Dear Somebody: The hard work of it makes me shine.

New Plantings Coming Soon (Dallas Arboretum, March 2026)

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

A friend comes to visit and for this reason, and this reason alone, I begin to clean the house. She hasn’t been to our house here in Saint Louis since we moved nearly four years ago. Four. I say the number aloud, not believing it but having to because it is the truth and I’m hunting for it. Now that I have children who also hunt, it’s become clear: this is not a journey particular to me, but one that most find themselves lost on, looking this way or that, wondering if what they see is mirror or mirage.

A friend comes to visit and so I vacuum the floor and wonder if my house will ever be crumbless, if a single non-sticky step awaits in my future, if there will ever be a moment where my walls aren’t cluttered by gorgeous, fading drawings; will the white of the walls will ever have their time in the sun? Before we had children, when we still lived on the farm, T and I poured ourselves into its arms. We shaped and painted and polished as if it were more than just a house sitting in the middle of a field, as if it were a home we came together to build, and the hard work of it made me shine.

The Farm (Nashville, TN, 2020)

When I moved to this house, N was 8 months old, and the work of mothering, well, it wrung me out. Some handle motherhood well, but I don’t recall seeing myself shine. Looking around my house now, there’s little resemblance of the efforts I once placed into the farm, little to show, aesthetically or organizationally, for having lived here for nearly four years. Looking around my house now, you’d know that just getting through has been enough.

The sunlight shines in patches over our partially painted walls. Toys and books are strewn about, abandoned by a child who lost interest. Half-finished Lego buildings dominate the dining table; there is gold glitter everywhere; in the corner of the living room sits a small pile of crumbled chalk. I pick up a lunch box from the living room floor and take inventory: a single golden spoon, seven plastic diamonds, a stethoscope, two bracelets, and a Moana figurine. There are piles of paper everywhere.

The Dining Table (March 2026)

N and F’s studio or The Dining Room (March 2026)

A friend comes to visit so I pick up some stuffies and move them around. A dark shape inside my mind tells me I should keep a better house, but mostly, I drink my morning coffee thinking about how much I’ll miss Tuna and Penguin when they’re no longer haunting every corner of my home.

Tuna and Penguin Have Coffee (March 2026)

I clear the dining table so there is place for conversation and cutlery, and though I don’t want to, I tear down the Lego construction site and sweep the pieces into a box. I put F’s trinkets back into her lunch box and stick it on a shelf. What do other people think a home should look like? What do I think a home should be like? I don’t quite know, but I’m figuring it out. Over and over, we rebuild what we care about most.

A home is a beautiful farm on a lonely field with seven French doors that scoop the sunlight right in. A home is a tiny brick Craftsman on a busy city road filled with clutter, and crumbs, and cries. A home is a place inside my heart that doesn’t fear or falter, that remains steady and true—even when the body that houses it changes, ages, and continues to fail. All three are homes that I have built, with different priorities, at different times, for a different number of hearts—and the hard work of it makes me shine.

TUESDAY

I have a bunch of new cards out with Biely & Shoaf, including these springtime favorites:

Follow Your Inner Moonlight (birthday card, 2026)

I Love You Mom (Mother’s Day card, 2026)

All That Makes You Wonderful (birthday card, 2026)

You can find my entire line of cards over on the Biely & Shoaf website.

WEDNESDAY

On creativity as reaction, the ghost that meets the reader, and maximum choice points: A conversation between George Saunders and Rick Rubin, sent to me by L.

THURSDAY

On being a writer:
“Anyone who writes is a seeker. You look at a blank page and you’re seeking. The role is assigned to us and never removed. I think this is an unbelievable blessing.”
—Louise Glück

On being an ever-evolving person:
“It dawned on me that I might have to change my inner thought patterns…that I would have to start believing in possibilities that I wouldn’t have allowed before, that I had been closing my creativity down to a very narrow, controllable scale…that things had become too familiar and I might have to disorient myself.” —Bob Dylan

On turning harsh reality into art:

“My brush and my paintings about the children of Gaza who lived through hunger, fear, deprivation, loss, exhaustion, and the world’s indifference.”

—Marah Khaled al-Za’anin, who turned her tent into an art gallery on the Gaza Strip

FRIDAY

In 1992 my mother believed
the world was going to end.
Having given this church
cash and also her wedding ring—
sign of new fidelity—
she asked in the parking lot,
Is it better to be
citizens of Heaven
or of the United States?
Ten years old, I knew well
enough what to say.
Then she called the caseworker.
And this is how my siblings and I
remained illegal.

—Out of the Mouths of Babes by Esther Lin

Dear Somebody: A field guide. (April 11, 2025)

Of all the things you can put in front of your eyes, I’m grateful that my little letter is one of them. 

If you’d like to support me, please buy my books. My art prints and line of greeting cards make excellent gifts for yourself or a friend. You can also hire me for your next project—I’d love to work together. 

xx,
M

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Dear Somebody: May all, should all.

A houseboat in London, banked along the Thames River.

Hi, friends. 

I missed writing to you while I was traveling for the last few weeks—but write I did, mostly in my head or in my Notes app or in the new Moomin journal I bought during our trip to London. 

I am home now and hoping to return to my weekly schedule. We’ll see. I’ll manage what I can and try to let go of what I can’t—I hope you are doing the same.

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A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: 

MONDAY 

Week of November 17, 2023

A blush of robins circle above our heads as F and I set out for our morning walk. They are quiet, save for the occasional call. I lose sight of them as I walk down the alley across the street from our own. It is my favorite alley because it’s made of St. Louis red brick, cobblestoned together, still, despite the hills and sinks that threaten to displace them. Another reminder of the earth’s uprising against man. The brick path rattles the stroller, creating a rhythm that soothes F and that she allows herself to succumb to. It makes me feel like I’m in New Orleans, or at least somewhere else. 

A single robin follows us along, hopping from brick to brick. I wonder where else she’s been.

Week of November 24, 2023

After three days in London, F wakes up in with a fever. Her breath is short and raspy, her tiny nose closed. I give her a bottle but she barely drinks, her eyes closing before they’re even really open. All day she sleeps, either on my chest or T’s shoulder. She is still small enough to be toted around on another’s giving body, the world moving unbeknownst around her. She is still small enough where a prolonged fever ignites fear, too small to understand why her passageways won’t allow air in—why a body or a friendship or a story that is meant to work sometimes will not.

The air in London is cold but bright. We walk along High Street to flush some cool air into F’s lungs. She sleeps on T while he walks, a tiny little Joey inside a quilted blue jumper and mint green beanie. Her breath comes slowly, labored. But still, it comes.

Week of December 1, 2023

A chatter of mint-green parakeets abandons the tree on our corner while we walk towards them. They swoop low, once, before returning to the sky and resuming formation. They are joyful and though they bring me joy, I can’t help but question their belonging. They are out of place. Lovely green jewels dotting an otherwise bleak November sky. 

Week of December 8, 2023

Croup rattled F’s body for nearly a week. I sleep sitting up, with her body on mine, so that if she stops breathing, I’ll know. I feed her every two hours, as if she was newborn, to keep her tiny body hydrated. The humidifier is on high. The entire guest room feels like a tropical sauna, wet and hot but also, somehow, cold. I wish we were at home so she could get the care she needs, I think to myself, not understanding that she is getting the care she needs.

I remember all of this now, but it is unclear. It takes effort to recall the climate, or the shoulder ache that persists from holding a baby upright for hours through the night. It takes effort to even remember the days-long headache, or how my eyes leaked from behind my glasses, not from sadness or fright, but sheer exhaustion. 

What I do remember is how much love existed within the white walls of our London guest room. What I remember is my two hands on F’s back, feeling for her breath through her spine. What I remember is studying her small mouth, tongue having fallen out, as it sought her next breath. What I remember is the slight of her frame, huddled close against mine. The light that climbed out of me to find its way to her. The deliberate care that this child received; the affection bestowed upon her; the comfort of complete observation. The respect of being valued as a human being—as decent and significant and with causes as great as any man grown, or with power. The love of her father and mother and sister and aunts and uncles, all hurtling towards her through touch and thought and mysterious language I am not privy to. 

What I remember are the wishes I made through each hour of the night. They are easy to remember because I wish them each night still. May all children feel their mothers’ two hands on their back. May all children feel the support of a community under their feet. May all children be given another’s light when they cannot find their own. May all, should all. But all are not. 

TUESDAY

The music in my ears, spotted in the London underground last week.

Cat Power singing Bob Dylan’s 1966 Royal Albert Hall Concert has been on repeat in my house for weeks now. The few times I’m out in London on my own, I listen to her voice while I walk, singing along: She's got everything she needs. She's an artist. She don't look back.

WEDNESDAY

It was an actual joy to speak with Nicole Zhu last week about the process behind Go Your Own Way and How it Feels to Find Yourself for her newsletter. 

Nicole has supported my work for years now. She is an incredible writer and puts out one of my favorite newsletters. After the kids were settled in bed, I spoke to her about how motherhood propelled creative growth, my writing/illustration process, and cultivating quiet confidence. It was easily the most enjoyable hour of my day.

You can read the entire interview here!—and enter a giveaway for a chance to win my books.

THURSDAY

The Dutch edition of Go Your Own Way is now available through my publisher Unieboek! This is my fourth journal, but I still find it incredibly exciting to see my work translated into foreign languages, reaching more readers across the world. Feeling lucky; feeling grateful. 

FRIDAY

I won’t be able to write from the grave
so let me tell you what I love:
oil, vinegar, salt, lettuce, brown bread, butter,
cheese and wine, a windy day, a fireplace,
the children nearby, poems and songs,
a friend sleeping in my bed—
and the short northern nights.

—I Won’t Be Able to Write From the Grave by Fanny Howe

xx,

M

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