Wow! This piece doesn’t just speak—it roars! Every sentence crackles with truth, and I found myself nodding, underlining phrases in my mind, then screenshotting entire passages, wanting to carry them with me like talismans.
Your writing doesn’t merely describe transformation, it embodies it. The imagery of calamity as a sculptor, of exile as a chisel—these are the kinds of metaphors that linger, that shift something inside the reader. I was especially struck by the idea that failure is more architect than assassin. That single line reframes so much. For me it says EVERYTHING. I think of the times I’ve faced rejection, how I once saw them as dead ends when they were, in fact, detours to something better.
And that final image—of being a mosaic, stitched together with gold—absolutely breathtaking. It reminds me of kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold, making the cracks the most beautiful part. You’ve done that here with words, taking life’s fractures and making them gleam.
This essay isn’t just a reflection, it’s a battle cry. Thank you for writing something so electrifying, so fiercely alive!
Céline, I’m honestly at a bit of a loss — your words landed with the kind of force that makes me want to both hide and write more, all at once. It’s rare, as a writer, to feel like someone really sees the layers beneath the words, the invisible threads you weren’t sure would hold when you stitched them together. But you didn’t just see them — you pulled on them, wove them into your own story, and somehow made them shine brighter.
The way you described carrying the phrases like talismans — THAT is an unbelievable compliment for me. Writing can feel like tossing a message in a bottle into the ocean (God knows I’ve thrown many, especially recently, privately), never knowing if it reaches anyone… But here you are, not only finding it but sending back a message of your own, one that feels like a map, a mirror, and a spark all at once.
Your reflection on failure as more of an architect than an assassin? That line may have been mine on the page, but the way you claimed it makes it feel like it belongs to both of us now. And the kintsugi comparison — that’s exactly the kind of beauty I head in mind, inspired by a dear French friend who is learning Japanese.
So truly, thank you for meeting the piece with such fierce, thoughtful energy. Your words didn’t just respond — they reverberated!
“ I was an outsider in a city that owed me nothing, a loneliness so thick it wrapped itself around my bones.” Last night, my mother shared her memories of working in Italy as a young woman. She described her feelings of anxiety and loneliness, saying it felt as if the buildings were closing in on her as she walked the streets. Yet, the strength she found to overcome that anxiety and loneliness is the same strength that shaped her into the mother who raised me into the person I am today. You have crafted yet another beautiful piece of writing—a balm for our hearts at the start of this transformative year, which still feels overwhelmingly sad and timid.
Thank you for sharing that beautiful glimpse into your mother’s story — it’s amazing how personal experiences like hers ripple through generations, shaping not just her own life, but yours as well. I can almost feel those Italian streets through your words, the weight of unfamiliar buildings pressing in, and yet, there she was, walking through it all, unknowingly crafting the resilience she’d later pass on to you. Loneliness, as suffocating as it feels in the moment, can carve out unexpected depths of strength.
And yes, this year does feel like it’s wearing a heavy coat of sadness and hesitation, doesn’t it? But maybe, like your mother’s story, and like all the quiet battles we fight in strange cities or familiar rooms, that same weight will forge something stronger in us, too. Thank you, Otilia, for reading and for weaving your story into mine — it’s connections like this that remind me why we keep writing, even when the world feels a little too quiet.
This piece is so beautifully and honest. The way you capture the paradox of calamity, how it both tears us down and rebuilds us, is powerful. I particularly love how you reflect on the idea that without the challenges and losses, we might never become who we are meant to be. There’s a wisdom in those “quiet calamities” you mention, the ones that often go unnoticed until later, and the way you trace the transformative power of failure is both humbling and inspiring. Your journey, from leaving everything behind to finding reinvention in a new city, speaks to the heart of resilience and reminds us that, in the end, we are all sculpted by our struggles. I find myself reflecting on my own experiences through your words, realizing that the cracks are not just scars, but the places where the light can enter. Thank you for this beautiful, poignant reflection, it’s a reminder that we are always evolving, and the toughest moments are often the ones that shape us most.
Thank you for this thoughtful, generous reflection — it feels like you’ve met the piece exactly where it lives. That paradox of calamity, how it dismantles and rebuilds us in the same breath, never stops fascinating me. The very things we once cursed for breaking us often turn out to be the scaffolding for who we’re becoming.
I like how you brought in the idea of cracks being the places where light enters — that’s the heart of it. We spend so much time trying to patch up, smooth over, hide the fractures, but those are the very places that hold the story, the growth, the unexpected beauty. And I’m deeply moved that my words could spark reflections on your own journey — it’s in that shared recognition, that mirror of experience, where writing truly feels alive. Thank you for reading with such openness and for adding your light to the conversation. We’re all just works-in-progress, stitched together by the lessons we didn’t even know we were learning, as a remarkable person in my life has recently told me.
I wrote this a while ago, and I think it applies to the greater point made here: "Motivation is to conscientiousness as courage is to fearlessness. If you're conscientious, you don't need motivation, and if you're fearless, you don't need courage."
Essentially, to reach our full potential and realize our best selves, we have to face the darkest, ugliest and weakest aspects of ourselves and conquer them. This can only be found in the equal-but-opposite reaction of being pushed to the absolute brink, and surviving long enough to push back with equal-and-opposite force. Values can only exist in relative terms, and I can't see how one could ever realize their full potential without peering into the void first.
Your perspective taps into that universal truth of growth through struggle. There’s something undeniably powerful about the idea of being pushed to the brink and finding the strength to push back. That tension, that equal-and-opposite force you mention, feels like the crucible where resilience is born.
But I also think there’s space for another side of the journey. Growth doesn’t always have to come from staring into the void. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet, everyday moments — the consistency, the small victories, the unexpected joys. Facing our darkest parts shapes us, yes, but so does choosing to lean into lightness, connection, and even simplicity. Both sides are part of the same coin, and maybe realising our full potential is about embracing that whole spectrum.
And talking about reinvention. It is beautiful to see you pivoting onto a new platform like Substack that allows me, the reader, to connect with a different side of you, all made possible through your incredible gift of writing. This platform is complementing your storytelling skills so well and I can feel how energised you are to create and share your wisdom with the world
I’ll admit, stepping into Substack felt a bit like moving into a new house with all my old furniture. Same voice, new walls. But what a surprise to find the space feels bigger, brighter, and filled with readers like you who make it feel like home.
It’s funny how sharing stories in a different format can unlock new parts of ourselves, like finding a forgotten room in a little castle you’ve lived in for years. And yes, I am energised. There’s something about the immediacy of this space, the way it invites both vulnerability and playfulness, that feels like breathing fresh air after being in a room that got a little too stuffy. But the real magic? It’s in the connection, in knowing these words aren’t just floating into the void but landing with someone who’s walking their own path of reinvention. So here’s to new platforms, unexpected pivots, and the beautiful mess of constantly becoming. Thanks, Alexandra, for being part of the journey — you make it worth the leap!
Dear Tamara, after reading this essay, I can afford to use three, maybe, four words that capture your amazing being …. Discipline, Consistency, Perseverance and Dare!
Moreover, what you described you felt, at the beginning, when you moved to Paris is what I am , now, experiencing in our own country…. I am feeling like I don’t belong here anymore… But, as a human being, I have the ability to adapt.
And yes “ what a dull, suffocating existence it is!”
Evolving is part of our existence… This is how we complete and perfect the masterpiece of our life. And wisdom is the final touch of our transformation.
What a beautiful, heartfelt message — thank you, Iuliana! Your words resonate deeply, not just because they reflect my journey, but because they reveal something universal: the quiet, often painful process of transformation.
Feeling like you no longer belong in a place that once felt like home is a disorienting kind of grief, isn’t it? But as you so wisely put it, we adapt — we evolve. And maybe, just maybe, that sense of displacement isn’t a loss, but an invitation. A push toward something greater, something truer to who we’re becoming.
I love that you see life as a masterpiece in progress, just like me, with wisdom as its final touch. If that’s the case, then perhaps our moments of discomfort, of feeling untethered, are simply brushstrokes adding depth to the canvas.
Wishing you courage, clarity, and a path that feels like yours!
Thank you for this! You’ve captured it perfectly — creation is anything but serene. It’s messy, restless, often inconvenient, showing up in the middle of the night or in the middle of life unraveling. It’s a bit like trying to sculpt something out of quicksand — just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, it slips through your fingers, reshaping itself into something unexpected.
But maybe that’s the beauty of it, right? That tension, that refusal to settle. Creation demands that we wrestle with it, that we sit in the discomfort long enough to find something true. I’m grateful you’re here, reading and resonating with the chaos. It makes the whole wild process feel a little less solitary, Cristina!
Wow! This piece doesn’t just speak—it roars! Every sentence crackles with truth, and I found myself nodding, underlining phrases in my mind, then screenshotting entire passages, wanting to carry them with me like talismans.
Your writing doesn’t merely describe transformation, it embodies it. The imagery of calamity as a sculptor, of exile as a chisel—these are the kinds of metaphors that linger, that shift something inside the reader. I was especially struck by the idea that failure is more architect than assassin. That single line reframes so much. For me it says EVERYTHING. I think of the times I’ve faced rejection, how I once saw them as dead ends when they were, in fact, detours to something better.
And that final image—of being a mosaic, stitched together with gold—absolutely breathtaking. It reminds me of kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold, making the cracks the most beautiful part. You’ve done that here with words, taking life’s fractures and making them gleam.
This essay isn’t just a reflection, it’s a battle cry. Thank you for writing something so electrifying, so fiercely alive!
Céline, I’m honestly at a bit of a loss — your words landed with the kind of force that makes me want to both hide and write more, all at once. It’s rare, as a writer, to feel like someone really sees the layers beneath the words, the invisible threads you weren’t sure would hold when you stitched them together. But you didn’t just see them — you pulled on them, wove them into your own story, and somehow made them shine brighter.
The way you described carrying the phrases like talismans — THAT is an unbelievable compliment for me. Writing can feel like tossing a message in a bottle into the ocean (God knows I’ve thrown many, especially recently, privately), never knowing if it reaches anyone… But here you are, not only finding it but sending back a message of your own, one that feels like a map, a mirror, and a spark all at once.
Your reflection on failure as more of an architect than an assassin? That line may have been mine on the page, but the way you claimed it makes it feel like it belongs to both of us now. And the kintsugi comparison — that’s exactly the kind of beauty I head in mind, inspired by a dear French friend who is learning Japanese.
So truly, thank you for meeting the piece with such fierce, thoughtful energy. Your words didn’t just respond — they reverberated!
“ I was an outsider in a city that owed me nothing, a loneliness so thick it wrapped itself around my bones.” Last night, my mother shared her memories of working in Italy as a young woman. She described her feelings of anxiety and loneliness, saying it felt as if the buildings were closing in on her as she walked the streets. Yet, the strength she found to overcome that anxiety and loneliness is the same strength that shaped her into the mother who raised me into the person I am today. You have crafted yet another beautiful piece of writing—a balm for our hearts at the start of this transformative year, which still feels overwhelmingly sad and timid.
Thank you for sharing that beautiful glimpse into your mother’s story — it’s amazing how personal experiences like hers ripple through generations, shaping not just her own life, but yours as well. I can almost feel those Italian streets through your words, the weight of unfamiliar buildings pressing in, and yet, there she was, walking through it all, unknowingly crafting the resilience she’d later pass on to you. Loneliness, as suffocating as it feels in the moment, can carve out unexpected depths of strength.
And yes, this year does feel like it’s wearing a heavy coat of sadness and hesitation, doesn’t it? But maybe, like your mother’s story, and like all the quiet battles we fight in strange cities or familiar rooms, that same weight will forge something stronger in us, too. Thank you, Otilia, for reading and for weaving your story into mine — it’s connections like this that remind me why we keep writing, even when the world feels a little too quiet.
I thank you for writing and for being my friend from afar.
This piece is so beautifully and honest. The way you capture the paradox of calamity, how it both tears us down and rebuilds us, is powerful. I particularly love how you reflect on the idea that without the challenges and losses, we might never become who we are meant to be. There’s a wisdom in those “quiet calamities” you mention, the ones that often go unnoticed until later, and the way you trace the transformative power of failure is both humbling and inspiring. Your journey, from leaving everything behind to finding reinvention in a new city, speaks to the heart of resilience and reminds us that, in the end, we are all sculpted by our struggles. I find myself reflecting on my own experiences through your words, realizing that the cracks are not just scars, but the places where the light can enter. Thank you for this beautiful, poignant reflection, it’s a reminder that we are always evolving, and the toughest moments are often the ones that shape us most.
Thank you for this thoughtful, generous reflection — it feels like you’ve met the piece exactly where it lives. That paradox of calamity, how it dismantles and rebuilds us in the same breath, never stops fascinating me. The very things we once cursed for breaking us often turn out to be the scaffolding for who we’re becoming.
I like how you brought in the idea of cracks being the places where light enters — that’s the heart of it. We spend so much time trying to patch up, smooth over, hide the fractures, but those are the very places that hold the story, the growth, the unexpected beauty. And I’m deeply moved that my words could spark reflections on your own journey — it’s in that shared recognition, that mirror of experience, where writing truly feels alive. Thank you for reading with such openness and for adding your light to the conversation. We’re all just works-in-progress, stitched together by the lessons we didn’t even know we were learning, as a remarkable person in my life has recently told me.
I think I’m not the only one saying it here, but do write a book!
It’s a bold idea…. that’s all I have to say for now.
This piece is beautiful and highly resonant.
I wrote this a while ago, and I think it applies to the greater point made here: "Motivation is to conscientiousness as courage is to fearlessness. If you're conscientious, you don't need motivation, and if you're fearless, you don't need courage."
Essentially, to reach our full potential and realize our best selves, we have to face the darkest, ugliest and weakest aspects of ourselves and conquer them. This can only be found in the equal-but-opposite reaction of being pushed to the absolute brink, and surviving long enough to push back with equal-and-opposite force. Values can only exist in relative terms, and I can't see how one could ever realize their full potential without peering into the void first.
Your perspective taps into that universal truth of growth through struggle. There’s something undeniably powerful about the idea of being pushed to the brink and finding the strength to push back. That tension, that equal-and-opposite force you mention, feels like the crucible where resilience is born.
But I also think there’s space for another side of the journey. Growth doesn’t always have to come from staring into the void. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet, everyday moments — the consistency, the small victories, the unexpected joys. Facing our darkest parts shapes us, yes, but so does choosing to lean into lightness, connection, and even simplicity. Both sides are part of the same coin, and maybe realising our full potential is about embracing that whole spectrum.
And talking about reinvention. It is beautiful to see you pivoting onto a new platform like Substack that allows me, the reader, to connect with a different side of you, all made possible through your incredible gift of writing. This platform is complementing your storytelling skills so well and I can feel how energised you are to create and share your wisdom with the world
I’ll admit, stepping into Substack felt a bit like moving into a new house with all my old furniture. Same voice, new walls. But what a surprise to find the space feels bigger, brighter, and filled with readers like you who make it feel like home.
It’s funny how sharing stories in a different format can unlock new parts of ourselves, like finding a forgotten room in a little castle you’ve lived in for years. And yes, I am energised. There’s something about the immediacy of this space, the way it invites both vulnerability and playfulness, that feels like breathing fresh air after being in a room that got a little too stuffy. But the real magic? It’s in the connection, in knowing these words aren’t just floating into the void but landing with someone who’s walking their own path of reinvention. So here’s to new platforms, unexpected pivots, and the beautiful mess of constantly becoming. Thanks, Alexandra, for being part of the journey — you make it worth the leap!
Dear Tamara, after reading this essay, I can afford to use three, maybe, four words that capture your amazing being …. Discipline, Consistency, Perseverance and Dare!
Moreover, what you described you felt, at the beginning, when you moved to Paris is what I am , now, experiencing in our own country…. I am feeling like I don’t belong here anymore… But, as a human being, I have the ability to adapt.
And yes “ what a dull, suffocating existence it is!”
Evolving is part of our existence… This is how we complete and perfect the masterpiece of our life. And wisdom is the final touch of our transformation.
Truly yours, 🤗
What a beautiful, heartfelt message — thank you, Iuliana! Your words resonate deeply, not just because they reflect my journey, but because they reveal something universal: the quiet, often painful process of transformation.
Feeling like you no longer belong in a place that once felt like home is a disorienting kind of grief, isn’t it? But as you so wisely put it, we adapt — we evolve. And maybe, just maybe, that sense of displacement isn’t a loss, but an invitation. A push toward something greater, something truer to who we’re becoming.
I love that you see life as a masterpiece in progress, just like me, with wisdom as its final touch. If that’s the case, then perhaps our moments of discomfort, of feeling untethered, are simply brushstrokes adding depth to the canvas.
Wishing you courage, clarity, and a path that feels like yours!
Beautifully written and so true! (As always, I could say.)
Creation is never quit, never serene…
Thank you for this! You’ve captured it perfectly — creation is anything but serene. It’s messy, restless, often inconvenient, showing up in the middle of the night or in the middle of life unraveling. It’s a bit like trying to sculpt something out of quicksand — just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, it slips through your fingers, reshaping itself into something unexpected.
But maybe that’s the beauty of it, right? That tension, that refusal to settle. Creation demands that we wrestle with it, that we sit in the discomfort long enough to find something true. I’m grateful you’re here, reading and resonating with the chaos. It makes the whole wild process feel a little less solitary, Cristina!
And I’m grateful, too, dear Tamara, to have you as inspiring companion on this amazing journey!