from his grandpa. While I can’t relate to that level of wealth (yet! #manifesting), there’s real truth in the satire.

When you reach a certain level of success or [insert accomplishment here], you gain access to a new pool of comparison. To a broke college student, backpacking through Europe and staying at hostels may feel like a privilege. But if your peers are all flying private and popping by their 2nd Italian villa for the summer, the set point shifts.

Thus, comparison and its more dubious cousin, envy, become a bottomless pit. To avoid getting lost in the sauce, I find it helpful to remember:

While some people may stretch your worldview and definition of success, you are likely expanding someone else’s.

It’s a constant game of reaching and looking back. But the challenge is to keep the focus on your own two feet. Even if the set point changes, how can we keep tabs on where it started?

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I believe this fully and deeply. But, asking people not to compare is requesting us to not do something that is so deeply human. We are social creatures, and our social network acts as a set of constantly moving data points against our own experiences and worldview.

So maybe the more realistic question is: how can we compartmentalize comparison into something productive?

Rather than feeling shame, what if that ~twinge~ can be our teacher?

I like to imagine it as the metal detector I plan to buy when I’m retired, live by the beach, and start my rare coin collection. Perhaps the louder it beeps, the closer I’m getting to some treasure I’ve yet to uncover…some dream I’ve yet to see in real life.

I love the idea of the duality: Envy can be icky, prickly, AND may be pushing you towards a reality that you need to see is possible for you, too.

So the next time you scroll Instagram, TikTok, Substack—whatever your comparison cocktail of choice—I invite you to just notice. What feelings come up and what might they be telling you?

Can you hold your dreams in one hand and an Aperol spritz in the other?

I’m certainly trying.

-Melina

In case you missed it…

Photography © Melina Peterson. All rights reserved.

After hunching over my computer for hours, checking my final draft for the hundreth time, I asked my neighbor to watch my laptop as I ran to the bathroom (coffee shop rules: trust no one, except the stranger sitting next to you). When I came back, relieved to find that the friendly girl I’d blindly trusted had in fact not run off with all my valuables, I was delighted when she mentioned the Substack draft I had opened on my screen.

Turns out, she was actually working on her own publication, Clearest on the Page, and had recently left her full-time job to pursue writing and embrace her own creative path. We chatted for 20 min (in a way that felt reminiscent of The Wing, and inspired me to write that piece!) and each left with a new subscriber and cheerleader in the big scary world of baring-your-soul-on-the-internet.

Listen. I’m not a religious person. And I’ve significantly toned down my New Age affiliations (alt text: woo) over the past few years. But, can we all have a collective giggle at how on-the-damn-nose this chance encounter was??

Perhaps the universe has realized I no longer respond to cryptic riddles or grand symbolism.

So, instead, it’s chosen to swoop down to my very human level, and spell things out for me the way a 7th grade teacher needs to explain directions to her distracted class of pubescent pre-teens (my friend works at a middle school, so I’ve *heard* the stories).

—

But, here’s the thing. Based on my sample size of 1, this kind of oddly serendipitous interaction happens to me a lot. Although…not always overt enough for me to want to write about it!

In fact, if you are reading this very newsletter, there’s a chance that perhaps we, too, have had a chance encounter over the years that brought us back into one another’s orbit and you…onto this email list 😘

You see, I LOVE a kismet meet.

When my husband and I first started dating, I remember declaring this as a general “Fact About Me” and him side-eyeing me skeptically. By nature, he is one of the most logical and data-driven people I’ve ever met. But over the years, as I presented him case after case (i.e. him witnessing firsthand my almost weekly impromptu run-ins with an acquaintance who I now consider a close confidant, or finishing most recaps of my day with “...and then I ran into my friend!!!”) I slowly won him over with the power of empirical evidence.

Basically, I explained…I have a deal with the universe.

When I’m on the right track, it will physically put people in my path. We’re talking literally brushing shoulders on the sidewalk. (That’s how I know me and Bradley Cooper/Matthew Broderick/Aziz Ansari are soul mates.)

But the fine print is: I need to pay attention.

And in return, it has agreed to not put anyone within my 10-foot radius A) after I get my monthly facial and look like a slice of pepperoni pizza or B) on days 1-3 of my period.

It’s a fantastic understanding, and I’d highly recommend striking your own agreement with your higher power of choice.

I find my enthusiasm for the *unplanned* is directly correlated to my confidence at that moment in my life.

In college, my angst trying to find my place in the world manifested as unacknowledged social anxiety. If I saw anyone I remotely knew in an unplanned setting, I would either actively avoid eye contact or mentally work myself up for the dreaded small-talk exchange that was about to happen.

So even if the universe was *trying* to put anyone in my path, I was most likely making a beeline across the campus quad to avoid them. Frat parties were the only exception where, 4 shots of Smirnoff in, everyone (especially the gals also in line for the bathroom) became my BFF.

The same trend continued after I graduated. My life outside of work mostly consisted of my 2-hour commute to and from the office, dive bar shenanigans with my girlfriends still in LA, and a series of bad Tinder dates I don’t have the comedy skills to recount right now.

I didn’t have enough space (literally or figuratively) to let myself be open to synchronicities.

It was only once I emerged from the postgrad fog and moved to New York that serendipity joined me in my twenty-something adventures.

I discovered that despite its intimidating exterior, New York is actually a small town. And if you let it, can be the perfect sandbox for the universe to conduct its fortuitous experiments on us mere mortals.

For the past decade, I’ve allowed myself to be delighted by these glimmers (or perhaps just outliers in the game of randomness…however you’d like to look at it!) scattered around the city and beyond.

The only requirement is: you have to look UP.

If your head is tilted at a 90° angle towards a shiny piece of aluminum or your ears are stuffed with Bluetooth-enabled plastic, it would be TOO easy to…miss your high school classmate on the subway. Or future friend in line at FedEx. Or a fellow writer next to you at a coffee shop.

Although small, I believe these little moments can have an outsized impact. Whether it’s a chance to reconnect with someone in your orbit, a ~sign~ that you’re on the right track, or simply a reminder of how damn small this great big world is.

The best part is: YOU get to decide what to make of it.

But, I’d like to think these small nudges slowly compound towards the bigger swings in life. Without them, we’re all just wandering around on an unmarked map. Or worse: following a path written by someone else.

Every time I run into someone, I accept it as an invitation.

I take quiet inventory: What part of my life do we know each other from? Can I be helpful to this person in any way? Are they up to something interesting? Or…are we just soul mates!?? Still looking at you, Bradley.

I don’t (on a good day) turn into Nancy Drew and come up with a story on why fate brought us together. When I run into my laundry lady in the neighborhood, I don’t convince myself we’re meant to go into business together. Although she DOES have the energy of a mob boss, so I am often curious how lucrative her operation is…

Sometimes, it’s simply an exercise in small talk and checking in on my nervous system (did I feel: nervous? calm? open? impatient?) Over the years, I’ve noticed the more grounded I am in myself, the more welcoming I am of these chance encounters. And the more plugged in I feel to the greater ether we’re all just ~floating~ around in, trying to figure out.

A few years ago, during a challenging season in my life, my capacity for synchronicity flatlined. I wasn’t well, and I didn’t look or feel like myself. I was embarrassed to run into people. And so, I temporarily renegotiated the terms of my deal.

I would remain invisible for as long as I needed, and slowly heal in private. The universe obliged, and thus, my world shrank tenfold.

When I finally came back to myself and out of hibernation, the original terms were slowly brought back on the table.

And now, since starting this new chapter with Recalibrating, the kismet meets feel like they’re being doled out like Cool Whip at a 90s kid sleepover.

From impromptu coffees with friends I wasn’t planning to see, to random “small world” connections halfway across the globe—every mundane moment over the past few months has been just around the corner from something magic.

My final case in point: I was putting the finishing touches on this very essay at my local cafe this weekend, when a woman walked in who looked so unmistakably familiar that by the end of my coffee shop creeping, I was convinced she was a famous actress I couldn’t recall the name of. (And turns out, my hunch was half-right.)

As she walked out, I noticed a last name was written across the back of the fitted jersey she was wearing. Then BAM, it clicked. We went to college together, but she was a couple years older, so I only knew of her the way an uninvolved undergrad (me) knows a campus celebrity.

Once I put two and two together, I obviously did a Google search the second she left the premises. And the first thing to come up?

Her one-woman show about a health crisis she went through. How she took her trauma (her words, not mine)…and turned it into art.

Really, I can’t make this shit up. Because if I COULD, I’d already have written my best-selling novel and wouldn’t be futzing with creative non-fiction on Substack.

But at this point, I no longer flinch.

Wink, seen. Nudge, felt. Sign, noted.

Because as I’m trying to navigate how TF to communicate the past few years (and if I’m LUCKY, turn it into my own art), I’m just thankful to have the capacity to engage with the world around me again.

To be creative, and feel like I’m on the right path…even if the destination is only a faint outline.

To look UP, and leave room for the kismet moments that happen in-between.

But, more than ever, to be present.

And simply, to pay attention.

-Melina

In case you missed it…

Photography © Melina Peterson unless otherwise noted. All rights reserved.

Like anything that becomes politically-adjacent, people ~love~ to categorize themselves: for or against.

But to me, being asked to pick a side is like being asked to choose between *NSYNC or the Backstreet Boys. My answer is simultaneously: both?? neither??

As with most things, I’d rather remain an impartial observer.

Ask a lot of follow-ups (are we talking y2k *NSYNC or BB Vegas residency part 1, or part 2?), then slowly formulate my POV. Which’ll likely become a Frankenstein of fond memories of JT’s Canadian Tuxedo and mad respect for middle-aged men who can rock coordinated monochrome outfits.

And somewhere in between...decide how it impacts my life. Which thankfully, for the above, the stakes begin and end with my (husband’s) Spotify morning playlist.

But for the actual AI of it all...the stakes are decidedly higher. And although I, too, no longer need to brush my teeth, my career has certainly not been immune to its impact.

Before I took a sabbatical, I could already see the writing on the wall.

The digital advertising landscape was shifting towards greater automation that required less technical skill, and more videos of influencers making protein shakes.

My entire business model of strategic digital media buying and white-glove service felt like it was becoming increasingly irrelevant with each passing minute. Clients were still paying me. But I was feverishly clacking away on my typewriter as I watched the IT department roll in an army of Tangerine-colored iMacs.

Yet, despite the allure of candy-colored plastic, I couldn’t see an immediate path forward that I was excited about.

The next best option was building my own digital marketing course. But at the end of the day, even if I liked the act of teaching: I didn’t like talking about ads. And I knew (see: writing on the wall) that the content would become outdated very quickly and I’d just as well make the training for the machines that would automate the whole process in a couple of years anyway.

So, that left me in a pickle. I didn’t have an easy business to jump back into, but I also didn’t (yet) have the superhuman energy and motivation required to start something new.

And while my life has taken its own unique turns the past few years—I don’t think I’m alone in this timely career predicament.

Today, the digital industry is barely recognizable from when I started my career. And it’s changing more rapidly than you can hate-type your responses to ChatGPT.

When I started college at the beginning of the last decade, the job(s) I’d spend the next 15 years doing…didn’t even exist yet! Social media was just sending the most junior team member out to lunch and asking them to post their fancy lemonade on Facebook. When I started each internship or job (all in the realm of “Internet”), the roles were all early outlines of what they’d quickly mature into as the industry evolved.

Simply the fact that, so early in my career, I was managing a global fashion brand’s entire social media + digital advertising presence (with minimal oversight) is actually mind-boggling to me. Truly, who gave the intern the passwords???

And yet…after what I’ve seen the past 15 years, it’s also not.

But 2026 is like 2010 on steroids.

Starting a company or getting a job right now that isn’t in some way AI-adjacent (aka everything except: massage therapist or ceramicist, which honestly the world needs more of!!) feels like building a house in the middle of an earthquake.

The ground is literally shifting under our feet.

The AI bubble is HOT right now, with a plethora of startups building-a-tool-about-a-tool-to-add-AI-to-your-business-in-order-to-say-you-added-AI-to-your-business. And while I have no doubt that a lot of good will come out of this tech boom…a lot is giving Pets.com.

For me, accepting that my old business wasn’t working (and that as I’m getting older, the world is only going to continue moving faster!! 👵🏻) was the biggest domino that’s led me on this creative path with Recalibrating. Mixing idioms here, but I’d been holding onto my old career by a thread, and letting go of plan B felt like the final straw.

The release of the “dream” that was no longer serving me has been, in one word: freeing.

Suddenly this wide. open. space. that once scared the shit out of me and made me do a ton of ~inner child~ work I didn’t really need, is being filled.

With ideas, with creativity, and with energy to create something new. I’m just working backwards and am building the shiny container WHILE I figure out what I’m going to fill it with.

And honestly? At this moment, I don’t really want to build anything related to AI. Sam and Elon seem like they’ve got it covered and I trust them with the course of human history 🫠

But, I don’t intend to go full Motorola flip-phone (although the hot pink one I had at 13 was pretty chic) and ignore technology that will objectively make my future life and jobs easier. In fact, I plan to fully embrace the tools available to help me spend less time doing work that is not fulfilling, and more time doing work that only I can offer with my unique human touch.

Because, rather than more jobs managing more AI, I think what the world is ACTUALLY going to need more of is…an antidote to AI.

The question I keep coming back to is:

As things become more artificial, how can we do things that feel more human?

In between the LinkedIn bot comments (the more human-like they try to be, the more they send chills down my spine), my feed also includes a plethora of headlines like: “AI took my job!” “I got fired by a robot.” etc. etc.

This is really happening. While the data is mixed on AI causing an immediate increase in unemployment (being objective: it’s also creating a lot of jobs!), one thing is clear:

We’re in a period of rapid change and reorganization that I hope to one day say, “I remember when…” and shake my cane at the sky.

I’m not trying to make light of this. This is people’s livelihoods. Losing a job, a client, whatever it may be, can be scary and potentially destabilizing. And I’m in the same boat. The old Taylor is dead, but Mrs. Kelce has not yet entered the building.

And/also. So, what?

For every Knowledge Worker who is being made redundant, there’s also someone still working in tech posting Corporate Girlie TikToks, or lamenting their “golden handcuffs” and dreams of doing something different. If only…

But what if the “if only” is: The Machine is going to take the job-you-hate away soon, too.

Perhaps, rather than picketing AI and asking for our water bottles back, we could use this as an invitation. Perhaps, this is our collective permission slip.

What would you rather be doing instead?

-Melina

In case you missed it…

All Photography © Melina Peterson unless otherwise noted. All rights reserved.

Every year, one-by-one, I’ll wish each of them a happy solar return for an age I’m eventually going to turn…in some far off distance future. I soak up the ~beauty of youth~ throughout the year, whilst my elders relay their wisdom and experiences of the season that lies ahead.

There’ve been a few ages that collectively felt like cliffs. No turning back from—good OR bad.

The year we turned 21, everyone celebrated their newfound freedom and unofficial start of (real) adulthood. But when it was finally my turn, I felt like I’d reached the end of a marathon. And by marathon, I mean, a year of nervously using a friend’s sister’s expired license (hoping there’s a statute of limitations on Substack) to get into all the college bars that my “older” friends had been able to freely enter, some for nearly a year.

When I was finally old enough to legally order a martini and live out my sophisticated city girl dreams in LA, I realized a) martinis taste like poison and b) I had a lot of growing up to do.

I graduated a few months after my 21st and was promptly ejected into the working world. In this new domain, I was really the youngest of my colleagues (this time by 10-30 years!). And while I’d reached the height of seniority in my college bubble, I also realized I was effectively a toddler in the real world.

Our twenties came and went. With each passing year bringing a combination of “we’re getting so old!!” and later realizing…we had been so young.

There was no in-between and certainly no “winning” at the age game. The age I was currently was always too young or too old, depending on the context. I was only able to appreciate each age in retrospect, a revelation usually occurring 2-3 years after the fact.

The next cliff was the year we all turned 30.

As I watched each of my peers (elders) enter their new decade, the consensus was overwhelmingly positive: “It’s great.” “Highly recommend!” “Your twenties suck, but 30 is amazing!” One by one, I was sold the dream that turning 30 would: 1) remove all my anxiety 2) make me more beautiful, and simultaneously 3) I wouldn’t give AF what other people thought.

This sounded great. I was in!!

Except…the year I turned 30 actually kind of sucked. My birthday was in the midst of a season in my career that stretched me to my limits. Professionally/financially, the “most successful” but, physically/emotionally/spiritually, the most taxing.

It was the beginning of the end of my marketing agency.

The summer (I Turned Pretty), I mean, before my birthday, I was knee-deep fire fighting challenges with my business. Playing whack-a-mole between hiring, firing, new clients, losing clients, rinse-and-repeat. Nothing out of the ordinary in the land of agency ownership, but something I was realizing I did NOT want to spend the next decade doing.

I didn’t come up for air all summer, and by the time I turned 30, I felt…old.

I was tired, and also couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt truly carefree or had fun. I’d been working nonstop since I was 21 and could count on one hand how many vacations I’d taken the past decade.

The rest of 30 continued in a similar fashion until I decided I needed to call it quits and take a sabbatical.

And well, the rest is history.

4 years later, this birthday feels like another “cliff.”

As my friends have each turned 34, the excitement they’d expressed for 30 seems like a distant memory. The vibe for this specific age has been: “33 is young, 34 is old…” “34 hits different.” Or my personal favorite: “33 is thirty, 34 is forty!” (credit: Giggly Squad).

But somehow, their very sound math is not adding up for me.

Although I completely know what they mean, my experience of this birthday feels different.

This birthday is finally an age I feel comfortable saying out loud.

I’m old enough to have done some things, and young enough that I’m not (yet) trying to turn back the clock with external ~intervention~.

I spent most of my twenties pretending that I was older. Or at the very least, subtly concealing my age.

And honestly, with good reason.

I was already young for my grade, had graduated early, AND started my own thing at 26. Which in retrospect I realize was pretty young to have called it quits on the corporate world. But I felt like I’d already seen too much *blows out smoke from cigar*.

For a while, I could easily assume that my team, clients, and industry “peers” were all older than me. I didn’t want people to judge me because of my age. I was a ~serious businesswoman~ and wanted to be treated as such!

But suddenly, I blinked, and I was a decade older than I used to be.

And now, 34 feels like an age I had previously deemed as “grown up.”

Age-appropriate for things like having your own business, being married, etc. It’s also an age where, regardless of what path your twenties took, you can assume you have a solid amount of experience in SOMETHING. Whether it’s been 13 years of climbing the corporate ladder or a series of odd jobs and youthful adventures.

My logic is: if you’ve done anything for a decade+ (even if it’s fumbling through adulthood), you have some level of credibility. Just for showing up.

—

The past 3 years, I’ve experienced an interesting phenomenon. On one hand, it feels like I’ve aged far more than 36 months, and have alchemized the challenging hands I was dealt into half-wisdom.

And simultaneously, I feel…a whole lot younger.

It’s as though I’ve left all the baggage of my past 34 years at the airport. Which looks eerily like my beat-up Away luggage. At one point they were new! chic! millennial! And now, I look at them and just wonder: why is half my suitcase taken up by this useless cell phone charger?

So, I’m traveling lighter.

I spent my entire life wanting to be older.

I have it on record that in preschool, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I said, “A good wife!” We don’t have time to unpack that here.

Then in elementary school, it was an “Advertising Executive” (be careful what you wish for!!! Also, couldn’t I have just been a normal kid and said astronaut?)

At 18, I thought I’d have kids with my high school sweetheart right after college.

At 21, I actively chose to graduate early because I was so damn excited to enter the real world.

At 26, I girlbossed to close to the sun and wanted to build a Lifestyle Empire.

Now at 34, I’m finally a good wife (6 months and counting!), and all I want to do is write, backpack through Asia, and chill??? Lifestyle Empire goals may still be in there, but one step at a time.

I’m aging in reverse, and I’m okay with that.

This past year has been all about playfulness, ease, levity. I’m in my soft girl era because I already had my hard girl epoch (which based on my Inner Child calculations, started around 12??)

Now, I’m trying to figure out all the ways I can get back in sync with the person I used to be.

In the words of Dame Pamela Anderson:

I only have half her years of experience, but her sweet words (+ photos from that gorgeous garden!!) landed with me.

Is getting older simply a process of...coming back to yourself?

So far, it’s been a practice of loosening my grip. Rather than focusing on the older I’m getting, I’m leaning into the youth I still have left. Perhaps because it feels more fleeting than it did 15 years ago.

At 21, I drank deep cab sauv like a 55-year-old divorcée. Now, I prefer sparkly fruit juice (the sommeliers call it a Funky Orange).

At 26, I wore structured blazers. Now, most days I’m dressed for Risky Business.

At 30, I wore my hair in a tight bun. Now, I’m letting it run wild.

At 34, I’m taking school pictures and feeling giddy for the year ahead. Now, this is me 💛

In case you missed it…

As she shared this anecdote, I felt deep in my nervous system, that I knew this *specific* cocktail of emotions well.

Before I started working for myself, I remember the occasional afternoon where I’d leave the office early for a client meeting and manage to sneak in a 3pm yoga class afterwards (guilt! thrill!). And every time, to my surprise, the class was brimming with students. They were usually the advanced yogis who did handstands as a warm-up, had just gotten back from a stint in Costa Rica, and wouldn’t be caught dead in the 6:30pm ClassPass crowd.

While taking my five breaths in downward dog, I would mentally scan the room and wonder…what do these people do for a living? How can they just…be here on a Tuesday afternoon? And most importantly, what do I need to do to have their lifestyle??

I would leave each class feeling stretched. And not just from the hanumanasana (splits) I couldn’t do. But from the 60 minutes in which my worldview had expanded…just a little.

A tiny seed had been planted for a life outside the frame of a 9-5 desk job.

And I’d spend the next few years waiting for the harvest.

My friend asked me if I had any advice for her predicament. And as I fumbled to respond with something vaguely productive, I also realized it had been a long time since I’d felt that feeling. It dawned on me that I’d been going to afternoon yoga (+ actively avoiding the rush hour crowd) for 8 years since starting my digital marketing agency. And I realized I had, gulp, maybe even begun to take it for granted.

Which in turn, brought its own cocktail of emotions: love for the gumption of a younger me, pride for the life I’ve built on my own terms, and worry that I might be losing touch with reality. I haven’t yet secured the funds (or land) for my commune in Topanga Canyon, so I need to keep a foot in society until then !

I left my “corporate” job in 2018.

And I put this in quotes because, what really is corporate anymore anyway? At the time, the company I worked for would not have categorized themselves as such. They were a cool (being generous here), young digital marketing agency with an open-plan office, chalkboard-walled conference rooms, free snacks, and a lenient pet policy that allowed me to witness an office pit bull be nursed by a bottle, from birth to adolescence, in the row of desks behind me.

At one point, there may or may not have been a bean bag, but that could just be my own hallucination from the collective unconscious of Big Tech.

It only took me a few weeks on the job to know it wasn’t the right fit. But I also couldn’t see a viable escape. Google + Meta seemed to have more snacks and nicer views?? And, also: same shit, different ergonomic rolling chairs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t imagine myself enjoying a slightly cushier alternative much either.

I knew deep down, if I didn’t want my soul to die a death by a thousand pings, I would eventually need to leave the open-plan office life in search of something different.

However, I didn’t throw caution to the wind right then and there.

I still had a lot to learn (pivot tables being one of them, a pre-AI skill I won’t let you tell me was a waste), a lot of network to build, and a whole lot of plans to figure out in the meantime. So, I rode it out and stayed a few years, silently plotting my escape in the background.

In the beginning, I didn’t have a lot of examples of what a life outside the ~corporate matrix~ could look like.

I had a few former colleagues, all 10-20 years my senior, who were doing something called “consulting.” But at the time, I thought this was mainly just a term people used to mask a career break or gainful under-employment. And it still can be, no judgement!!

It wasn’t until I joined a women’s community and dipped my toe into the #girlboss world that I started to see more examples of people building a life on their own terms.

Rather than a cramped conference room’s fluorescent light, they were working under the glow of a warm cafe’s sunroof, artisanal latte in hand. They took a couple calls, ran to pilates, had long lunch with a friend, then an afternoon of deep, fulfilling creative work. Or at least, that’s how it looked from the outside.

As I saw more of these examples, I knew what I actually wanted:

I wanted to take yoga at 3pm. I wanted to start work at 11am without having to sneak in through the freight elevator or feign a doctor’s appointment. I wanted to write on my blog freely and not worry if my boss was reading it. I wanted to travel the world and not ration vacation days.

But most of all, I didn’t want to answer to anyone.

I actually didn’t care what I was doing. I just knew I needed to get out of the pressure cooker of an overly air-conditioned office building, stat.

So, when I finally worked my way out of the corporate straitjacket I’d wrestled myself into for what felt like forever (in linear time it was…5 years 🐣), I didn’t have a lofty vision of starting my own agency.

I just needed to: make money. *A small tactical detail in the grand plan of leaving your job.

At the time, I had an in-demand skillset that seemed like it could pay the bills. I knew how to run Facebook + Instagram ads, and everyone seemed to need that right as I was planning my exit route. So, I put one foot in front of the other and eventually took the leap to go out on my own.

Paraphrasing here because this was actually a long, arduous process that began a couple years before I left my full-time job. I’ll be sharing more details in future posts!

That singular decision (which was actually a thousand and one tiny choices put together) has defined almost every aspect of my life since.

But before I sell you a false dream, let me say this:

Leaving my corporate job didn’t solve all my problems.

In fact, it created new ones!! It heightened my anxiety, worked me to the bone, and led me to burnout. And it gave me a TON of future content for Recalibrating...so stay tuned 😘

But becoming self-employed was also life-changing.

It opened my frame of reference. Going from employee to freelancer to eventually employer changed the way I think about freedom, money, and work in general.

As I began to divorce my time from the money I made, I shifted to seeing money as the result of value being exchanged, not minutes on the clock.

It only took a few months of self-employment to begin thinking in terms of monthly revenue + expenses, profit + loss, invoices + Net 30 payments. Rather than my previous loop of: “The Man direct deposits $1.5K in my account 2x a month so I have enough to pay my rent, shop at Trader Joe’s, and indulge in a few matcha lattes before I overdraft. I don’t know what a 401k is, and also, I don’t care.”

In the first year of running my own agency, the company where I’d started my career, GUESS, became a client.

When they paid my agency more in 3 months than I had earned in an entire year as their social media manager working 50+ hours a week…my entire concept of “salary” was turned on its head.

And to add to the cognitive dissonance, I’d earned it while traveling for 3 months in Buenos Aires + Mexico City, exploring the world instead of working from the cubicle I used to be expected to be in by 8am.

Everything that I’d been taught about work and money (from parents who spent most of their careers in the public sector), made no sense. And everything I was learning through experience, did.

I spent the next 5 years building my business. Curating my own schedule, traveling freely for months at a time, and learning as I went. It was scary, exhilarating, and illuminating all at once.

But running your own business isn’t all sunshine and roses.

I experienced a level of stress I’d never felt as a salaried employee. The buck started and stopped with me. And as my agency grew, so did the mounting responsibility—not just for my own livelihood, but for the livelihoods of the people I employed.

So all to say, if you don’t want to be your own boss, GREAT! I would argue, at the right job with good people, a 9-5 can be a significantly less stressful path than self-employment. But:

If there’s a part of that feels triggered when someone blindly puts a Zoom call on your calendar or says you can’t take off that Tuesday afternoon, I will tell you: there IS another way.

Leaving your corporate job won’t solve all your problems.

The leap of faith to go out on your own doesn’t automatically bring you the life of your dreams. That comes from a series of intricate, unglamorous decisions and missteps made again, and again.

What it can bring is the realization that there’s more on the menu than you previously realized. It can widen the aperture and fill you with wonder for all the unwritten possibilities. Ones that won’t be found in a job description on LinkedIn or sending your resume into the vortex.

It won’t be easier, and it may not even be more fun. But, I can promise it will be more of an adventure than whatever is keeping you on the clock.

There’s no roadmap to self-employment.

Even after 8 years, I don’t have all the answers. And in this next chapter, I’m still figuring it out as I go.

What I do know is: it starts with a step. Out of the office, and into class.

Preferably, at 3pm.

-Melina

In case you missed it…

Now you might be surprised by the accuracy with which I’m able to recall bridal trends from 15 years ago, but I promise I’m not some wedding industry savant. It’s only because when I started looking at engagement rings with my partner last summer…there they were. The relics of a teenage dream lost in time, staring my 30-something self in the face.

I don’t know why I didn’t bother starting a fresh Pinterest board, but I felt weirdly attached to the past version of me who had wanted all those things. And the current version of me needed a quick place to save a shortlist of vintage engagement rings as I scoured through thousands of listings. As it turns out, Pinterest really IS amazing for actual wedding planning.

But when my high school boyfriend and I broke up before my senior year of college, my dreams of getting married at 21 (2026 code for: child bride) came crashing down and my Pinterest board fell dormant.

In 2015, I met my now-husband, B. I was 23—which sounds young (and it was!)—but at the time, I felt grown-up and was ready for a serious commitment.

I don’t remember exactly when we decided, but B and I knew pretty early on that we wanted to spend our lives together. Whether spoken or unspoken, that was never the big question. But for many years (a decade, but really who's counting) as we tried to make tangible plans for our next chapter, we kept getting stumped on the wedding piece.

We couldn’t imagine a celebration that felt right for our unique mix of energies. Me: someone who would happily show up late and leave a party after 2 hours only having spoken to one friend in the corner. And him: someone with a boundless social battery who would willingly learn the life stories of 15 strangers by the end of the evening. Then there was family, with each of us bringing unique circumstances and cultures that didn’t feel like they’d shine in a pressure-cooker weekend of wedding festivities.

—

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE a wedding. The romance, the drama, the fashion, the fun of it all. Cringing with laughter at the father of the groom’s drunk wedding speech. Being a fly on the wall of someone else’s family dynamics for a weekend. Having something to shop for months in advance and photo ops with friends when we are all looking and feeling our best. And of course, the funny (as a guest…) wedding mishaps: a cake landing upside down on the ground mid-speech, forgotten wedding rings at the altar, the list goes on.

Over the years, we attended many friends’ weddings together.

But in the midst of these celebrations, I also felt my energy stretched to its limits, especially on the multi-day affairs. Which at some point in our collective wedding insanity became the norm, not the exception?

After making small talk at cocktail hour, I found myself craving the chance to sit alone in a dark room and stare at a wall without stimuli for 45 minutes. My most noteworthy escapes on record include: curling up in the back of our rental car in the middle of a forest Upstate to take a mid-reception nap, and leaving a wedding in Tuscany at 9pm (my tummy hurt and 2 glasses of Chianti had induced temporary narcolepsy) only to re-emerge at 5am to join the after party that was somehow…still raging??? I will forever be in awe of other people’s stamina.

All of these social adaptations had worked at past weddings because: I wasn’t the center of attention. The stakes were low. I’d shown up for the good bits, but it didn’t actually matter if I Irish-exited for a little or a lot.

But, when you start to ask yourself if you can Irish exit your OWN wedding…it’s time to reevaluate your priorities.

I wanted to want a wedding.

I wanted the benefits of a wedding day without the drawbacks. I loved the idea of having every person I care about being there to celebrate us. Just not…all at once. I could imagine each individual person in my life and how much I would value their presence. But when I’d zoom out and imagine everyone being there together, on one day, many having flown for thousands of miles just for us…the warm fuzzy feelings in my stomach quickly turned to a deep, achy anxiety.

Let’s not even talk about the added pressure of ALSO wanting to look my most beautiful for photos I’d hope my future grandchildren would frame like antique artwork. Oh, and praying that for a day that is planned a year+ in advance, I would magically 1) not get sick and 2) not be on the 2nd day of my period. Spoiler alert, both still happened anyway on my real non-wedding wedding!

Then there were the finances of it all. Which became a strong supporting argument in the anti-wedding case I was unintentionally building. According to The Knot, the average wedding cost in the US today is close to ~$35K, and this edges closer to ~$50K in places like NYC. But we also knew many friends who were spending $100K+ for theirs. These multi-day destination weddings were amazing and SO special to attend as guests, but we began to question whether spending that kind of money would actually be worth it for us as a couple.

And you might be thinking, Melina, you don’t have to spend $50-100K to have a nice wedding. And, I know. But I’m also a Goldilocks and knew (slash had heard from many, many friends) that it could be easy for things to snowball to feel juuuust right.

Plus, when I began to compare that chunk of money to other life choices, my perspective began to shift. The classic example would be: do I want a wedding OR do I want a down payment on a house? But I don’t fully believe in the conventional wisdom of homeownership (especially in a market like NYC). So I’ll swap that one for: Do I want a big wedding OR do I want that money to give me more flexibility and freedom in my life?

In every scenario, the latter began to sound like the more enticing offer.

So bit-by-bit, in search of the best non-wedding wedding ideas, we began to outline what was most important to us.

1. Family. Our immediate families meeting and spending time together. And us having the capacity to lovingly facilitate this blending of worlds without the added pressure of all our closest friends also being in town.

2. Minimal Stress. After going through some tough times, this ranked higher than it would have in the past. We both wanted something that would keep our nervous systems intact (hint: a 3-day bash with 250 people wasn’t it).

3. Vows. Formal vows to mark the occasion and share our love for one another, whether traditional or our own.

4. Tradition. B comes from a Muslim background and wanted to honor the tradition of a nikkah, an Islamic marriage ceremony (which can be combined or stand alone from a civil ceremony).

5. Friends. We wanted friends to be involved, but that didn’t mean they had to be present for the actual day. We wondered: what could look like for us to intentionally spend more time with the people we love over the next year, rather than concentrating it in one weekend where our attention would be divided?

6. Fashion. Unless you had a debutante ball in high school (I think The Summer I Turned Pretty made it chic again?), there’s only one real chance for a woman to wear a white gown and feel like the prettiest girl in the world for a day. I never had the ~princess wedding~ dream, but I also didn’t want to lose this opportunity. Plus, B wanted to buy a fancy custom suit, and I wanted a reason to swap out the same tie he’d been wearing for the last 10 years ;)

7. Rings. I wasn’t into the idea of a rock, ESPECIALLY at the height of this lab-grown diamond trend. I wanted it to be something I’d feel comfortable walking down the street or traveling with, and ideally one-of-a-kind/vintage.

8. Good Photography. I moonlight as a photographer and probably over-index in my value for this. But in a world of shitty iPhone photos and cheesy wedding portraits, I wanted to find someone to authentically capture our day through an artful lens, even if it was just the two of us eloping.

9. An Extended Honeymoon: We both value travel and have taken advantage of the freedom that’s come with self-employment over the years. We wanted our wedding to be followed by some kind of extended trip—a “last hurrah” before kids, if you will.

10. A Memory. It didn’t have to be big or flashy, but we wanted something to look back on years from now and say, “Remember when…”

11. Honorable mention: Carrot Cake. It’s specific, but I had a vision of eating the best gluten-free, vegan carrot cake (don’t yuck my yum!) by my favorite baker in NYC and wanted to make it happen.

So…after we compiled all our wants, we put them into ChatGPT and the LLM told us exactly what to do!!! It was super easy. We got married and lived happily ever after ❤️

Kidding. I don’t actually think we wrote any of this down, although in retrospect that would’ve been super helpful. But we started to riff on ideas, and after a series of conversations, we landed on this plan:

• Find the perfect ring (together) and get engaged in the fall.

• Spend the holidays in London and have a small nikkah at B’s family home.

• Elope at NYC City Hall in the spring, with just our parents present.

• Rent our apartment and travel for the next year. Funded by some of the money we were “saving” by not having a full-blown wedding (girl math).

Most importantly, make this season feel special and celebrate this new chapter in a way that is authentic to us.

—

With this plan came both the celebration of what we were getting to do, AND/ALSO the letting go of the things we couldn’t include.

A big one for me was the friends piece. 10 days before our wedding, I felt an overwhelming impulse that we should juuust invite all our friends for a big party in NYC at the last minute. In a midnight haze, I even emailed the restaurant (where we’d planned an intimate, 6-person lunch) to get estimates for a 50-person event. B had to talk some sense back into me (and the restaurant’s $40K quote helped 🫠). He reminded me: YES, we had considered that, and NO, it wouldn’t be fair to all our friends—most of whom have children + don’t live in NYC—to plan something that spontaneous.

What I’m trying to say is: no option is perfect and you can’t really have it all. If you have a big wedding, you get the “Big Day!” But then you also have to pay for said Big Day, manage the stress of putting on a massive event, etc. etc.

In our case, we were getting a lot of what we wanted, and had to grieve the little dreams that weren’t going to happen.

Ultimately, we kept our simple plans and on a sunny Monday morning (a story for another day 🙃), we eloped in NYC.

We woke up in our own apartment and got ready together. Dressed to the nines, we jumped on the subway and joined a car full of New Yorkers on their morning commute. People lit up with big smiles or were completely indifferent (there was no in-between), and it felt like we got a giant hug from the city.

It was a perfectly, imperfect wedding day.

That, in the end, felt so very us.

I’ll be sharing what rescheduled our original wedding date, the details of eloping at NYC City Hall, and basically milking my ~bridal era~ until I get sick of it or you no longer want to read, in no particular order.

If you eloped, are considering it, or *wished* you’d done something different, I’d love to hear in the comments!

-Melina

In case you missed it 💌

So basically, I’m grinning from ear-to-ear walking around the city, which is New York for: someone’s gonna fuck with you.

With my fav Vietnamese takeout spot in sight, I quickly tailed behind a row of pedestrians crossing the street like the straggler in a row of ducklings. However, rather than being seen as the adorable chick that I am, I was apparently NOT a welcome addition to traffic.

As I crossed, the waiting car blared their horn at me. The sound was so deafening that it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I could physically feel my cortisol levels spiking (does apple cider vinegar help with that too?) and any residue of my post-yoga chill was immediately erased.

My immediate instinct, rather than signaling some expletive, was to look at the driver, breathe out, and push my hands down the way a teacher tells a 1st grade class to “lower the volume.”

Surprised by my own reflex and unusual patience, my first thought was: wait…am I enlightened!? idk, ask my yoga teachers.

And second thought: hi, New York.

A few minutes later, vermicelli bowl in tow, I was still trying to shake off the horn incident (I overindex in sensitivity to loud noises). I’d had enough stimuli for one walk and decided to take the longer, more scenic route home. As I rounded the corner, I saw a woman in bright scrubs on the sidewalk. She was standing behind a massive turquoise ottoman (think Eames chair, but more doctor’s office) that almost matched the color of her uniform. A vision in blue.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up. “Honey we’re giving this away, do you want it??” she said in the warmest West Indian accent. And for a second, because the offer was so darn friendly, I briefly considered whether our Brooklyn apartment needed a pop of turquoise pleather. But, I politely declined. To which she responded, “no thank you darling, you have a BLESSED day 💙” (the blue heart was assumed, based solely on vibes)

I continued down the block and couldn’t help but giggle at the juxtaposition of interactions I’d experienced in my 15 minute walk. I’ve been traveling these past few months and had been away from the city for my longest stretch yet. So, it felt like a little wink from the universe, a “welcome home” gift from the NYC Gods (Zohran, is that you? 😍)

Last month, I celebrated my 10-year NYC-iversary. In August 2016, I moved to the city on what felt like the hottest day of the summer. The air was thick and the humidity held the trees in the same way it did on my walk home the other day.

I was young, earnest, and had no idea what this next chapter would have in store.

In my decade here, I’ve had hundreds of moments that mirror this little anecdote. Some I’ve scribbled down, some I’ve committed to memory, and others are just buried deep in my psyche like a big old fossil that I imagine lives within most OG New Yorkers. They’re increasingly rare, but are usually: 80 years old, live in a rent-stabilized 5th floor walk-up in the West Village, and named Marilyn (RIP 🫶)

New York is a city of contrasts. On a short subway ride, a sign-wielding woman could be demanding humanity’s penance in one train car, while a baby sleeps soundly in the next. These realities coexist. And they always have. It’s just that…New York hands you a daily magnifying glass.

I have a running joke (mainly with myself), that whenever you’re having a real welcome-to-new-york-IT’S-BEEN-WAITING-FOR-YA moment, there’s a 98% chance that you’ll be quickly interrupted by a rat darting across the sidewalk to scare the shit out of you.

That’s just, New York.

And despite all the TikTok-viral froyo shops and Instagram bakeries, there’s still a little edge. It has a way of pushing your boundaries, brushing against your limits—even in the quietest of moments.

—

After a few years of my own stark contrasts, I’ve come to appreciate this even more. The city has its own, twisted way (in this context I imagine the NYC Gods to be more Adams-coded?) of showing you the seesaw of reality. Around every 1989 strut is a scurrying rat. And around every surge of road rage is a beautiful, vision in blue.

It’s an embodied reminder of the ebb and flow of life. This city has seen some things. And it’s certainly seen me through a lot more than either of us expected or bargained for.

A decade in, I wonder less about the trendy froyo shops (it also helps that I’m lactose intolerant...and nearly 34) and more about what New York will teach me next. Can my newfound enlightened-patience-of-a-1st-grade-teacher live alongside the bodega-sized fossil that’s grown inside of me?

If this city’s taught me anything, the answer is unequivocally: yes.

So…here’s to the next 10, wherever it may take me.

-Melina

Hello! Thank you for reading 🫶

It feels so good to be back in the city at my favorite time of year. A few weeks ago, I celebrated my NYC-iversary with a stop at my favorite garden downtown. It was beautiful (as usual), but my visit was accompanied by the soundtrack of incessant drilling from construction next door (also classic). I guess that’s just how New York says thank you 🙃

In case you missed it…

Photography © Melina Peterson. All rights reserved.

I moved to NYC the summer of 2016. I was nearly 24, and as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I could be for someone who was quickly drowning in work at her first agency job. (I started my career at GUESS and had no idea how cush client life was until then.)

That December, I came back to LA for the holidays and got lunch with a friend and mentor of mine. She was working for Domino Magazine at the time, and gifted me their latest issue. Oh physical magazines, how I miss thee. On the cover were an array of stylish, subtly beautiful (less overt to the Male Gaze but a look that will leave every woman who crosses their path with a mix of admiration + envy) and seemingly *very interesting* women, strewn across pastel sofas in an airy space.

They were members of some sort of exclusive women’s club in NYC called The Wing that had just launched.

Seeing the cover (aside from immediately being filled with said admiration + envy), stirred something in me. I wanted to be them. And this was coming from someone whose worst nightmare is being even remotely within the realm of sycophantic, and who will only admit a #girlcrush if I’m positive they like-me-back.

But, I felt compelled with the power of 3 consecutive iced matcha lattes (it was 2016, so I felt ahead of the curve), to find a way to join and become a part of their community.

Their founding location in Manhattan’s Flatiron District was at capacity. There was a waiting list (exclusive) and their future location hadn’t been announced yet (allusive). I immediately applied and sent the membership team multiple follow-up emails to ensure my app didn’t get lost in the mix.

Call it luck, fate, or my willingness to spend ~$2k/year, but after a 9-month wait—gestating my future #girlboss persona—I was invited to join the inaugural class of members at their new space in SoHo in the fall of 2017. I’d started 5th Floor Walk-Up earlier that year and I was brimming with future BB (Boss Babe) energy, ready to be molded by this community of founders, creatives, and entrepren-hers.

When I joined, I dove headfirst into the community. It was a stark contrast to my first experience in a women’s group—my college sorority. I remembered when I rushed the older sorority sisters had advised us: “You get what you put into it!” This sounded like some kind of cultish riddle and also...I didn’t put a lot into it. I was busy blogging about pleated midi skirts and mainly just showed up for the themed parties where I got to put together a cute costume. Therefore, I always felt like a bit of an outsider. On the outskirts of the real sisterhood.

So, this was my chance!! I felt like I’d finally found my potential sisters. Well, we weren’t allowed to call each other sisters in public (cult rules).

I spent late nights scouring the community directory, looking for anyone who seemed interesting and asking them to meet for coffee. I was working full-time at my agency job, so I could only meet at the ass-crack-of-dawn (8am NYC time). But to my surprise, many women were game. Rise and grind, baby!

I was especially excited to talk to women who had left their corporate gigs to start their own thing. Luckily, The Wing was brimming with them. It seemed like everyone was a CEO (sorry, She-EO) of their own venture and was making a name for themselves on their own terms.

The next few years were a whirlwind. With the support of my newfound community, I found the courage to start freelancing and left my corporate job in the fall of 2018. Many of my early clients were Wing Women. Women supporting women. But, with no irony.

At its best, it was energizing, exciting, nourishing. I met an incredible group of women, many of whom I still keep in touch with or am close friends with to this day. At the time, being a part of this community broadened my worldview and network tenfold.

For a moment, it felt like a little utopia of flawed (millennial) pink feminism.

At its worst...well, you can read all about its downfall elsewhere. While my experience as a member was overwhelmingly positive, I can’t ignore the questionable ethics of the company or the negative experiences of employees + members alike that led to its cancellation. I’m not going to even attempt to unpack all of that here, but if you’re curious, you can bring yourself up to speed.

And, like ANY private club, even with a seemingly diverse community...the price tag was exclusionary. That’s just the reality of it. But I will argue that it was cheaper than a WeWork membership, and Adam + Rebekah were elevating the world’s consciousness soooo…

Anyway, back to its worst.

You know when an actor tries to play down the Oscars and says it’s not as cool in real life? Well, this was not that.

As a member, it was actually even better than I could have imagined. Rooms full of creative women, chic decor, nice amenities, fun events. And so. many. free. totes. What was not to love?

Once I was fully self-employed, I spent most days working from their color-coded library, catching up with my new friends in the hallways, and ordering my Business Woman special for lunch (which was. of course, whatever they had on their overpriced menu of millennial delicacies).

It was my home away from home. My third space. That was, until the world shut down and it imploded in the early days of the pandemic.

I didn’t have the capacity to process it at the time (there was too much collective trauma of COVID for it to even get a line item), but there was a real grief in its dissolution. It wasn’t just the disappointment of its fall from grace. It was mourning the loss of both the collective AND individual identity I’d attached to it.

—

Without a viable alternative in sight, I weathered the storm of the pandemic from my apartment. And as the world opened up, I searched for another community.

But as I hopped from place-to-place, event-to-event, trying to find my new home…everything just felt a little off. Nothing could recreate the original thing (although some things came close), and I sensed the vibe shift that this era had already come to some weird, clunky end.

Some people (including myself), just hadn’t been informed yet.

Finally, I accepted the reality and decided to just go at it alone, keeping my ~girlboss era~ on life support for the next few years.

But, I felt a bit like a pop star who tries to make their solo career work and finally settles for a residency in Vegas. It paid the bills, but it never felt as sparkly as the original act.

—

Over the years as I’ve reconnected with former members, at some point in our catch-up we’ll reminisce about ~old times~, often in hushed tones like we are sharing a mutual secret. It usually involves something along the lines of “I know I’m not supposed to say this, but…”

It’s akin to when you hear a jam in public and unconsciously start humming along, only to *remember* it’s by XYZ disgraced artist. You quickly scan the room to make sure no one saw you singing and shake it off like you’ve just seen a ghost.

There’s a lack of nuance in cancel culture. And for me, The Wing sits right at the center of my experience with this phenomenon.

How can something so good have also been so problematic? It’s accepting duality. This, and.

I girlbossed too close to the sun AND I got a chic tan from it ☀️

I often wonder if there’s anything I’m doing today that I’m going to be majorly embarrassed about in the future. But really, if you’re not doing SOMETHING that in 10, 20, 50 years makes you cringe…are you really living?

The world contains multitudes, if you let it.

-Melina

Hello! If you made it to the end, thank you for reading, it means more than you know. If we know each other from this era or it made you feel some-type-of-way, I’d love to hear from you in the comments! Getting older is only fun if we can fully lean into the nostalgia of it all 😘

P.S. If you’re curious, I wrote about The Wing in 2017 here. You can hear about the glory days straight from the 25-year-old’s mouth.

More soon!

In case you missed it…

Photography © Melina Peterson unless otherwise noted. All rights reserved.

It took months of deliberation, but once I finally gave myself permission to consider something *so wild* (and run the numbers on the finances of it all, which requires its own post), something clicked and I felt a singularity in my decision. From there, I felt catapulted towards this pause as my next chapter.

I decided I’d take 6-12 months off to reset, with the unspoken desire that I’d somehow find my “calling” in that time. Other than that, the plan was…there was no plan.

Except, what’s unfolded over the last 3 years was definitely NOT part of my no-plan Plan. I’ve had some of the hardest, grittiest months of my life mixed with some of the softest and most joyous.

Now, before this begins to morph into a LinkedIn post where I pair it with a photo of me climbing a mountain (didn’t happen) and somehow relate it back to my career reaching “new heights” post-sabbatical, I’ll tell you right now: this will be none of those things.

Instead, it’ll be the work-in-progress update nobody asked for. Except maybe you, my friend, if you’ve been curious where I’ve been these past few years.

Truthfully, the first few months of my sabbatical were great.

My partner B and I went on a dream trip to Europe for 6 weeks to celebrate two different friends’ weddings. I wrapped up my agency on a Zoom call overlooking the Mediterranean. I kept checking my phone until I realized I didn’t need to open email or Slack anymore.

It all felt very surreal, and my nervous system took a few weeks (months) to process that I suddenly had all this…wide. open. space.

But once the space was opened, all the feels (good + bad) started bubbling up. I had hoped I’d be ready for a grand round-the-world adventure, but instead I really just wanted to rest.

After our trip, I hibernated in NYC for a few months. I stayed busy doing all the ~inner work~ (if you’ve read it, I probably tried it) and going down some questionable esoteric rabbit holes in the name of self-discovery.

—

But, just as I was beginning to make my exit plan back to real life, a health crisis hit me unexpectedly…and put everything on hold.

From there, my life took an unplanned detour that I’ve been slowly finding my way back from 2.5 years later.

Without me getting into all the nuts and bolts (saving that for my ~internationally best-selling memoir~ and/or once the dust has a little more time to settle), I STILL feel it’s important to share this general context before I dive into this new project.

Even if the context is to simply give myself permission to move forward after a hard thing. Namely because, who I am today and where I’m at in my life are directly tied to what’s unfolded over the past 3 years.

2024 was the year of crisis.

There’s a lot of nuance to what I went through, but the relevant facts are: it was serious, brought my normal life to a screeching halt, and required a full year of recovery in which my partner, B, was my primary caretaker.

Which in turn, turned both of our lives upside down.

2025 was the year of repair.

Step by step, with the unconditional support of B, my parents, and my closest friends—I came back to myself. I restarted my marketing agency at a smaller scale. While it felt good to be busy again (and money is cool too!), the same feelings of why I’d wanted to pause my agency in the first place kept coming up. So by fall, I decided I’d take another beat and actually finish the sabbatical I had originally planned before life threw me a curveball.

After going to hell and back in 2024, it was much easier to give myself permission to simply enjoy life rather than expending valuable energy working towards a career goal that my gut had been continually telling me was no longer aligned. And bit by bit, the things that were put on hold, the ones a year prior I feared I might never get to experience, slowly began to take shape.

In the fall, B and I celebrated 10 years together and got engaged. We spent the rest of the year visiting family and finished the year with our nikkah, an Islamic marriage ceremony, at B’s childhood home in London.

It was one of my happiest years. Yes, because all that good stuff happened. But really, because I was so close to the fray that I could still taste it. I learned in real-time how joy is so much more accessible when you’ve recently experienced its exact opposite.

Throughout the year, my gratitude caught me off guard like a deeeeep belly laugh. I felt it in my bones. And it changed me in ways I can’t succinctly put into words just yet.

2026, so far, has been the year of recalibrating.

It was one of the coldest winters in NYC I can remember. I spent all of January barefoot in a cozy yoga studio in SoHo, attending Kula Yoga Project’s monthlong 200-hour yoga teacher training. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made and showed me my strength and expanded capacity. I’m still integrating what I’ve learned, but it was in one word: healing. All wellness buzzwords aside.

In April, B and I got married. We eloped at NYC City Hall, then shared vows at our favorite garden in the West Village, with just our parents as witnesses.

We decided instead of a big traditional wedding, we’d do a year of travel. So a day after our wedding (long story/would not recommend), we packed up our entire apartment and boarded a flight to a friend’s big, beautiful wedding in Ireland that kicked off our extended honeymoon.

We spent the next 4 months bopping around Europe. And I was, in the best sense of the word: present. It’s the first time I’ve been able to truly disconnect on a trip, and I allowed travel to take up 95% of my brain (which was mostly foraging for vegan yogurt/almond milk/fragrance-free laundry detergent at every new stop). The other 5% was reserved for reflecting on our wedding, processing the last few years, and just simply…being.

I took thousands of photos that I haven’t even reviewed yet (which is very unlike me, see: too much sun and saltwater) and can’t wait to share more travel guides and photo diaries here soon.

Today

I’m writing to you now, back home in NYC. We’re on a summer interlude from our travels before we embark on the second leg of our trip to Asia this fall.

I’ve finally cleaned our apartment, which was a disaster zone for 10 days. While I retrieve everything from storage, I’m still wearing my suitcase clothes from the past 4 months (which I’ve decided I’ll either need to burn or hide for a year before I can wear again).

These post-travel days always feel like a liminal space, where I’m physically back home but mentally still in travel mode. But it’s also a creativity hack, because now that 95% of my headspace is no longer taken up by foraging for said vegan yogurt (they sell it at my grocery store downstairs), I have all this new capacity to write again and finally finallllly start the Substack that’s been percolating the last 3 years.

Despite the uncertainty of what this next chapter has in store, I feel grounded. I’m an even healthier and stronger version of myself. And from that place…I’m recalibrating and figuring out what’s next.

—

Things I know: I want to write more and share what I’ve been up to the last decade+.

Leaving my corporate job. The adventure of starting a marketing agency at 26. The ups and downs of self-employment. Navigating hormonal health. My looong acne journey. Money and personal finance, from someone who doesn’t actually like Personal Finance. What extended travel really looks like. How I took my sabbatical. The simplicity (and yet…still stress?) of eloping and other bridal things. My musings on creativity/culture/life in general. And hopefully much more.

These are just a few of my ideas. And this newsletter, Recalibrating, will be their new home.

More soon 💛

-Melina

In case you missed my first post, catch up below…

A note about Substack: As many of you have come from my previous newsletter at 5th Floor Walk-Up, you may or may not be familiar with Substack. The platform offers free + paid subscription options, but I’ll be keeping all my content free for the time being.

As this publication grows, I’d love to eventually offer extra paid-only content with longer form essays, deep dives, and community features. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.

In the meantime, for anyone who feels called to support my work just ~because~, I’ve kept the paid subscription open for fun as I figure this thing out. No expectations, ever. What’s most important to me is having a place to share and be creative again ✨

Thank you for reading!

Photography © Melina Peterson unless otherwise noted. All rights reserved.

I guess you could say I was somewhat ~popular~ in high school (don’t judge me) or at least, very involved, and didn’t realize until I left my teenage microcosm just HOW much my identity was wrapped up in this perceived status.

It’s not something we’re supposed to say out loud, but leaving my small pond I realized how much I wanted to be known again. To carve my own path and make a name for myself in some way, big or small.

I struggled that first year of college, in ways I think I’d have a lot more vocabulary for if it hadn’t been…2010. The summer after my freshman year was lonely. I spent a lot of time at a female-only gym frequented mostly by women over 65. I got roped into some New Member offer that came with a few free personal training sessions. I gave it a go as I was eager to lose my freshman 15. No fat shaming here, I just ate what my friends and I referred to as “4th meal” (quesadillas + milkshakes at 11pm) most nights for a year.

I don’t remember much about my gym days except my trainer made me jump rope and bounce a lot on a trampoline? There was also an exercise machine named something like Charli XCX that intimidated the hell out of me. So as a treat for braving the scary metal jungle, I spent many post-gym afternoons getting a Wendy’s chocolate frosty. I would eat in the drive-thru parking lot to avoid going back to my childhood home, all the while feeling a mix of sad, self-conscious, and directionless.

Amidst the humdrum of my angsty suburban summer, a turning point finally came when I snagged a part-time job at Anthropologie at the nearby mall. Remember, this was the 2010s and Anthro felt like the mecca of mid-range fashion for women 30+. Everyone was dressed like a Mormon mom of 7 (before The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, there were the wholesome Mormon mommy bloggers), so naturally…18-year-old me felt right at home? Listen, me + every other millennial are still trying to make our fashion decisions from that era make sense.

I spent my closing shifts in the dark sale room (where they put the new girl), organizing hoards of dusty clothing that had been tossed on the floor throughout the day. It was not glamorous, but I loved it and felt like I’d been opened up to a new world, a portal of fashion.

So much so that I felt inspired enough to start my own fashion blog called The Caffeinated Closet. It was something just for me, my first (public) creative outlet that would later help shape my identity in young adulthood.

At the time, style blogging felt like the thing. Or perhaps, just for the corner of the internet I frequented. People were still actually reading, and Instagram was mainly used for heavily filtering photos of Sprinkles cupcakes.

When I was in college, having a blog wasn’t exactly…cool. Some guys at a fraternity we hung out with would jokingly call me “Caffeinated Closet” as a nickname. And in the name of self-preservation, I decided to interpret it as a term of endearment and own the title. But I sometimes wonder what people really thought of me, dressing like a tradwife in her 30s, lugging around a big tripod (this was PRE TikTok, mind you), taking photos of myself, and then…writing about my life on the internet.

I diligently updated my blog for 5 years. In that time, I wrote close to 500 posts which factors to about ~2 posts/week. It saw me through the ups and downs of college, an earth-shattering breakup, the anxiety of graduating, dating in LA (don’t recommend), and finding my footing in the early days of working full-time.

I wasn’t ~famous~, but it also wasn’t nothing.

I found a niche of fellow Anthropologie lovers and by the time I stopped posting, I’d hit ~500K page views. And somehow in the 10 years it’s been dormant, it made it to 1 Million??? Maybe they are mostly bots, but maybe there are some strangers that have been reading my writing that’s been lost in time for a decade.

Week after week, month after month, I kept going until one day I accepted I’d officially outgrown it. Life happened, I fell in love with a boy (spoiler alert: he’s my husband), moved to NYC, and started a demanding job at a digital marketing agency.

After a 2-year hiatus, I found new inspiration in my life in NYC and started a site called 5th Floor Walk-Up. I shared fewer outfits and more home decor. I looked more outward as I interviewed different women about their lives in the city. It had its heyday, but I also felt it never lived up to its true potential (which was obviously supposed to be: a lifestyle media empire!!)

In the process, in 2018 I left my corporate agency job and started freelancing in paid social advertising. My original intention was to give myself more time for my creative projects, but my freelancing quickly gained traction and I followed the momentum (and money).

Writing fell to the wayside as I focused on building my own digital advertising agency over the next 5 years. In 2023, I took a much-needed sabbatical to recover from burnout (what happens when you work for a decade straight w/ 1 month of cumulative vacation) and my life took an unplanned detour...some things I’m ready to write about and others I’m not.

But after navigating the curveballs that life threw at me (the only time you’ll hear me use a sportz analogy), I’ve slowly come back to myself and have been exploring what’s next.

—

This past week, I went down an Internet rabbit hole and started re-reading some of my old posts on the various platforms I’ve frequented over the years. It’s kind of weird to stalk yourself (is this what TherapyTok calls narcissism?), but it felt a lot like reading old journal entries. Except, I’m speaking in complete sentences and surprisingly splling wrds coRrectley. Now imagine that, but with totally illegible handwriting and you’re basically reading my actual diary. No one will ever know my secrets because I can’t even decipher them myself?

Save a few outdated references, I was surprised at how little I cringed while reading my old stuff. Instead, it felt like I was talking to an old friend. Someone familiar and close, but outside of myself.

And it made me realize that somewhere in the last ~6 years, I lost my voice. Or rather, I stopped really writing. But reading my old posts has reminded me that there was once a time I identified as: a writer.

At one point she was 18, and then 25, and then well, where I find myself today…on the brink of 34. Which as someone who spent a decade hiding her age to be taken more seriously, I’ve finally decided is old enough to say out loud (but still young enough to not lie about 🙃)

And in the midst of this uncertain (yet) magical season of my life...I’ve found the desire to write again. So here I am, starting over on the Blogspot of 2026.

I may know you or I may not, and perhaps only a handful of people will even read this. But either way, I’m glad you’re here.

And btw, we’ve got a LOT to catch up on!

-Melina

Thank you for supporting this new project, especially if you made it allll the way to the end :) If we know each other from a past internet life (or you’d just like to say hello), would love to hear from you in the comments 🫶

A note about Substack: As many of you have come from my previous newsletter at 5th Floor Walk-Up, you may or may not be familiar with Substack. The platform offers free + paid subscription options, but I’ll be keeping all my content free for the time being.

As this publication grows, I’d love to eventually offer extra paid-only content with longer form essays, deep dives, and community features. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.

In the meantime, for anyone who feels called to support my work just ~because~, I’ve still kept the paid subscription option open for fun as I figure this thing out. No expectations, ever. What’s most important to me is having a place to share and be creative again ✨

More soon!

In case you missed it…

I’ve spent the last 15 years writing on and off the internet. First, a fashion blog in college (it was the golden era of Blogspot) and then, the NYC lifestyle site 5th Floor Walk-Up in my 20s.

In 2018, I started the digital marketing agency Cornerlight Digital and got swept up in the wild ride of entrepreneurship. My energy was funneled into building a business, and my creative projects fell to the wayside.

I burnt myself out, took some time off, and began to remember who I actually was (and am). Or at least, started recalibrating to the current version of me.

The one who’s seen + done some things…but still has a lot more creating to do.

With Recalibrating, I’m rethinking the rules. Questioning the conventional wisdom, and exploring what it really means to build a fulfilling life + career.

As I figure out what’s next, you can expect this space to include reflections on: taking a sabbatical, self-employment, getting married, extended travel, health + wellness, and navigating change in my 20s + 30s.

I’m excited to be writing again and hope you’ll come along for the ride 💛

-Melina

If you’d like to connect, you can email me at melinapeterson[at]substack.com, on Instagram @melina_peterson, or LinkedIn (if you’re into that sort of thing).

Photography © Melina Peterson. All rights reserved.

However you got here, I’m glad you’re here.

With Recalibrating, I’m rethinking the rules. Questioning the conventional wisdom, and exploring what it really means to build a fulfilling life + career.

As I figure out what’s next, you can expect this space to include reflections on: taking a sabbatical, self-employment, getting married, extended travel, health + wellness, and navigating change in my 20s + 30s.

I’m excited to be writing again and hope you’ll come along for the ride 💛

-Melina