Field notes from a chaos curator

Hello Reader,

I tumbled uncontrollably onto New York City pavements.

After our brunch shift, my manager and I, drunk on banana martinis (a breakfast-themed drink I concocted with banana liqueur and vodka we sipped behind the bar), stumbled into stores on Fifth Avenue buying clothes we didn’t need with our tip money from The Morgan Hotel.

This same energy poured into after-hours clubs, sweat giving me a natural glow before it became a TikTok thing, my hair covering my face in a brown haze, dancing with sparkles from the gays sticking to my body, a ghost in the limelight.

My trick chalice never seemed to fill, yet I overflowed. I didn’t know how to contain myself, emotions coursing, veins throbbing. I tried to become solid, inhaling life in gulps until my throat burned. I learned the hard way that pouring alcohol on a fire consumes everything, including me.

I used to be ashamed of this raging fire, of browning myself to a marshmallow crisp. I was ashamed of these days, of this insatiability. I hid it behind my work ethic, a stable boyfriend, and other receipts that proved I was full.

Yet this same energy got me through the last year of high school on my own and into universities, graduating summa cum laude.

When I entered agency life, this same energy spilled into work, rolling past felt desk dividers, flooding timesheets. It animated ideas that sped past limits, fluorescent lamps buzzing long after the sun set.

It waltzed into whatever room I was in and spun me around until I was dizzy. Pulled rabbits out of Yankee caps. It crashed through walls, bricks turning my toes burgundy.

This same energy birthed a book in twelve months.

It’s always been a part of me. Neutral when humming within. Rabid when left unchecked. A superpower when directed.

We all have gifts and curses. It’s our energy, printed in our genomes, doled out at birth, molded in our childhoods, and we get to choose how to use it.

I didn’t know how to tame my energy; how to whisper into its ear and calm it down. I judged and labeled it, stuck derogatory Post-it notes on its forehead, and stuffed it into the closet. But if we keep parts of us in the shadow of shame, we’ll never see the light of their gifts.

Shame festered. I wanted to be ‘perfect’. Unassailable. Untouchable. The pull toward an imagined perfection was a defense mechanism. I was afraid people would use my mess against me, that they’d judge or reject me. But I was already judging and rejecting myself, as well as parts of my experience.

As American Buddhist teacher Frank Ostaseski says, “I cannot be free if I am rejecting any part of my experience.” I was doing what I was afraid people would do to me. Freedom comes from proudly owning my script.

The personal re-write of my story in my book, Welcome to the Creative Club, showing up to each new podcast episode with fewer layers, revealing more shoulder, more underbelly, and shooting from the heart in these field notes to connect and make an impact, all give me a shot of courage and a healthy dose of acceptance.

This invites more of me in, forgives, and stands for parts I kept hidden under a heavy wool blanket of fear and shame.

There’s a vulnerable beauty and freedom that comes with pulling the sheet off, putting our pieces together, moving to wholeness. To be whole, we need to include, accept, and connect all parts of ourselves. Wholeness does not mean perfection. It means no part left out.

When we accept and move into our whole, messy, beautifully flawed selves, we can support and serve others. We touch the soft belly of our humanity. Tender and raw.

It can feel wildly uncomfortable and also liberating.

I am drawn to people who share their bullet wounds, because we all have them. None of us gets out of here unscathed. Recently, on a podcast, Sex, Drugs & Soul, Kristin, host and author of a book with the same title, shared her story of abuse. She showed me hers and I showed her mine. The electricity in our conversation was palpable.

It stayed with me long after it ended. Inspired, I bought her book. Kristin is not only a great writer but also a brave warrior. She owns her story and all of her experiences to make a difference in the lives of others. It felt like a cosmic nudge and nod.

I’m learning to show the bruised and battered parts of me because they’re also what make me who I am. They’re part of my story. Recognizing my fire has so much power. Only if I accept it first can I choose how to direct it.

I’m done shaming and blaming myself, hiding parts to feel safe, loved, or accepted. This is a nonsensical lie. How can we be accepted or loved if we don’t allow ourselves to be seen? How can we be safe if we don’t own our narrative?

Shame keeps us in a urine-scented jail cell. Owning our shit sets us free. It helps not to take myself or what people think too seriously. I remind myself that I’ll be dead in 40 years, and so will most of the people I know. Not to be macabre, but to remember what matters and what doesn’t.

Maybe your story, the one with all the chapters in it, is exactly what someone might need. Maybe your bruises hold the key to your creative expansion. If they’re tended to, looked at, and shared. Dropping the shame attached to the scar tissue might not only heal and liberate ourselves, but others too.

I’m one hell of a dancer. I’ve danced in clubs, on the streets of Paris, in a sari at a Sri Lankan wedding, in taffeta at my own in the heat of a Moroccan night, in gardens in London, in a dancehall reggae basement in Montreal, in Central Park, at a rave in Goa, in a dimly lit bar in Moscow — I’ve moved through so many spaces.

But the best venues are the rooms in the house of me. Especially the ones with sheets over the furniture and locked doors. I’m throwing open the heavy curtains, letting the light in, and shimmying my hips across squeaky floorboards.

I’m opening the doors and calling it all home. For myself, for others, and because what the heck do I have to be ashamed of?

It's all part of my story.

It all brought me here.

Keep creating,