Evolution isn’t Instantaneous, but writing a Book Might Be the Next Best Thing

“Your voice is always there for you. I promise.”

Everyone loves a good glow-up story — the dramatic before-and-after that photographs and videos love. The tease, wouldn't you love to know where I got that glow? The marketing-ready reveal, the successful book launch, the numbers, the categories, the awards.

But here's the truth: the public glow-up is only possible after you've done the work. That's why they say it takes ten years to become an overnight success.

The transformation people see? It's real. But you need to create and tend to it long before anyone's watching.

Once upon a time, I didn't want my own story. In my darkest moments, sometimes I still don't. Blasphemy, I know. But I promised to tell you the hard truths. And, that’s one a lot of writers don’t want to admit.

What’s harder than writing? The daily practice of becoming the non-judgmental witness to my own life. Add to it, radical self-acceptance and self-love. And then, working to change what isn’t working for me.

Powerful shifts rarely announce themselves. They begin in the unseen moments, like when you're writing that book no one has seen or read yet. You've completed enough drafts—and changed your life accordingly —and you’ve yet to launch or publish.

Maybe you're still reckoning with yourself, and it's taking up all your bandwidth to transform your story into something you can live with. That’s okay.

More and more, I recognize my own transformation in quiet. The blessing of birdsong—the way it calms and reminds me that when I'm present and still, peace is all around me, even if the world, according to my reels, is a dumpster fire. And this is where I can’t help but share the wisdom of my own Nonna, the original Clementina, who always reminded me, “It’s not the world, it’s the people in it.”

The birds didn’t stop singing years ago when I began the long and arduous process of divorce; I had no capacity to hear them. It’s a cruel irony to realize that when my nervous system needed them the most, they could’ve sang their little hearts out, and I wouldn’t have heard them over the five-alarm fire of my fears.

Your voice is the same way. And I promise you it is always there for you. You just need to show up for it. Breathe. Listen.

Actively finishing my book means slowly rebuilding my relationship with my truth. It means consistently turning down or muting what’s outside while I work. For readers, it will be a nearly 300-page book they can order from Amazon with a click and devour in a few days. For me, it's been ten years in the making, and it's changed me entirely. You might want to prepare for that...no matter what impact your writing has on the world, the biggest and most profound change starts with you and your commitment to the work, your devotion to the truth.

Lin-Manuel Miranda said, “To engender empathy and create a world using only words is the closest thing we have to magic.” I agree, the intimacy I've shared with authors I'll likely never meet will never cease to amaze me. It's why I believe in books and the people who write them so wholeheartedly. Each is a reminder that we can begin again with the story we wouldn't choose if we knew better, or at all, at least not consciously.

Remember, I told you I once didn’t want my own story? The meaning I’m determined to make of it, the questions I’m determined to answer, have become my lighthouse, my North Star, the reason I press forward, especially on days the world seems full of darkness. I put my head down and summon my own light.

When I left my old life three years ago, my top priorities were learning to trust myself to create a new reality for my boys and me, one with fewer restraints and more possibilities. I kept writing when I could, wishing I could write more or that the whole process would move faster. Had I a magic wand, I might have wished myself to the finish line. And, like any chaos that ensues from a genie in a bottle or Big Anthony in charge of Strega Nonna's pasta pot, I wouldn't have been ready. I didn't yet have the bandwidth or a repaired enough nervous system to handle the public-facing "glow up."

To say it another way, in my impatience, I'd have made the wrong wish at the wrong time. I needed time to change how I listened, who I listened to, and who had access to me (spoiler alert: fewer and fewer people), as I learned how to expand my faith and trust myself.

You can't rush the transformation. And despite what our culture goes to great lengths to make us believe, there are many experiences more valuable than efficiency and speed. Writing a book can be transformative because it forces you to face yourself on the page. From there, you have two choices: abort your story or evolve. The latter is no quick fix.

Which brings me to an underlying question inherent in this post: Does transformation have to be visible to count?

No. And, you're often hidden for protection.

One day, out in my old garden, I saw something strange hanging from the back deck. When I got closer, I realized it was a cocoon; inside, a moth caterpillar was breaking down while nature protected it from harsh weather and predators. You cannot hasten a moth from a cocoon without killing it, nor bring someone to consciousness they’re not ready for without confusion, not even yourself.

The glow-up people see—claiming your voice, launching your book, the confidence—that's real. But it's not where the work happens. It happens in the pages no one reads while you break yourself down and rebuild into someone who can finally advocate for the truth in those pages.

You can't skip the breaking down. You can't rush the rebuilding. The caterpillar doesn't emerge from the cocoon the same creature it was when it went in—it liquefies, reorganizes at a cellular level, and becomes something entirely new. That's what writing your story does when you choose devotion. Your story doesn't document your transformation. It IS your transformation.

So yeah, follow your North Star. You glowing beneath it is what happens when you stop hiding from yourself long enough to write it down—and keep writing, draft after draft, until the metamorphosis is complete.

Only then do you get your wings.

Only then can you fly.

Dear Santa: What I Really Want (And Don't Often Say Out Loud)

Dear Santa,

All I want this Christmas is safety.

And soul-affirming sex and world peace.

Men who don’t collapse under the weight of my Cancer Sun, Pisces Rising emotions because they've gotten comfortable expressing their own and learned to love themselves while they do. 

I know, Santa, it’s a lot of weight, it’s a lot of water, it’s a tall ask. Maybe we can co-create a class? Begin by brainstorming how to teach grounding and presence using the emotional equivalent of 4-foot waves. After the holidays? Pretty please…

For my sons, I want a more loving, more inclusive world. A world where nothing matters more than loving animals and people. All day, every day, with every single decision, nothing matters more than loving other living beings well. 

I want an end to anti-semitism, misogyny, and sexual abuse, and in their place love, freedom, and fearlessness…Santa, can you imagine the beauty?

Can you help me make it happen?

And Santa, I want a book deal. 

And, just once before he dies, I want my father to choose me over the cult of masculinity. 

What about you, Santa?

What do you want? And how are you, really?

Has the jolly performance gotten old? Are your own desires gathering dust in some workshop corner while you fulfill orders and torture yourself over your ambivalent relationship with Amazon? 

Do you even know how you feel under your suit?

Are you tired of being the eternal provider? The one who's had to perform joy for centuries while carrying the weight of everyone's expectations. The one who maybe—just maybe—wants to be seen instead of constantly having to see whose been naughty or nice. 

All that judgment has got to be killing you. Dimmi tutto, Santa. I’m listening.

Has being the nice guy, and regularly betraying your own boundaries, given you a miserable cold or something far worse? 

Do you want to stop ho-ho-hoing and just… rest? Or rage? Or weep? Or dance badly in your kitchen at 2 am because you finally have five minutes to yourself?

When was the last time someone asked you what you're actually hungry for? What lights you up? What breaks your heart?

Here's what I imagine, Santa:

Maybe you want to take off that suit and feel the cold air on your skin, or better yet, go to Greece for Christmas, stay there, soak up the sun. To hell with the deliveries! The kids have enough stuff! They need a whole Santa! A tan one, with good vitamin C and D stores.  

Maybe you want someone to love you when you're grumpy, when the magic is gone, when you've got nothing left to give.

Maybe you want to stop being everyone's father figure and just say f*&ck it! Not in a Grinchy way…in an I love myself enough to know what’s really important way. 

Maybe you’re asking when you get to be the boy. OMG, Santa, me too! I mean, if I were a boy…
Maybe you, too, wanted your daddy to choose you, and if that’s the case, man, I’m sorry. I feel you. 

Santa, we may not be so different after all. 

Whaddya say, Santa? Wanna blow up the wish list?

And write the letters we've been too afraid to write instead—the ones where we stop being good and start being true? Wanna stop performing and start living. Wanna admit we're tired of shrinking and we’re ready to take up the space we've always deserved?  Imagine never having to diet again to fit down a chimney or a too-tight pair of velvet pants?

Santa, I think maybe you've been bound up too.

So this Christmas Eve, Santa, I'm asking you to write the real letter.

The one where you ask for what you actually want—the messy, complicated, too-much experiences. The father who chooses you. The lover who doesn't run away when they see themselves in your soul. A life where you don't have to perform to be loved. The permission to rest. The freedom to rage (safely, with no women or children around). The space to just be. 

When you free your voice, you free your life. So go on, write it in your journal. Burn it in your fireplace. Send it to me at clementina@clementinacollective.com. Scream it into the void.

I don't care how you do it.

Just write something real. 

Stop waiting for someone else to give you permission to want what you really want or not say it or write it out loud because you’re afraid of impossibility or rejection. 

The patriarchy silences us all, Santa, you too. My mailbox is open! 

With love,
Clementina

P.S. If you're ready to free your voice and write your truth in 2026, I’m opening my books for new students and private clients. E-mail me, and we can explore.  Meanwhile, I'm wishing you rushes of love, gratitude, and wonder,  and plot twists that help you heal and see clearly. My longest-running internet crush, Lee Harris, recently predicted these, and I'm seeing them everywhere now. I hope you do too. Happy Holidays, my loves. 

Oh, and I have a gift for you. I’m putting the finishing touches on it.  You’ll get it as soon as my elves and I have it ready.

What's Beloved is Never Entirely Lost

What's Beloved is Never Entirely Lost

Grief has a way of rearranging our sense of time, our values, and even our understanding of ourselves. In the disorientation after loss, developing a writing practice can become a lifeline, a meditation, a grounding, and ultimately—if we commit—a discovery of who we are now that “everything” has changed.

At the Clementina Collective, my tagline, “where no one writes alone,” becomes especially important in the context of grief because, as David Kessler taught us, “grief demands a witness.” My Tuesday morning class began with three grieving women who wanted to write. One published a book — So This Is Grief: When Breathing Hurts, Love Songs Suck, and Good Days Come With Guilt—you can check it out here. Then, she kept going. P.S. I’ve been thanked to the moon for gifting this book to grieving people. Just an idea.

Another writer turned a grieving, overbearing mother into one of the sassiest heroines I've seen. I mean, her meddling, while annoying AF to her children, destroys a sex-trafficking ring! Talk about finding the fab in our flaws… It’s been amazing to watch this author grow and heal. She’s in negotiations with an agent as we speak!

A first-time writer created a protagonist fighting to save her father from cancer while clinging to the last strands of her childhood, showing us, among other treasures, that anticipatory grief is real.

All different. All worthy. All found a safe space to explore in my class. 

And then there's our newest writer. She's working through the loss of a sister long gone, and too soon. She’s retrieving the parts of herself she thought died with her beloved sibling on that tragic day so long ago. She brings her whole, tender heart to class—and I'm here for it. 

It's because of her that I decided to write this piece and share it with you. I invited her into this class because I knew she needed it. I was lucky enough to be in conversation with her, though, and when the time was right, I knew I had just the thing. And in less than six months with us, I've seen profound healing in her. I want that for you, too.

If you're wondering if joining us might be for you, or someone you know, let me share what I've learned from walking beside these women and from my own experience: Meaning-making is central to grief healing—but not in the way we often think. In this class, we understand that grief isn't something to "get over." We won’t shrug our shoulders and say, “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

For many grievers, forced silver linings can feel invalidating, or deeply hurtful, like someone offering a bandaid for a gaping wound, and then being offended when you call them out on their insensitivity, their lack of clarity. 

Instead, we help you integrate. We have deep compassion for the fact that you can heal and still hurt. Healing through writing means finding a way to carry the loss forward that makes you more authentically you. 

As I often say, if becoming authentic were easy, everyone would do it. 

So we ask hard questions: What does this loss mean? What can I do with it? How can I be with it? How does it change who I am? How can I carry “us” forward?

Writing through grief can help you move the stagnant energy, recognizing what you can resuscitate and what you need to learn to let go of, transforming it into art that's alive with meaning, honesty, and possibility.

We’ll use questions like: How do I live in a world where this happened? What parts of me survived/thrived? What did I learn about love, about fragility, about what I truly value? Where does what's beloved still live in me? How can I turn it into poetry?

This is how you alchemize your story. 

Writing is one of the most powerful tools for becoming authentic and making meaning. When you write about grief (of a loved one, a relationship, a part of yourself, or a vanishing world)—you're actively constructing a narrative. You're deciding what the loss means, how it fits into the larger story of your life, and who you're becoming because of it. You're making beauty from pain by letting it teach you something true. You're giving birth to something new.

My students aren't "journaling their feelings," though there is a time and a place for that. They're shaping grief into art, character, and story. They're deciding what it means by choosing what to show and what to let go. And chances are, what they make will help them realize what's beloved is never entirely lost. Though it has probably changed form.

Eventually, writers realize that every sentence that hurts to write carries a seed of healing. When your words pierce the armor around another person's heart, you help them heal, too. Through shared tears, grief becomes the conduit for connection. Universal truths deepen and speed healing, and that's part of what we're doing over here at The Clementina Collective. We’re healing, and we hold it together, together.

I promise I won't pressure you to "find the lesson" or "see the gift" too soon. I know from experience how harmful that can be. You cannot rush meaning. Sometimes the most honest thing to say is, 'This is senseless.' This is unbearable. I don't know what it means yet. And write your way through. I'll be right here while you do.

Real meaning emerges organically when you're ready—often through the very act of writing, by sitting with the grief long enough to let it speak. Sitting with people who are patient enough to hold space for you and wise enough to bear witness is pure gold.

If you're writing through loss right now, don't worry about perfection or having to show up in some sort of way. Healing isn’t a performance. I just need you to show up and be present. Then you can let your grief speak in fragments, in whispers, in color and metaphor. It may be hard to let yourself at first, but the other people in class will permit you to experiment. Let the process be messy, alive, and true for you. There’s no judgment here. You are doing sacred work. 

So write it down. Let it be raw. Let it be real. And when you're ready—let me see what you're making. I never take your sharing your heart with me–especially when it feels broken–for granted. 

In the end, writing through grief isn't about leaving pain behind. It's about carrying it forward, with the beauty, grace, and wisdom only you have.

If you feel ready to write your way through, and you think my class may be for you, I'm happy to hop on a call. Because of the sensitive nature of the work we do inside, every person is vetted. Just e-mail me to ask for a time, and we’ll find one that works for both of us. 

Sending you love, especially during this holiday season, when the world at large and our worlds within can feel like worlds apart. This too is its own kind of grief. 

Always in love, 

 Clementina

Intimidation and Silence: Ignore It Is the Worst Advice

Takeaway: Don’t ignore it. Naming abuse is power. Refusing silence is power — and so is stepping back to gather support and strategy when you need to stay safe.

On November 12, I attended Words as Weapons: Women, Online Abuse, & the Fight for Digital Safety, hosted by PEN America and the Women's Media Group. Shoutout to Kathy Sandler—publishing technology leader, Folio honoree, and co-president emerita of Women's Media Group—for inviting me to be part of this circle of inspiring women, and to her and Christina Cerio for asking me to share my impressions in this piece.

The first question set the tone: How do we even talk about what we're about to talk about? The panelists—journalists, editors, activists—carried the tension of that question throughout the night. Because, despite being gaslit and consequently gaslighting ourselves, despite pretending it's "not that bad," the violence women face online and off is that bad. Worse for disabled women and women of color. Recent shifts in our digital and political landscape have only intensified an already unacceptable state of being.

Jamia Wilson remembered the exact moment in her childhood when she learned about silence and intimidation. She once asked her grandparents a question, and they replied, “Oh, they burned a cross here because Grandpa was registering voters.” She cited it as the moment she realized she "literally didn’t understand intimidation as a child." And now she sees people "hiding behind IP addresses like they’re the new white sheet.”

"Things right now are not good," Viktorya Vilk said. Because violence against women is so widespread, many of us have been conditioned to accept a baseline amount and endure quietly—sometimes with such strength and wisdom that others convince themselves we're fine. So when we name what's happening and speak up, we're told to be flattered, develop thicker skin, set better boundaries, stop complaining—and the worst of all: "just ignore it."

This is terrible advice for writers: Vilk and I agree. Writers need to be seen and heard. We don't thrive by disappearing. And not writing isn't just bad for our careers—it's a slow death. I've tried it. I've languished under the unsung weight of my own potential. I don't want that for you. And besides, you can tell yourself to ignore it, but as we’ve learned from Bessel van der Kolk, our bodies keep the score. Writers gotta write, as I've said before.

So Much Misunderstanding, So Little Time

"There is so much misunderstanding of how abuse shapes a life," Alia Dastagir said.

When she was a reporter at USA Today, Alia wrote a story investigating child sex abuse at a summer camp in the 1950s. She wrote about the science of pedophilia and became the target of online mob violence. Her work to learn more about and protect children from the horrors of abuse was twisted into a sick narrative where she was accused of normalizing what she was trying to prevent with good journalism. She and her family became the target of online violence. Those of us who’ve experienced similar trauma understand what she means when she says, “You really truly feel like you might die from being afraid."

Most women in the world understand that constant anticipation and anxiety—the bargains and negotiations you make in your mind, the hypervigilance—are their own form of violence. "You have a physical reaction," she said. "Enough of that over time, and you have a chronic health condition."

Most of us know that becoming authentic is hard. I often say that, like writing a book, if becoming authentic were easy, everyone would do it. “Nobody who is trying to show up as their authentic self is without some level of abuse,” Dastagir said. The calculation becomes: Is it worth what it's going to cost? Your body, your reputation, your bank account? The economic effects. The reputational risks. The PTSD. “We need to stop pretending these aren't real,” she said.

The panel didn't sugarcoat any of the alarming realities or statistics. One in four American women has faced online harassment. The United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) reports that nearly 60% of women globally have experienced some form of digital violence. And the digital abuse isn't staying digital—it's spilling into everyday life. That said, the panel did offer sound strategies and support, and they refused to let despair win.

So What Can We Do?

Recognize We're at an Inflection Point

"Our politicians are going after people in violent ways—it gives everyone permission to do the same," Francesca Donner said. Because it's happening to so many more people, the less anyone can dismiss it.

Don't Ignore It

Document everything. Report it. Otherwise, as Gloria Steinem tells Alia Dastagir in To Those Who Have Confused You to Be a Person, “They get away with it.”

Seek Cultural, Institutional, and Social Support

Call out minimizing and gaslighting in favor of real support. Get confirmation from your employer that they have your back. Mobilize colleagues and institutions. In 2024, a false online rumor claimed Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, were “eating pets.” The Haitian Times debunked the hoax, and in retaliation, its journalists faced targeted harassment, including doxxing and a swatting incident. The newspaper rallied behind its staff, implementing security measures and publicly affirming the importance of reporting the truth without fear. The Haitian Times didn't go silent when they were attacked. Their entire newsroom became a united front. This is what institutional support looks like. Surround yourself with people who reassure you that you will be okay and do what they have to do to make it so. 

Know Your Rights

Understanding what legal protections you have is the first step. The Constitution still guarantees free expression—and perhaps now more than ever, we need to claim that right.

Engage in Counter Speech

This was huge: Don't engage directly with the abuser. Instead, continue to share your work forcefully. Denounce hate and harassment. Fact-check disinformation.

It's Okay to Leave These Spaces

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is refuse to participate in platforms that won't protect you. You don't owe anyone your presence on a platform that enables your abuse. It’s okay to prioritize your health and safety.

We Have More Power Than We Think

This became the refrain of the night. When we organize, when we support each other, when we refuse to be silent—we have more power than we realize.

You Need Inspiration & Courage

Look no further than the extraordinary lineup on this panel:

Francesca Donner
Founder and editor-in-chief of The Persistent, launched in 2024. Before starting her own media company, Francesca spent years at The New York Times as Gender Initiative Director. She was appalled by what she witnessed: women's stories were never on the front page. "What about women and women of color and disabled women?" she asked. When the answers weren't good enough, she decided to build something new—a media platform that centers on women's voices and stories, rather than sidelining them.

Viktorya Vilk
Director for Digital Safety and Free Expression at PEN America. Around 2016, PEN America started hearing from members who were being attacked online, asking if they had resources. What they found was disturbing: most cyber advice told people to "make yourself invisible.”  Viktorya created PEN America's Online Abuse Defense Program, which equips writers and journalists with the necessary tools and strategies to defend against online abuse. She leads the way in helping newsroom leaders and publishing houses protect their people. Her work has been featured in PBS Newshour, The New York Times, Slate, and Harvard Business Review.

Alia Dastagir
Award-winning journalist and author of To Those Who Have Confused You to Be a Person (Crown). Alia left the newsroom at USA Today in 2016 to write her book, having spent years covering gender issues. She admits she had a "myopic attitude" at first: "I wasn't paying attention to this issue. It didn't enter my consciousness until it was affecting the texture of my own life." Former Rosalynn Carter Fellowship recipient and National Headliner Award winner.

Jamia Wilson
Vice President and Executive Editor at Random House. Former Director of the Feminist Press and former VP of Programs at the Women's Media Center. Author of Make Good Trouble: Discover Movements That Sparked Change (released February 2025)—inspired by John Lewis—which tells 70 stories of global activism to encourage young people to take action. Also author of This Book Is Feminist, Young, Gifted, and Black, and co-author of Roadmap for Revolutionaries.

The Bottom Line

Intimidation breeds fear, shrinking, and survival. In naming it, in showing up for the work we are meant to do, we reclaim our power. We refuse to vanish. We persist. We rise. We thrive. Change is possible. It’s happening. Don’t ignore it. Our power is greater than we’ve yet to imagine. 

The work these women are doing, and their refusal to be intimidated and silenced, at PEN America, The Persistent, Random House, in newsrooms, publishing houses, and the Women’s Media Group, is courageous and inspiring. Their insistence that we don't have to accept this violence as the baseline has lit a fire under me. At the very least, I hope reading this is keeping you warm. Want to talk or write about it? You can reach me by clicking the button bellow:

I’ve already started reading Alia Dastagir’s book, To Those Who Have Confused You to Be a Person. In it, she talks about leaving Gloria Steinem’s house after an interview and consequent conversation where Steinem insisted she report the abuse. She says she left with "Evidence that when women commune, we birth novel ideas, new movements, different refusals, and fresh hopes." It’s true—I left Words as Weapons last Wednesday night feeling the same way.

111: Awaken Your Best Year Yet — Vision Board with The Clementina Collective

Close friends, and even some onlookers who know me from afar, suspected I’d land on my feet like a cat when I went through my most recent, several-year-long, dark night of the soul; the one that ended in divorce, relocation, and ultimately, rebirth.

I wasn’t always so sure. There were nights I woke up not even knowing where I was, who I had become, or whether I’d soon be living in a shoebox; that was the fear. Many mornings, I had to reverse-engineer how I got here: how, after twenty-two years of marriage and eighteen years living on a mile-and-a-half-long island I called home, I was no longer a wife, or a City Islander.

“Home is where you are,” one of my sons said. Even with that wisdom and a recollection of the facts, I wasn’t sure who I was becoming, let alone where I was headed. Add to that my foggy, grief-stricken state, and well, it was a lot.

When people ask me now how I made it through, my answers range from the practical to the mystical: therapy, meditation, community, angels, my fantastic friends, long walks, messy journaling, work, writing, vitamin infusions, and above all, the quiet “magic” of vision boarding.

Every January, my dear friend Rachel and I gather magazines, scissors, high-vibe words, gorgeous photos, and tea. We have made a ritual of creating vision boards. We never referred to each other as “accountability partners,” though we do encourage and support each other. Like the time she handed me the words, and the permission, to take a real vacation, alone. Thanks, Rachel!

Together, we’ll occasionally laugh at a wildly ambitious collage idea (one we know will likely take more than a year to bring to fruition), feeling both grounded and giddy at the possibilities inside us. Like writing, vision boarding is a practice that quietly and consistently shapes the way I live now. My vision board teaches and reteaches me that I’m my own North Star every time I gaze upon it.

I’ll give you an example: the home I live in now looks almost exactly like the collage I made in my “home” section a few years back. Cozy light. Books. Open shelves. Plants. Spaces for connection. A big, low cloud of a bed for me. A loft for one of my boys. A sense of peace. I still remember standing here with my landlord when the place was empty, my heart doing happy flips: the board had set the frequency; life just caught up. This is the place. I knew it in my bones.

Whenever I pause during the process and wonder–Is this really possible?–I touch the images that make my heart race, that fill me with energy and enthusiasm —and I know: “this” is already within my reach. When I choose it for the board, it’s already mine.

My experience confirms what neuroscience tells us: when we visualize our goals, we activate the same neural pathways as when we take action. Our brains begin to organize around what we want, and we start to notice opportunities, synchronicities, and the divine winks that match the frequency of our intentions. To be clear, manifestation isn’t magic; Your life is always the result of what you’ve done and refused to do. So, why not make it intentional?

Vision boarding provides a visual cue that fosters recognition, prompt action, and creative outcomes.

That’s why I’m hosting 111: Awaken Your Best Year Yet, a vision boarding experience unlike any you’ve had before. Many of you will recognize these angel numbers. Others will see them everywhere now. They’re a sign of new beginnings, opportunity, or an awakening nudge from your guardian angels.

In this intimate, three-hour circle, we’ll:

🌿 Ground, center, and dream with chanting & a sound bath with Jes!

🌿 Bask in the frequency of fulfillment and resonance

🌿 Create vision boards infused with joy, clarity, and soul-guided purpose

🌿 Leave with a living board you can return to and evolve throughout the year

You’ll be surrounded by a small group of kindred spirits. Together, we’ll practice living “as if” the world is our oyster. Because, darlings, it is!

Ready to become a vibrational match for your highest-vibe life?

🗓 Date: Sunday, January 11

📍 Location: Atelier Modern, Larchmont, NY

⏰ Time: 1:00–4:00 PM

💫 Investment: $111

🎟 Space is limited to 20 participants

✨ Reserve your spot now and begin 2026 aligned with your creativity, joy, and highest frequency.

All you need to bring is yourself and a yoga mat, a small blanket, and a pillow. I’ll provide the boards, creative materials, sparkling beverages, etc. By all means, you can bring your own images, words, etc, for your board, knowing I will have plenty to share.

When Silence is Strategy: For Writers, it’s an Impossible Bind

“Prove them wrong.” Can I get an Amen? A Hallelujah? 

I’m sure I’ve got a backup band, a chorus, a whole legion of people who can relate. When I first saw the graffiti in the featured post, it spoke to me.

And if writing has taught me anything, it’s this: I’m not alone. 

Before my last blog, which shared a book I helped co-create, years had passed since I’d written the previous post.

Even though I kept working on my book and other people’s (more author spotlights coming soon), and work was often my happy place, I’d gone quiet again, and I was judging myself harshly for it.

Ironic?

Given that the highest compliment I get from students is that I’m like the nonjudgmental mother they never had, maybe.

Intermittently, I told myself it was a strategy—to keep myself and my kids safe during divorce—and that’s partially true. Anything I said, and even a completely irrelevant hat I once wore, were used against me in a court of law.

That impossible bind—my need to write & my protective instinct was a harrowing line to walk; one I know so many of us have, sadly, walked before or are walking right now. Fear creates a freeze response, and it can take some time to thaw. So to all of you who are still here, still reading, still fans, thank you.

Last year, I heard myself say to a very dear person in my life, “You don’t have to prove anything to me.” A few months later, at a cherry blossom festival, amidst the beauty of a stunning variety of blossoms, I saw the graffiti on the bridge in the featured post. When it resonated with me, the way I suspect it resonates with you, I knew I still had healing to do.

Cherry blossoms represent the fleeting nature and beauty of life, new beginnings, vitality, the arrival of spring, and hope after winter. You may not be able to make them out here, the way my site has cropped the picture, but they’re there in the background, all around—78 jaw-droppingly gorgeous varieties of cherry blossoms. And though I so desperately wanted to be entirely in the new beginning season of my life, old echoes of doubt lingered in the cold wind and rain that day.

The words “prove them wrong” reminded me of the persistent threats leveled at me before I left my old life: “You’ll never make it on your own.” 

For a time, the words haunted every attempt at independence. As I found my footing, silence seemed like survival—but it also felt like it was killing me. Living with the ache of knowing that my absence left space for false narratives, and feeling complicit in my own erasure (or worse, my vilification) was heavy, among other heavy lifts. 

Turns out, becoming the villain in other people’s stories is one of the most freeing things that’s ever happened to me. We’ll go there in another post, but suffice it to say, I couldn’t have seen that without silence, another gift.

For someone who’s built a life around self-expression, silence is never neutral, and it exacts a cost. Keenly aware of the weight of holding back—protecting ourselves and those we love — we feel the sting of betraying the truths we care about most, the ones we know will move us forward.

After all, writers gotta write. 

Beneath the silence, and further still, beneath the gremlins’ voices, “You’ll never make it on your own,” a small voice whispered: Prove them wrong. At first, that provocation felt urgent—like motivation, like a goal, like the only path the Queens girl in me had ever known to getting her groove back. A little prove them wrong, a well-placed fuck you, and there’d be little else to do, right?

Nah, not again. Loves, I was so tired. And when I heard myself say, “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I realized if I could say that to someone I love, I could give that same grace to myself. I don’t want to waste another moment of my precious life proving others wrong. I’d rather let my heart, my life, my writing speak for itself. I’d rather conserve my energy for more magic.

That’s when silence began to feel like a sanctuary. A place where I could live even deeper into my evolving knowing and rest while I did it: I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I don’t have to speak from a place that’s reactionary. I can continue with my word of 2025: alchemy.

There’s a time in many writers’ journeys where the most important “work” to do is to live in a place where breathing is enough, knowing you’ll speak out when the moment is right, when you feel safe and free, when you’ve built capacity.

When my words carry the energy of love and wisdom, I can live even more fully in my own light and shine it, one breath/word, then another, and so on. When my wishes and my words are aligned with who I’ve become, who I’m becoming still, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone; I get to be. Turns out, this love is always here for me. 

If you feel silenced by circumstances, by people, by fear, you know the tension: the ache between asserting your voice and protecting yourself, between the truth that burns in your throat and the wisdom that whispers, wait.

"Aspetta. Aspetta,” Italian for wait. I can hear my grandmother calling after child-me, running ahead impetuously. 

You don’t need to run ahead. You don’t need to run headlong into your fears. Live into your truth. You don’t need to prove anything. Presence, patience, courage, and unconditional love will loosen the cords that silence you: The patriarchy, your parents, your partner, your conditioned self.  If you’re proving them wrong, you’re still bound. And when the moment to break free comes, your voice will emerge fully, unmistakably, and on your terms.

Until then, it’s okay to wait.  

I’ll be here. With love, always,  

Clementina

Author Spotlight

Only One Body

One of the greatest joys of my work as a writing coach and developmental editor is helping authors bring their vision to life. And with health and wellness professionals who are experts in their field, a book helps them expand their reach without having to continue to trade time for money or overextend themselves as healers. On August 19, Dr. Matt Fontaine released Only One Body, a book that invites readers to take charge of their health in simple, powerful ways.

The message is clear: you only get one body. You can invest in it now—by moving, eating well, and making proactive choices—or you can defer that investment and “pay later” with time spent in the doctor’s office. Most of us have the privilege of choice, at least for a while. And Dr. Fontaine asks a vitally important question: Will we choose well?

In Only One Body, Dr. Fontaine draws on more than twenty years in practice to show readers how to partner with their doctors, understand their options, and navigate the complexities of the human body with confidence. He uses simple, easy-to-understand strategies, and delivers them in his down-to-earth, guy-next-door voice, empowering readers to swim into what he calls “blue oceans” of health–fresh, mineral-rich, wide-open possibilities for living fully.

As his writing coach and holistic and developmental editor, it was an honor to help shape and clarify Matt’s message so that it could reach the readers who need it most. We had to condense tons of information and turn medical jargon into language that real people could understand. Then, I needed to help him unlearn the kind of writing he’d learned to survive and thrive in getting a PhD in chiropractic school. All this before we could even deal with the nuts and bolts of structure and writing that would keep the people he most wanted to reach reading. 

Health and wellness books have a special place in my heart because the transfer of knowledge is just the beginning. When well-written and consequently well-received, they’re about choice, freedom, and transformation. 

If you’re ready to rethink your relationship with your body and your health, or you’re curious how a book like Matt’s can transform your practice, Only One Body is an excellent guide.

Working with Dr. Matt was one of many lessons in divine timing. Introduced by one of his business coaches at the time, Matt first reached out to me four years before we actually began working on his book in earnest. It would be four more years until he published. And though he’s no stranger to transformation—athlete, sports medicine doctor, entrepreneur—each version stepping more fully into the man who would write Only One Body–guiding him into his latest evolution as author is an honor I don’t take for granted. 

One of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received as a coach came from Matt himself when he said that writing the book with me made him a better human. That’s the kind of transformation I strive for in my coaching. My philosophy is simple: writing isn’t just about putting words on a page; it’s about honoring the timing, the inner evolution, and the whole person, so that their most authentic voice can emerge and ripple outward into every part of their life. 

Now I’m not telling you it should take you eight years to master your content; I’ve coached plenty of writers who get it done in a year, and one who did it in six months. I am saying it’s not a contest, and you shouldn’t compare yourself to others. And if you’re writing your book to usher in a transformation, I’d be wary of anyone who promises you a book in a weekend. 

📖 Get Your Copy of Only One Body by Dr. Matt Fontaine

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• 📱 Kindle eBook: Buy Now (also available in the US Kindle store)
  
  

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When I Stopped Searching For My Mother's Garden, I Made My Own

When I Stopped Searching For My Mother’s Garden, I Made My Own

Fourteen years ago, my husband and I built the house we live in now with our two children and two fur babies on an empty lot gifted to us by his family.

It was a dream come true--and as anyone whose ever dealt with a contractor, or an overly involved family will tell you--a sometimes nightmare. Still and all, we got it done, and for the most part, done well.

That said, everything--and I do mean everything--was more expensive than we’d planned, and even though we worked a couple of side hustles to bring in the cash to pay for it, when the house was finally finished, nestled beautifully on 5,000 square feet of mud, we’d run out of money for a front and back garden.

“At the very least, we need grass,” I’d said. “Even if we have to plant it from seed. And so we put down some grass, a few box-hedges, and a weeping cherry. We kept the mud—well most of it—from coming in and little by little, we worked on the garden, planting or removing a few things each year. When I look at our front garden now, I can hardly believe it was once the perfect setting for a 90’s style mosh pit. More importantly though, I learned one of four simple truths that turned out to be true not only for gardening but for writing and life too.

#1.     You can make beauty from mud. If you still don’t believe me, ask a lotus. Then get busy facing that first muddy draft or whatever it is about your life you’ve been trying to avoid.

 Most of what I know about gardening, writing, and life, I’ve learned from getting curious with friends and neighbors whose “gardens” I admire, through trial and error, getting dirty, and learning to let go of a lot, including my fear of killing which I invariably do pruning, weeding, planting, and even over-watering. Which brings me to my second truth.

#2.     Some seemingly harmless (weeds) or even vital (water!) stuff will kill just by being what it is. So if you want to have a beautiful garden, a beautiful polished draft, or a beautiful life you best get busy getting dirty and refining your skills. You need to learn to kill what won’t serve you and nourish what makes you feel alive, those activities and relationships that keep you moving to the next level.

This year, I’ve been especially grateful for my garden. It’s given me many therapeutic hours to cope with the vestiges of grief following a few years of letting go of people who weren’t aligned with my highest good. Yes, I too practice #’s 1&2. If I wouldn’t do it myself, I certainly wouldn’t ask it of you.

In addition to being therapeutic in and of itself, my garden has also offered me a sense of relief from the confines created by the Corona Virus. So while it’s been the site of a few socially distant gatherings this summer, and it has been really lovely to have people in the garden to share food and wine with after so many months of isolation, I usually experience the real riches gardening has to offer in solitude. Alone, I almost always find a mirror I can hold up to remind me the simple truths I need to live and write better.  

Out in my garden, I’m reminded the many ways nature can be ruthless. From there, I remember to cultivate greater self-love and compassion:Why should I be any different?

A couple of weeks ago, some bright yellow flowering plants I’d potted and placed near the back deck steps started to wane. For weeks, they’d been brightly lit beacons of energy and vitality, happy pops of color until they weren’t. I gave them extra food and water, I moved them out of full sun, I pruned and weeded to no avail.

Finally, I cleared a spot with more room for them to spread out but by the time I actually moved them into it, they were nearly dead.  I’ve had plants make a comeback before, so I moved them anyway. And when I shimmied them out of the pots, I discovered the problem: They were rootbound.

When a plant is rootbound, it can’t absorb nutrients, soil, or water. Breaking them up isn’t easy; I had to lean my whole self into separating what had become dry and brittle, completely enmeshed. Once I broke up the roots, I trimmed the ends so they could drink and absorb nutrients again. Unfortunately for them, my efforts were too little too late and my plants died shortly thereafter anyway.

Maybe it’s because of all the people I chose to let go. Maybe it’s one of those truths of nature I had to experience to understand but I saw my own journey in those roots. Sent up a prayer to the Gods of Gratitude that for the courage to move forward into the unknown--to leave behind a family history that was intermittently abusive, ever repeating, and always stifling--I am rewarded with freedom on the other side of my grief.

So many of my clients and students abandon their work--feel free to read abandon themselves--because they worry about who they’ll offend by living or speaking their truth. These would-be writers need adequate consideration of what they stand to lose by suppressing the parts of them destined to evolve.

These writers need to ask, am I rootbound too? Practicing artists know that, like nature, their craft will require them to be ruthless, to spread out, to soak up what they need to grow. Art isn’t about pleasing people. It’s not about being nice, and it may not be a walk in the park for the people you love. It isn’t art’s destiny to make others comfortable or stay in the confines of what society deems acceptable. The artists who make us think…the artist’s who evolve our world into the inevitable future…they’re not interested in playing small by catering to public notions of acceptability. They’re not interested in making sure people are comfortable. Are you?

This question brings me to the next simple truth my garden has validated.

#3. Rootbound plants will die. You with me? To live your best life and write your best work, you have to stop trying to be nice. You’ve got to stop cramming yourself into spaces that suffocate and starve you and commit to forging your own way, that’s the price you pay.

After I started this piece, I remembered Alice Walker’s essay, In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens. If you’ve never read it and you want to when you’re finished here, it’s available on-line through a simple Google search. She does a beautiful job detailing the artistic spirit of her ancestors. She claims art—writing in particular—as her birthright. As a black woman writing in the early 1980’s, I understand how powerful a move it was to give herself and her sisters permission to write by saying something like, listen this isn’t new what we’re trying to do, it’s something our mothers and grandmothers did too.

For Walker, the creative spirit is a transferrable skill, passed on through generations but what if your ancestors chose to forsake their highest potential? What if their addictions, or the expectations of those around them, moved them away from rather than toward their own life’s work? That is a kind of legacy too. It’s why what you make of your life and your writing is up to you. It’s why I need you to stop being so damned nice, to stop seeking permission from your mother and your grandmother. It’s why the world needs you to be wholly you.

Moving away from what you’ve always known can be scary. And most people don’t want to hurt the people they love, so they hurt themselves instead. Set your highest intentions. Focus on leaving the legacy that will do the most good for the most people. Set out to save yourself first and you’ll be brought to the fourth truth I came to know in my own garden.

 #4 What you create--through both planting and removing--will bring new life, it may not be exactly how you imagined it but before long, I promise, you will experience change for the better.

Years and years of my life I spent searching for my mother’s garden, for my grandmother’s. It was only when I gave up the search, I could create my own.  

Upcoming Available writing classes on Zoom:

1. Memoir/Personal Writing. Wednesdays at noon eastern. 4 class bundle (October-January) 90 minutes each. $240.

2.    Fiction: Sundays at 11:30 eastern. 4 class bundle (October-January) 90 minutes each. $240.

e-mail me at clementina@clementinacollective.com with interest.