I’ve been sitting with this blank page for weeks now, unsure how to begin. I kept thinking, “Just say something light! Summer is here!” But every time I tried to write it, it felt … off. Not because summer isn’t upon us—it obviously is—but because that kind of simplicity doesn’t hold the complexity of what so many of us are feeling right now.
The world is loud with protest, upheaval, and disagreement. The headlines are heavy. The conversations are charged. And while I never want this space to become overtly political, I also can’t pretend the unrest isn’t happening—that it’s not shaping the way we move through our days.
In the midst of this, I found myself remembering the Hindu goddess Kali. If you don’t know her, Kali is fierce. She’s often depicted with wild hair, dark skin, a necklace of skulls, and fire in her eyes. She is the goddess of destruction—but not in the way we often think of it. Kali destroys only what no longer serves its purpose. She tears down illusion, ego, and stagnation. She is not chaos for chaos’s sake; she is the necessary dismantling that makes room for something truer, something new.
Her energy is raw, uncomfortable, and often misunderstood. But it’s also sacred. She reminds us that endings and beginnings are never far apart. That sometimes, for new growth to take root, the old has to be cleared away—even if it comes with discomfort, mess, or grief.
And lately, I’ve realized that this same energy has been quietly at work in my own life. Behind the scenes, I’ve been restructuring my business—not because something was broken, but because it had outgrown the shape it was in. Some parts of it no longer served the vision I have, or the kind of life I want to lead. And so I’ve been doing the hard, sometimes uncomfortable work of letting go and reimagining, dismantling with intention, and making space for what’s next.
I don’t pretend to know exactly what’s ahead—in our politics, in our communities, even in this next chapter of work. But I find myself watching with a strange mix of reverence, hope, and curiosity. Because when the ground shifts beneath us, it creates cracks where light can get in. Possibilities we couldn’t have imagined in stillness begin to emerge. Change becomes not just inevitable, but fertile.So no, this newsletter won’t begin with a breezy “Happy Summer.” Instead, I’ll begin with this: here’s to holding space for the discomfort and the becoming. Here’s to watching what falls away—and wondering, with clear eyes and an open heart, what might rise in its place.
– Lindsay
