Dear Somebody: New beginnings.

A completed exercise from LEARN TO LET GO: A JOURNAL FOR NEW BEGINNINGS (2026)

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

MONDAY 

This year, I didn’t do any sort of round-up: no list of achievements to close out 2025, no more/less lists to begin 2026, no resolutions, no catalog of what went right or wrong. This is a break from my usual tradition: I love taking inventory, assessing which path led to where, considering how to build a different future than the one hurtling straight towards me. 

Despite all of the good reflection does, I feel tired of, and from, looking back. I want to look forward, I only want the light of what can be…to be. 

A few days ago I received Issue #68 of Uppercase Magazine in the mail. I love writing and illustrating for this magazine, and year after year, I feel lucky that I get to. When I opened the pages, a smile rang in me. This illustration is one of my favorite drawings I made last year, to accompany an essay I wrote titled More Than Machine: Guidance for Creative Resistance. It might not be the best thing I made, but it is the most meaningful because it is proof of self-doubt and personal growth. It is a sharp claw towards hard change; it is finding a light in dark times. I am deeply connected to it, and by making it, I processed tough experiences and saw myself more clearly. 

“More Than Machine” for Issue #68 of Uppercase Magazine (2025)

I love that art can help us chronicle, understand, and heal. For me, it is a medicine I take as often as I can. It requires no skill or prescription, and asks nothing of us other than our willingness to take a look inside. For this, I am grateful. 

TUESDAY

This week, through Nicole Cardoza’s newsletter REIMAGINED, I learned that in 1980, Stevie Wonder wrote Happy Birthday to promote the establishing of Martin Luther King Jr. Day as a federal holiday. The song became the anthem of the movement led by Coretta Scott King, and Wonder joined her at rallies across the nation. 

WEDNESDAY

Sometimes I forget the magic of it all. 

My mind is on the pink soccer jersey we’re searching for. While T tries them on, I keep the girls occupied, pushing the red Target cart down the shiny white aisles. No, we have enough toys, I say; No, we have enough clothes, I say; No, no no. The girls are whiny. I am, too. 

We turn the corner and there it is: the new Wellbeing Reads display, and there I am—or a little part of me, at least—on the bottom left row. I beam, wishing I looked more human. The girls squeal and pick up copies, they attempt to take selfies. T arrives a few minutes later—nothing having fit correctly—and takes photos of a wintering me, and then a few more with the girls. 

Me kneeling in front of Target’s WELLBEING READS display, holding a copy of LEARN TO LET GO (2026)

The Ladies in front of Target’s WELLBEING READS display; N holding a copy of LEARN TO LET GO (2026)

I sit at my desk for hours on end, painting or writing or throwing drafts in the trash. The days turn into weeks, then months. The years peel by. A book comes into the world years after I’ve first sat down to write it, years after I’ve learned enough to put the words to paper. A book comes out into the world and slowly, caught up in the details of everyday life, I forget the magic of it all. 

A book comes out into the world, and months later, as I shop with my small family, we run right into it—and I remember, once again, how magical it is to make something that someone else can hold. To make something that my own children can hold, and read, and one day write in. 

One of my completed exercises from LEARN TO LET GO (2026)

I’m working through my own copy of LEARN TO LET GO at the moment. I haven’t worked through one of my own journals in a very long time, and I’m eager to plant new seeds for change in the pages of this book. 

One of the reasons I make these journals is because there is no end point for personal growth. It is with humility that I complete the exercises that I long ago wrote, seeing how far I have come—and how much further I still have to go. 

“Helped are those who are content to be themselves,” Alice Walker said. “They will never lack mystery in their lives and the joys of self-discovery will be constant.”

Each day, when I open a new page, I’m reminded by the magic of it all. 

THURSDAY

Ruth Franklin writes about Paul Simon and the horrifying state of our country; my very favorite New Year’s poem; Judit Orosz makes paper poetry; I’ll Try Anything by The Strokes; Denny’s in Japan. 

FRIDAY

I remember all the different kinds of years.
Angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.
I remember feeling like that
walking up the mountain along the dirt path
to my broken house on the island.
And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.
The winter walking and hot summer walking.
I finally fell in love with all of it:
dirt, night, rock and far views.
It’s strange that my heart is as full
now as my desire was then. 

—Arriving Again and Again Without Noticing by Linda Gregg

• Dear Somebody: Should I Be Doing More? (January 24, 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: How to get back up.

An illustration from LEARN TO LET GO which reads “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” —Ernest Hemingway (watercolor, 2025)

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

MONDAY 

In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about our trip to Mexico City, the first time T and I have gone anywhere, alone, since having N five years ago. The sights, smells, and sounds of a country so vibrant with culture and opinion and loyalty; how our two children missed us but were loved and cared for by hands that weren’t ours; of the new, incredible rush of knowing I can step outside of my own life without it falling apart. 

In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about K’s visit the first week of November; about our children who are growing to know and think of each other daily, though they are hundreds of miles apart; of a friendship that grows and changes, no longer dependent on daily connection; of friendship that runs on an underground rail line, traveling under arbitrary state lines and handfuls of years spent apart; of friendship that moves forward, steadily, through fallen rock, waste, and insult.

In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about N’s first time seeing The Nutcracker, her eyes lit up by sugar plum fairies and the pure strength of a ballerina; about our Thanksgiving and the best part of N’s day; about F’s desire for everyone to be together, always, smushed inside a giant group hug; about how my two small children seem bigger and bigger each day—the roundness draining from their cheeks, the language falling from their mouths cleaner than Winter herself. 

In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write. But I haven’t. Instead, like a genealogist, I’ve studied family trees, and how each of us carries what we inherit, including a good amount of rot. I can cut the rot away, if I have what it takes to do the cutting. Like an engineer, I’ve taken myself apart. Like an artist, I’ll put myself back together—not from the ground up, but from pretty far down, without all of the pieces I once thought I needed. 

I want to write more—for you, for myself. In the new year, I hope to. But in case I don’t, I’m writing to remind myself that a full life—one that is truly bursting with adventure and risk and joy, requires a lot of falling down and a lot of getting back up. 

Right now, I’m getting back up. And I’m taking my time. 

TUESDAY

For K’s birthday, I made her a tiny book:

Our House: A Tiny Book (watercolor and ink, 2025)

This was a joyful experience. I want to write a more in-depth process post about the making of this book early next year, but for now, I’ll say that making continues to be the foundation of my joy, hope, and health. The more I focus on the process of making, the less I focus on what I’ve made—and that makes all the difference.

WEDNESDAY

My annual joys include re-reading, watching, and listening to Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman—this year, we added The Bear to our watchlist. I’ve been listening to Elvis’ Christmas Album on repeat and sadly, I love it more and more with each listen. I still like watching the snow come down; I still like turning the space heater on; I still like drawing pictures on cold windows with my fingertips. 

THURSDAY

I received a few copies of the UK edition of LEARN TO LET GO, titled LEARNING TO LET GO from my publisher Michael O’Mara, and I’m stunned by how beautiful it is. 

Learning to Let Go, published by Michael O’Mara Books (2025)

Learning to Let Go, published by Michael O’Mara Books (2025)

Learning to Let Go, published by Michael O’Mara Books (2025)

I love the large format, with generous amounts of space for writing, the rounded edges, and the beautiful, thick paper they used. 

If you live overseas and are looking for a thoughtful, encouraging gift for yourself or a friend—I ask you to please consider purchasing a copy of the UK edition. It’s available through numerous outlets: LEARNING TO LET GO (UK EDITION).

For my friends who live here in the United States, please consider purchasing a copy of LEARN TO LET GO (US EDITION) from any of the following locations: 

Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, Books A Million, BuyOlympia (*includes special limited edition print!), Hudson Booksellers, Target, Walmart.

Please also consider leaving a review so this book can reach more hands and help those who need it most. 

Thank you, always, for supporting my work and for being here. I look forward to writing this newsletter each week (even on the weeks I don’t manage to send one out!) and that’s because of you. <3 

FRIDAY

I am learning to abandon the world
before it can abandon me.
Already I have given up the moon
and snow, closing my shades
against the claims of white.
And the world has taken
my father, my friends.
I have given up melodic lines of hills,
moving to a flat, tuneless landscape.
And every night I give my body up
limb by limb, working upwards
across bone, towards the heart.
But morning comes with small
reprieves of coffee and birdsong.
A tree outside the window
which was simply shadow moments ago
takes back its branches twig
by leafy twig.
And as I take my body back
the sun lays its warm muzzle on my lap
as if to make amends.

—I Am Learning to Abandon the World by Linda Pastan

See you next week!

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: Taking creative inventory.

Three Sisters Make a Wish for Uppercase Issue #67 (2025)

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

MONDAY

For my current Being column, I wrote about taking creative inventory. I make an effort to do this at the beginning of ever quarter, in order to re-align my creative work with my evolving values. An excerpt is below; the entire article is available for reading in the current issue of Uppercase Magazine. 

Three Sisters Make a Wish, published in Issue 67 of Uppercase Magazine (2025)

“On a rudimentary level, this means disengaging with behavior where other people’s lives and work stamps out the value of mine. I stop scrolling Instagram, where it becomes easy to believe that everyone else is better at everything—from parenting to painting—than me. I stop reading books by artists I love if I find that I’m comparing my voice to theirs. Instead of turning to Pinterest—or even the books in my studio, for inspiration, I head to the library. I turn back 100 years or so and usually find the most exciting inspiration in work that was created prior to the Internet’s existence—before the allure of someone else’s life and creativity became more important than my own.

On a more conscious level, this work means recognizing my true voice—my values, stories, and desires, deeply enough to separate it from the rest. When self-doubt creeps in and tells me my work isn’t good enough, I recognize that it’s the voice of my fear, who can’t bear to see me fail. When the pressure of producing more work than is sustainable grinds at me, I recognize that it’s the voice of my immigrant upbringing that tells me I must succeed to be worthy, even of my own love.” 

—from Creative Inventory: Going Back to the Basics for Issue 67 of Uppercase Magazine

TUESDAY

“My grandmother says that mango trees used to belong to everyone”; tracing the removal of Confederate monuments across the American south; the principles of patience.

WEDNESDAY

The cover of LEARNING TO LET GO, published by Michael O’Mara Books (2025)

The UK edition of LEARN TO LET GO, titled LEARNING TO LET GO, came out this week! I’m thrilled to have this edition available for overseas readers, and very grateful to Michael O’Mara for supporting this book. 

If you’re in the UK or overseas, please support this edition of the journal buy purchasing directly through Michael O’Mara, Amazon UK, Waterstones, or at your local independent bookstore. 

For a limited time, Bookshop.org is offering 10% off with the code LOVEBOOKSHOPS — it’s the perfect time to pick a copy or two for the upcoming holiday season. Thank you, always, for your support and encouragement. 

THURSDAY

Some of you may remember that I painted Tony Hoagland’s Reasons to Survive November during my MFA program three years ago. I was introduced to the poem by Laura Olin and from the moment I read the first line, the poem has never left my brain. 

To me, the mark of good art is if it propels the reader to do something. Hoagland’s poem did that for me; it inspired me to pick up a paintbrush and create something new. The poem itself speaks of an enemy, and in my early years of motherhood, the enemy felt external: the many obstacles that stood in between me and the art I so desperately wanted—needed, to make. 

Over the past handful of years, I’ve worked myself up into a fever trying to make emotive work—not work based on an emotional subject or experience, but work that made the viewer feel. How can I use colors to better express certain emotions? How can I use texture to create an emotional landscape? How can word and image come together to create something otherwise inexplicable? How can I make a simple drawing that beckons a feeling otherwise unseen, a feeling that can only survive deep inside the heart? 

Years later, the questions above are still the questions I ask myself each time I sit down to make. And years later, Hoagland’s poem still inspires me to take action: to pick up a paintbrush and create. But as I grow as a person and as an artist, my enemy looks less like someone or something outside of me. The more I make, the more deeply I understand that my biggest obstacle isn’t balancing motherhood and career, finding clients, or growing an online platform: it’s reducing the volume of the voice inside me that says I’m destined to fail. 

Reasons to Survive November hanging in our mudroom (2025)

This painting now hangs in our mudroom; N refers to it as The November Poem. Most days, I walk right past it in an effort to tidy the mountain of shoes, pack backpacks, or shove tiny feet into even tinier socks. But when I do look up, I see much more than a strange painting laden with young brushstrokes and skewed perspective. I see myself in a kaleidoscope, through a million different lenses, every version of myself eager to help the next survive. 

FRIDAY

November like a train wreck—
as if a locomotive made of cold
had hurtled out of Canada
and crashed into a million trees,
flaming the leaves, setting the woods on fire.

The sky is a thick, cold gauze—
but there’s a soup special at the Waffle House downtown,
and the Jack Parsons show is up at the museum,
full of luminous red barns.

—Or maybe I’ll visit beautiful Donna,
the kickboxing queen from Santa Fe,
and roll around in her foldout bed.

I know there are some people out there
who think I am supposed to end up
in a room by myself

with a gun and a bottle full of hate,
a locked door and my slack mouth open
like a disconnected phone.

But I hate those people back
from the core of my donkey soul
and the hatred makes me strong
and my survival is their failure,

and my happiness would kill them
so I shove joy like a knife
into my own heart over and over

and I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
into the land of my enemies.

—Reasons to Survive November by Tony Hoagland

See you next week!

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: N turns five years old.

N is five (mixed media, 2025)

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

MONDAY 

When N wakes up on her fifth birthday, the morning is ready. The sparkly lights have been hung, dangling over the bannister. The pom poms have been hung, twirled around the sparkly lights and the felted banner that reads happy birthday. The gifts are piled on top of the squishy yellow chair, waiting to be opened. The flamingo cake is baked and assembled, waiting to be eaten. The birthday breakfast is cooked and plated, a tiny candle on top, waiting to be blown out.

When N wakes up on her fifth birthday, her sister is ready. F follows her around with arms outstretched, longing to place them around her big sister. Happy birthday, N. Birthday huggie time! she screams over and over again, in the only pitch volume she knows: loud. F follows N from room to room, struggling to hug her while N struggles to walk away, struggling to hug her while N brushes her teeth. That’s enough hugs! N says, annoyed, and F, finally giving up, turns to me and says: I want my birthday to come out now.

When N wakes up on her fifth birthday, her father and I are ready. We’ve been talking about it for days now: how it’s been five years since we first became parents, how five is a milestone, how five means something. I recall every moment in the past five years when I have faltered under the weight of parenthood, and wish I’d been more present for the sweet child in front of me. I remind myself that all I can do is offer N who I am; give her the space necessary to dissent, grow, and learn; and to try—genuinely try, to live a little more graciously. A little more in the present. 

When N climbs into bed on the night of her fifth birthday, her bedroom is ready. The ceiling fan whirls. Her sparkly canopy gently sways. The stars on her walls twinkle and swirl. When I tuck her in, she asks me to stay and snuggles into me. She clutches my body like a toddler during drop off, so closely that I forget she’s five years old. So closely that I forget that next year she’ll be six, then twelve, and then out of my arms altogether. N is quiet. Her eyes are closed, but I know she’s awake because her hand moves so closely in mine. Quite suddenly, I don’t feel ready anymore. 

TUESDAY

N’s flamingo cake, on her fifth birthday (2025)

N requests a flamingo cake for her birthday and although I fret about it for weeks, it comes together quite nicely and with little difficulty. Five years into making birthday cakes for my kids, I feel something I rarely feel, which is pride: for taking on a task and accomplishing it, for making a young kid’s wish come true, for enjoying the process and letting the mistakes show. 

N eats a flamingo on her fifth birthday (2025)

Past cakes include F’s bluey cake, F’s rainbow cake, N’s rainbow cake, N’s painted cake.

WEDNESDAY

“A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.” ―Ursula K. Le Guin

THURSDAY

To celebrate the publication of my journal, Learn to Let Go, I invited a few people I admire to share what they’re letting go of, and what they’re learning in the process. 

Today, I’m featuring New York Times Bestselling Author, wellness educator, and Restorative Writing teacher Alex Elle. Alex is also the author of How We Heal, a practical and empowering guide to self-healing. 

I’ve known Alex since my Brooklyn days, and it’s been stunning to see her growth over the years—as an author and artist, but also as a mother, partner, and friend. I’m so happy to share this space with her today. 

What have you let go of?

AE: I’ve let go of the belief that I have to prove my worth through overextending myself—creatively or personally. I no longer chase validation by saying yes when I mean no, or by holding onto relationships and projects that no longer align. Letting go of people-pleasing and performance has made space for deeper honesty, more intentional work, and a steadier connection to my own voice. What’s mine won’t require me to betray myself to keep it.

What did you gain when you released it?

AE: I gained a grounded sense of self-trust and the freedom to create, connect, and care from a place of alignment—not obligation.

What are you letting go of?

AE: I’m learning to let go of urgency—the need to have all the answers, fix what’s broken, or rush my healing..

What are you learning from this process?

AE: I’m learning that the more I unfurl, the more I bloom.

Many thanks to Alex for sharing a little bit of her journey with us. You can learn more about Alex’s work and subscribe to her newsletter, Gratitude Journal. 

P.S. Past interviews include Carolyn Yoo on letting go of artistic identity, and Malaka Gharib, on letting go of yes.

Learn to Let Go came out last week! Thank you to everyone who has bought, shared, and celebrated the release of this special book. 

In case you missed it, I spoke about acceptance, letting go, and making books with Radim Malinic on the Daring Creativity podcast. I joined my friend Kena Paranjape for a really lovely conversation about the book in the Supernova community. The book is featured in the latest issue of Uppercase Magazine (thank you, Janine!), and I joined Jessica Swift for a conversation about letting go in our creative practices at her Art Oasis retreat.

As a reminder, Bookshop.org is offering a 15% on all orders with the code LTLG15 for a limited time. This is a good time to grab a copy or two or five, especially for upcoming holiday gifts. You can also purchase from another shop listed here, or if you’re overseas, the UK edition. Thank you, always, for supporting my work. 

FRIDAY

On the bridge
A village witch
Tells me

You see nothing
Clearly, since in all your eyes
A fog gathers generations

—The Witch by Ye Hui

See you next week!

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: It's publication day!

Hi, friends.

I’m sending out a special note today because it’s publication day for Learn to Let Go!

Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings publishes today through TarcherPerigee (Penguin Random House) and is available through BuyOlympia, Bookshop.org (15% off , Barnes & Noble, Target, and Amazon.

The UK edition is available through Michael O’Mara Books and is in Waterstones bookstores everywhere. 

Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings (2025)

This journal has been a long time coming. I’ve spent my entire life carrying baggage that’s too heavy: resentment, conversations that went wrong, anger, one-sided friendships, beliefs that don’t quite fit, the idea that I don’t have what it takes. It wasn’t until a few years ago—when N first came into the world, that I decided to put some of this weight down.

As a first-time mother, I carried a lot of unfair expectations for myself. I wanted to get it right—to be the best possible parent to this tiny little being. I owed that much to a child who didn’t ask to come into this world. The weight of this pressure caused me to buckle, more and more until I finally broke. I couldn’t be the best mother and the best writer. I couldn’t be the best partner and the best friend. I couldn’t keep a clean house and make progress on my work. I couldn’t cook healthy, fresh meals and meet my deadlines. What I wanted, above all else, was to be somebody who could. 

The biggest source of anger, the most heartbreaking source of friction during these years wasn’t my new role as a mother, the new responsibility of a child, or the countless sources of exhaustion that this new chapter presented: it was my simple inability to let go. 

I didn’t realize that the pressure I placed on myself to be a great mother was preventing me from stepping into this new role with confidence, with assurance. I didn’t realize that dwelling on all that had changed kept me from seeing the good blossoming in those very same spaces. I didn’t realize that resenting myself for who I no longer was prohibited me from seeing how I had grown and become someone new: someone that I didn’t recognize yet, but that I would soon grow to love—and to admire and respect, if I gave myself the chance to. 

In writing this journal, I learned that although I resented myself for not being able to let go of more sooner, letting go isn’t a practice to rid myself of discomfort or dynamics that cause me pain. Instead, pursuit of acceptance—of myself and the circumstances I find myself in—is a much more practical journey. It provides room for growth, encourages me to maintain perspective, and naturally allows me to let go of what no longer fits. 

LEARN TO LET GO is a fully-illustrated journal for opening the door to new beginnings, designed to help you clarify the values necessary for accepting who you are now, so you can grow into the person you want to be. The book becomes more challenging as you work through it, ensuring that you’ve completed the self-reflection necessary for letting go of the more difficult sources of pain, frustration, and confusion.

Each page of this journal is filled with encouraging quotes by world leaders, creatives, and activists who have faced their own challenges with acceptance and compassion; thoughtful exercises that encourage you to find the value and strength in yourself; and challenging prompts that will help you face your current challenges, navigate difficult transitions, and leave what no longer serves you behind. 

This book is guided by four core beliefs: a belief in one’s own infinity; forgiveness, for yourself and others; a commitment to self-reflection and flexibility, and letting go as a practice of health maintenance. It encourages you to clarify your values; to strengthen your resources by exercising them; to accept and acknowledge your circumstances; and to remain open-hearted and brave.

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Here’s how you can support Learn to Let Go: 

• Order a copy (or like, five) of Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings

• Forward this newsletter to someone who will appreciate this book!

• Ask your local library to carry the book if you can’t afford to purchase it—knowing that your entire neighborhood will now have access to it!

• Ask your local bookstore to carry the book. I love local bookstores and want to support them as much as possible throughout this launch. 

• Write a review on Amazon so more people can find this book

• If you want to review or write about Learn to Let Go (or know someone who might), feature it in your publication/podcast/etc., or interview me — just reply to this email to reach me. Every little bit helps.

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THANK YOU for reading and for all of your support and encouragement. It means the world to me. 

See you on Friday with a new edition of Dear Somebody, when I’ll talk a little more about letting go, have a new illustrated interview ready for you—and, of course, a poem.

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: Letting go of yes.

October desk (2025)

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

MONDAY 

There is a thought that I keep close to my heart and consider often: There are so many beautiful things waiting for me on the other side of my fear. I am careful to welcome new people and experiences, despite the chance of rejection, because just as likely is the chance that my vulnerability will introduce me to a brighter world—one where I feel comfortable being fully seen and understood.

I’ve built up resilience against rejection knowing that if someone is incapable of accepting my honesty, it’s because they are engaged in a battle against themselves, not against me. Vulnerability creates a renewable energy—each time I open myself up, I am encouraged by how this simple act can bring me closer to someone else. When I give another person the chance to see me, I also give myself the opportunity to love myself more. The wins are worth the wounds—each time I share a part of myself and see the hint of recognition in someone else’s eyes, I see myself, again, for the very first time.

—from How it Feels to Find Yourself: Navigating Life’s Changes with Clarity, Purpose, and Heart, my book of illustrated essays

TUESDAY

On Artists and Hopelessness by Beth Pickens; Helen Keller’s moment of realization; the artwork of ATAK.

WEDNESDAY

Words by Georgia O’Keefe that have stayed by my side this week:

“I have already settled it for myself so flattery and criticism go down the same drain and I am quite free.”

“Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small it takes time - we haven’t time - and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” 

“I wish people were all trees and I think I could enjoy them then.”

My studio mate Georgia O’Keefe, made by artist Krista Coons (2025)

THURSDAY

To celebrate the upcoming publication of my journal, Learn to Let Go, I invited a few people I admire to share what they’re letting go of, and what they’re learning in the process. 

Today, I’m featuring journalist, cartoonist, and graphic novelist Malaka Gharib. Malaka is the author of the beloved I Was Their American Dream and It Won’t Always Be Like This.

What are you letting go of?

MG: I became a parent two and a half years ago and I’ve had to learn how to say no a lot more…to hanging out with friends, to the social life I was used to, to a lot of the free time I had to making art, reading, writing and seeking inspiration through art, music and film.

What did you gain?

MG: I learned I was spending a lot of time with people who didn’t matter—and actually, I was learning for the first time to seek inspiration from the present and to live fully in the moment. In a lot of my artwork and writing, I am writing about the past, but with a child, you learn to appreciate the joys of every passing moment because my time with him is so fleeting.

Many thanks to Malaka for sharing so intimately with us. You can follow Malaka’s work here and check out her books here. 

P.S. Last week’s interview was with the lovely Carolyn Yoo:

In case you missed it, I spoke about acceptance, letting go, and making books with Radim Malinic on the Daring Creativity podcast. 

We’re only one week away from the publication of Learn to Let Go, and I’m happy to share that for a limited time, Bookshop.org is offering a 15% on all orders with the code LTLG15. A good time to grab a copy or two or five! 

You can also purchase from another shop listed here, or if you’re overseas, the UK edition. Thank you, always, for supporting my work. 

FRIDAY

One: from The First Elegy

Yes—springtime needed you. Often a star
was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you
out of the distant past, or as you walked
under an open window, a violin
yielded itself to your hearing. All that was mission.
But could you accomplish it? Weren’t you always
distracted by expectation, as if every event
announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place
to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
going and coming and often staying all night.)

—The First Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke

See you next week!

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: Speckles and streamers.

A beautiful Midwestern ripped sky, in September (2025)

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

MONDAY 

When I pick N up from school lately, the conversation is minimal. She’s tired; I’m tired; we drive along in silence, each of us held quiet by our own thoughts. Every so often, I check on her in the rearview mirror. She catches me looking and gives me a small smile. Sometimes the smile is genuine, pleased at being noticed. Other times, I get the feeling that the smile is for me—obligatory, a response to my unasked questions. It reminds me that, day by day, she’s growing up: growing accustomed to social rules and performances, growing aware of another person’s gaze on her, growing an invisible shield between her mind and mine. Slipping through my fingers.

Today is different. From the moment I buckle her into the carseat, N’s mind and eyes are locked into one thing only: the clouds. Mom, she says. Did you notice the clouds today? I squint around the sunlight striking my windshield and look at the sky. The clouds are in tatters, sprinkling the blue sky in bits and patches, like an animal tearing its way through a fresh carpet. Others streak across the wide sky in ribbons, long lines that travel as far as we can see.

Streamer clouds (2025)

Speckle clouds (2025)

What kind of clouds are those? N asks me, curious. Prompted to remember what little I know about clouds, I recall three of the four main classifications and I consider them aloud. They don’t look like cumulus clouds, I reason. Those are…popcorn-like? I remember that cirrus clouds are wispy, which none of these are, and stratus? No idea there. 

While I’m busy talking to myself, N classifies the clouds herself. The long ones are streamers, she says, like the kind you bring to a party. And the rest are ripped out of the sky, like speckles. Speckles and streamers.

There’s little else that excites me more than hearing N describe the world. Her use of language is extremely visual; it isn’t difficult for me to imagine what she sees. Her choice of words feels intimate, considered. Though her vocabulary is smaller than mine, she chooses words carefully, with affection. 

For the next thirty minutes, we drive on in excitement. N points out each unusual cloud she sees and takes photos of them with my phone. There’s a few cloud-shaped ones,she says, spotting a cumulus. There’s a spaceship one. And that one is a sea streamer, because it waves up at the end. Like a whale.

As we grow closer to the intersection where I make a left for F’s school, she laments: the cloud she loves most will disappear from her view. Mom, make sure you look at this cloud before you turn, she says, her cheeks pressed to the window. Isn’t the sky really just so beautiful today? I turn around and look at her, my sweet stormy cloud. Often full of rain and a bolt or two. In a few weeks, she’ll be five. 

Yeah, I say, staring at her staring out the window. The most beautiful thing I can see.

TUESDAY

On the value of shame, which I hadn’t considered before: 

“Very few of us are moral saints—certainly not me. Unlike everlasting, lofty, abstract principles, we who try feebly to live up to them down in the muck of reality face mucky obstacles: we get tired, impatient, envious, and angry. Our values and principles ask more than most of us are able to give—if they don’t, they are probably too weak to be worth holding. But we don’t have to celebrate our failures or, worse still, confuse them with our successes. This is one valuable function of shame: it reminds us of who we want to be when we fall short, a goalpost that is necessarily anchored to the lofty height that our conduct fell beneath. We also encourage and defend these general social standards when we hold others to them, and not just ourselves.”

—from How Can We Live Together? by Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò

WEDNESDAY

My first Diwali card with Biely & Shoaf! (2025)

I’m very excited to share my first Diwali card with you, made in collaboration with Biely & Shoaf! When I began my career a decade ago, no publisher would consider creating a Diwali card with me—really—and so, many years later, this feels like a small win. A win: for me, for the culture, for the field of illustration, for all of us. 

You can purchase this card on the Biely & Shoaf website. 

THURSDAY

To celebrate the upcoming publication of my journal, Learn to Let Go, I invited a few people I admire to share what they’re letting go of, and what they’re learning in the process. 

Today, I’m featuring art, illustrator, and writer Carolyn Yoo. She writes the newsletter SEE YOU, which focuses on the intersection of creativity and self-discovery. I particularly enjoy the way Carolyn views creativity: holistically, as an integral component of good health. Her writing often provides me with something useful to consider or implement into my own creative routine. 

A Portrait of Carolyn Yoo (2025)

What are you letting go of?

CY: A clear artistic identity.

What is this process teaching you?

CY: I’m allowing myself to inhabit the mystery of my interior mind, paying attention to what I’m drawn to and letting all of it percolate into my work with self-trust, without worrying if I make sense to others.

Many thanks to Carolyn for offering a glimpse into her current practice of letting go—a practice that many of us creatives may find useful. You can see Carolyn’s work hereand sign up for her newsletter here. 

In case you missed it, I spoke about acceptance, letting go, and making books with Radim Malinic on the Daring Creativity podcast. 

We’re only two weeks away from the publication of Learn to Let Go, and I’m happy to share that for a limited time, Bookshop.org is offering a 15% on all orders with the code LTLG15. A good time to grab a copy or two or five!

Thank you, always, for supporting my work. 

FRIDAY

it rained in my sleep
and in the morning the fields were wet
I dreamed of artillery
of the thunder of horses
in the morning the fields were strewn
with twigs and leaves
as if after a battle
or a sudden journey
I went to sleep in the summer
I dreamed of rain
in the morning the fields were wet
and it was autumn

—September by Linda Pastan

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Two years ago, these were the five things I most wanted to remember:

Dear Somebody: Inyeon. (October 6, 2023)

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See you next week!

xx,

M

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To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Dear Somebody: The only book worth writing.

Favorite warning (London, 2025)

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

MONDAY 

After our usual English breakfast, we start a long, leisurely walk to Bishop’s Park along the river. I’m meeting V, a fellow writer (and editor), for the first time. We first entered each other’s orbit nearly a decade ago, when she commented on an Instagram post of one of my books. I was honored then, as I am now, to have my work read by someone I so deeply admire. 

I drag the kids along, half-pulling N, half-carrying F. We left plenty of time to walk, but the children pause to kiss every dog and wave at every gull and before I know it, I’m already late, nowhere near the park.  Go on ahead, T tells me, and I do, half-walking and half-running, now pulling myself along faster than my feet prepared for. 

Gulls congregating along River Thames (2025)

When I finally arrive, we get drinks and move over to a bench facing the river. After the initial few moments, we fall into conversation quickly and easily. I am so comfortable with this stranger, in fact, that although it gushes a mere few feet away, I never look away from V and back towards the river. Not once. 

I am reminded, once again, about how expansive life becomes when I allow others in—how, no matter how small or routine my life may feel at any particular moment, opening myself up to the right person will immediately buoy it. The right person reminds me of my own possibility, my own effervescence, my own value. The right person reminds me that the right people are worth the effort: the hundreds of lackluster coffees and playdates and one-sided creative collaborations that led me, eventually, to this moment in Bishop’s Park. 

For two hours, I am engulfed in conversation with another creative, another mother, another writer who I don’t have to explain myself to—because she already knows. For two hours, my brain buzzes with interest, with joy. I am invigorated in a way only possible when sharing meaningful conversation: when the conversation itself is the meal, the food and drink and river all forgotten. All this from a chance meeting with a stranger? All this from a comment on an Instagram post many moons ago? All this from a text message, a kind word, a hello? All this. 

T and the kids arrive to collect me. I sign books for V’s friends and daughter, I place the gift she’s brought me—a prescription bottle of poetry, labeled A Room of One’s Own, in my bag. Hugs are exchanged, letters are promised, and I walk away satiated, wondering if this the beginning of a new friendship.

It’s now been four weeks since our time together in the park; I think of V often. At this age, there is so much space and strangeness between me and anybody else, lifetimes of moments and memories that we’ll never share. How do new friendships begin? How do they sustain when so much life has already been lived? V lives in london, I live in Saint Louis. Her daughter began college this fall; mine beg me to ensure no monsters take them away. Our day-to-day lives? Different. Our faces and brains and cultures? Different. Our upbringings? Our thoughts and fears and desires? Different, different, different. Life is a series of unfinished roads, dozens of bricks piled up and forgotten. 

A gift from V: A prescription from The Poetry Pharmacy (2025)

A month to the day I placed the bottle of poems inside my bag, I finally open it. The pill I shake out is indigo, my favorite color. It’s a quote by Hélène Cixous, that reads: The only book that is worth writing is the one we don’t have the courage or strength to write. The book that hurts us (we who are writing), that makes us tremble, redden, bleed.”

Poetry prescription from my bottle of medicine (2025)

I know this is true of my work and I want it to be true of my life. After all, what’s the difference between writing a book and writing a friendship? Both require a little bit of vulnerability. Both require a knock. Both require you to stand at the door, asking to be let in. I’m afraid of many things, but I know that fear is a costume that courage wears often—so I pick up my pencil and begin to write.

TUESDAY

I’ve recently seen the cyanometer, an instrument for measuring blueness, make its rounds on the internet. It was invented by Horace Benedict de Saussure, a Swiss physicist and mountain climber in 1789. 

I was reminded of Sophie Blackall’s recent creations of her own four cyanometers, which she used to measure the blueness of the sea. I don’t know what to call it, but I’d like to make a meter to measure the color of clouds. 

WEDNESDAY

My Start Where You Are 2026 weekly planners and wall calendars (2025)

For those of you who haven’t seen, my 2026 wall calendar and weekly planners are now available, and they are bright, lovely, and a joy to use. This will be my last calendar collection, so if you’ve been wanting to hang a calendar of mine, now’s the time to grab one.

You can order them directly from Andrews McMeel/Amber Lotus Publishing or in my BuyOlympia shop, as well as your local book shop or Amazon. 

THURSDAY

I haven’t recorded a podcast in a few years now, so it was especially enjoyable to break my recording fast with a really, really lovely conversation with designer and author Radim Malinic. 

We discuss all things creativity and books, but I especially loved how easy it was to sink into a meaningful conversation about letting go: life is a continual series of transformations—and if you’re going to grow, you have to let go of the person you used to be. You can listen to the episode here. 

A bonus episode, that focuses on a few especially meaningful moments (including my belief that letting go isn’t something you do, it’s simply the byproduct of acceptance) is available here. 

My gratitude to Radim for having me on, and for such a pleasurable conversation. And! If you haven’t already, you can pre-order Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings. 

FRIDAY

That time
we all heard it,
cool and clear,
cutting across the hot grit of the day.
The major Voice.
The adult Voice
forgoing Rolling River,
forgoing tearful tale of bale and barge
and other symptoms of an old despond.
Warning, in music-words
devout and large,
that we are each other’s
harvest:
we are each other’s
business:
we are each other’s
magnitude and bond.

—Paul Robeson by Gwendolyn Brooks

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A year ago, these were the five things I most wanted to remember:

Dear Somebody: Losing a Penguin (September 20, 2024)

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See you next week!

xx,

M

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To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Dear Somebody: On this side of the lake.

Planting a Garden (sketchbook, 2025)

Yesterday, I wrote to my representatives and senator requesting we shut the Everglades detention camps—you can, too.

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

MONDAY 

Lake Michigan on the Milwaukee side (2025)

We pile into the car evenly—three children and three adults, a dozen books and crayons shoved into backpacks, grocery bags of assorted snacks. We sing songs and have nonsensical conversations; we count how many hours, then minutes, there are left. W cries from the numbness that settles into her unused limbs, F cries that my hand is too far away to hold. From her perch in the third row, N watches with detached amusement. Nearly seven hours later, we arrive in Milwaukee. Though K and I have been friends for 30 years now, this trip together with our young children is our first.

After unpacking and settling in, we feed the restless children and tuck them in. The next morning, we head to the beach. On this side of the lake, the cold water is clear. I wade in after N and look down at my toes. Though they are two feet below water, I find them easily. I don’t know if the water is clean, but I pretend it is, the transparency of it inviting me to look more closely. My toes curve over hundreds of stones, mostly Basalt and Septarian, smoothed over hundreds of years in the sea. Each one is the perfect shape. It’s easy for me to love—to seek out, even, the blemishes in natural materials. It’s much harder for me to accept the flaws in people, the flaws in myself—but I am working on it. I look for Yooperlites, but find none. 

The morning passes easily. The sun is hot; the lake is cold. The girls oscillate between joy, fatigue, and hunger. N and I build a sand castle; F knocks it down. W has a qualm; no one knows what it is. The children cry and then move on. We do, too. When it’s time to pack up and head home for lunch, all three girls protest, having fallen in love with the lake. My heart is close to bursting, for all I want is for my girls to love the water, themselves, and each other. We’ll come back tomorrow, we promise, brushing the sand from their bodies. On this side of the lake, multiple friendships are forming. 

On the deck of our rental house, I hang up our wet things. Our three girls sprawl over the wooden slats and eat. It’s odd to see how much F and W resemble the younger versions of K and I—how these incarnates will have their own chance for a lifetime of friendship with each other. How N, maybe, will look after them the way my own sister does. Long car rides, conversations late into the night. Tears, arguments, the inevitable periods of silence. The first phone call after. The acceptance of each others’ flaws. I hope they will take turns holding on and letting go, but mostly, I hope, they’ll spend their time making each other feel known. 

We spend a few more days at the lake. Our three girls play and chatter, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Like the stones I reach for, each is strange and wonderful. We build more sand castles, and this time, it’s the water that knocks them down. On this side of the lake, we don’t mind, because the water teaches us about friendship: it ebbs and flows, but always, in the end, it goes on.

TUESDAY

For Issue 66 of Uppercase Magazine, I wrote about my recently revived journaling practice, and the effects it’s made on my life and creative work.

A photo of my latest essay for Uppercase Magazine on daily journalling

A photo of my latest essay for Uppercase Magazine (2025)

Issue 66 of Uppercase Magazine (2025)

“Over the past 8 months, I’ve changed how I approach journaling. This desire sprang from a cycle of emptiness: I found my attention was compromised, tired of being pelted by constant news, memes, and even the latest popular works in art and literature. Perhaps most alarming, I felt an uncomfortable urge to adopt whichever creative trend was flavor of the week. To challenge myself, I began writing daily in one of the many blank notebooks I’ve acquired over the past decade. I kept my expectations low to guarantee success: write about anything I want, for any amount of time, every day. There was no minimum page or word count (I’d fallen out of the morning pages routine years ago), no restrictions on content or format (I could vent, make lists, or write poetry), and I had little expectation of where this practice would lead me. The satisfaction was meant to be found in the act of writing itself—and it was.” 

—from Daily Journalling: A Practice that Forever Altered My Work (and My Life) for Issue 66 of Uppercase Magazine

WEDNESDAY

I’m excited to announce that now, when you pre-order Learn to Let Go through BuyOlympia, you’ll receive this limited-edition LETTING GO art print, too! Get yours here—and consider ordering a few for some friends, too. We could all use a little encouragement in the places we feel stuck. 

Many thanks to my friends at BuyOlympia for putting this together.

THURSDAY

While in Milwaukee, we spend time at the Grohmann Museum. Surprisingly, it is a place where all four of us fall in love. The museum showcases the evolution of labor and work throughout history and it was easy to see that nearly everything is possible using the two hands in front of me. Writing about it now, I see—again, quite easily, how much good it would do for me to remember this. 

I was surprised by how N gravitated towards the depictions of household labor: how she seemed enchanted by skilled trade as much as I am. Some of our favorite pieces showed ordinary people transforming ordinary materials into something more: cork shaped into stoppers, glass blown into bottles, chemicals mixed into medicines. 

The Happy Gardener by Hermann Kem (oil on panel)

The Breton Spinner by Eugene Feyen (oil on panel)

Glass Blower (artist unknown) (2025)

Although I’ve always been a crafts person, age encourages me to learn as many skills as I can—to be less reliant on corporations for my needs, to spend more time creating the objects that surround me. They are usually less beautiful, and sometimes less useful, but they mean more—and these days, meaning goes a long way. 

FRIDAY

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass.
And as he stares into the sky, there
are twice as many stars as usual.

—The Two-headed Calf by Laura Gilpin

See you next week!

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: Learn to let go.

The first time I held a printed copy of Learn to Let Go (Saint Louis, 2025)

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

MONDAY 

I am excited to reveal the cover for my upcoming journal, Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings! This cover came together after many, many rejected concepts and sketches, and after much back and forth between me and my design team. 

In the end, I am pleased: it is bright, joyful, and reinforces the beauty in letting go: only by relinquishing our attachment to the emotions, relationships, and dynamics that weigh us down can we create the space necessary for new, evolutionary growth. 

I will speak a lot more about this journal in the upcoming months—I have a slew of comics and interviews (all about letting go!) that I’m excited to make and share with you. Releasing the unfair expectations I have of myself—as a mother, artist, and general human-person—has been a reoccurring lesson over the past few years and I’m strangely excited to dip into these reflections and share how I’ve grown.

If you have the means to pre-order and support this journal, please do—pre-ordering now will make a huge difference in the success of this book! 

As I’ve written before, pre-orders are vital to the success of any book. All publishers rely on pre-orders (and sales, in general) to see whether the books we write resonate with people and whether they should continue supporting us in creating them. Strong pre-orders for this book indicate strong interest. Strong interest encourages my publisher to buy my next book.

More than that, pre-orders signal to my publisher—and the larger world of book publishing—that the work I’m making is important. That talking about emotions, vulnerability, and the complexity of the human condition is important. That a person will be required to let go of that which hurts them, but that sometimes, they’ll have to make peace with the loss of a thing, or a person, or a place they loved, too—and that it’s okay to need help. 

Below are links to the regulars; I’ll update this list as the book becomes more widely available:

Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, Books A Million, Hudson Booksellers, Target, Walmart

As always—thank you for reading, engaging, pre-ordering, and supporting my work. Every little bit helps, and I am ever so grateful. 

TUESDAY

“On returning from a walk today I said to myself that I would not be like some girls, who are comparatively serious and reserved. I do not understand how this seriousness comes; how from childhood one passes to the state of girlhood. I asked myself, "How does this happen? Little by little, or in a single day?" Love, or a misfortune, is what develops, ripens, or alters the character.

If I were a bel esprit I should say they were synonymous terms; but I do not say so, for love is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. I compare myself to a piece of water that is frozen in its depths, and has motion only on the surface, for nothing amuses or interests me in my DEPTHS.”

—from artist and writer Marie Bashkirtseff’s diary, Marie Bashkirtseff: The Journal of a Young Artist, 1860-1884

WEDNESDAY

As I continue to research, practice, and begin to incorporate various methods of collage and printmaking into my art, I’ve been unable to get the work of María Berrío out of my head.

Aminata Linnaea, 2013 by María Berrío, courtesy of Victoria Miro

Berrío works primarily by layerring hundreds of torn, cut, and collaged pieces of Japanese paper on top of each other. She then adds light, shadow, and detail using watercolor or acrylic washes, pencil, and ink. The effect is dazzling. I love her use of color and pattern, and especially how her figures remain starkly flat throughout.

THURSDAY

“Satori is kind of enlightenment in life. These moments of illumination: Lying in bed at night, and all of a sudden you realize, I need to be a better partner, a better brother, be more patient, stop being petty. Then you wake up and life happens — a bad work email, someone’s being annoying — and you lose sight of all of that. So satori is a brief window, and the idea for Buddhists is to allow the understanding in that brief window to alter your life.”

—from an interview with Ocean Vuong in The New York Times

FRIDAY

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go,
to let it go.

—In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver

See you next week!

xx,

M

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