Four years is a long time to carry something. The divorce was finalized this week — the day before Otis turned five — and whatever else I feel about the timing, what I feel most is the particular relief of a weight that has finally, actually, been set down. We had been separated since 2022, when Otis was just one year old, and what I had hoped might resolve in a reasonable amount of time became four years of something tumultuous, exhausting, and in the end largely financial in its ugliness. I represented myself throughout all of it. The chapter is closed.
I had known the date was coming, and so I had tried to plan accordingly. The original plan was a trip to Solvang, which my body promptly vetoed by producing a cold the moment all my obligations were complete. I have decided to take this as evidence that my nervous system was simply waiting for permission to decompress, and I appreciate it doing so on a schedule. The pivot was a one-night stay at the Claremont Resort in Berkeley — a place I've had drinks at and brunch at but never actually stayed, and staying, it turns out, is entirely different. The room had six skylight-style windows looking out over the East Bay. There was a pool day with snacks and good sunglasses. A whole branzino for dinner with views to match. It was exactly what was needed.
Claremont Resort One Day Stay <3
In the surrounding days I gave my mind some quiet by picking up a crochet project — a chainmail gorget pattern I found on Etsy, which sounds extremely niche and is, but the rhythm of it in the evenings was meditative in exactly the right way. I made two.
You signed up for this because something about the idea resonated. A secret society. Objects left for strangers. Permission, issued with a straight face.
This week has been, in large part, a production week. The kind where you clear the table, put something on in the background, and simply work — methodically, for hours, in a way that feels almost meditative once you stop noticing time passing. The Experiment No. 2 compounds are coming together: the Rx pamphlets trimmed and sorted into their three stacks (Vague Unease of Unknown Origin, Summertime Sadness, Melancholia), the chamomile tea bags labeled and assembled, the match striker stickers — a dotted burgundy paper cut to size and placed on the back of each tag — all of it accumulating into something that, from a distance, begins to look like a real thing that exists in the world. The golf pencils arrived this week too. Black, with DARK PARLOUR SOCIETY printed in gold. There is something about seeing your name on a pencil that makes the whole enterprise feel very official.
Production in Process
A few times this week I escaped the production table for something more restorative. An appointment at a downtown Oakland medical office took me into one of the more quietly beautiful lobbies I've been in recently — dusty blue walls, copper globe pendant light, a pink wingback chair catching the afternoon sun. I photographed it immediately, because that's just who I am. And on another evening, a new friend prepared what I can only describe as a proper meal: salmon with capers, roasted asparagus, dressed greens, a bowl of cherries on the side. I do not take food I did not have to make for myself for granted.
I found myself saying “only boring people get bored” this week - in response to a conversation about having limited options if you don't have money to spend in the Bay Area. Because in my experience, the Bay provides. (Anyone who has a four year old who watched The Good Dinosaur about a million times might know where that phrasing comes from.) Every time I go out looking, I find more than I set out to find. This week it was the Silent Book Club — which has an Oakland chapter, which I cannot believe I only just discovered — a gathering where people come together specifically to read alone, in public, in community. I'm attending my first event at the Bay Area Book Festival next week, where I've also registered for three talks (How to Find & Create your Literary Community, Maker, Mentor, Muse: the Spirit of the Work, and Heartware: Robots, Relationships and the Future of Us) as well as a zine making workshop. I love that the three talks I chose without thinking about it form something like a syllabus: community, then mentorship, then the future of connection itself. My subconscious has opinions.
A lovely evening at Bar Shiru
On Wednesday I had a mocktail at Bar Shiru with a new friend I met at my first Dark Parlour Society event — which I want to formally nominate as an ideal venue for someone like me. Good ambiance, no music trying to talk over you, genuinely lovely.
For me that's an exuberant personal time — not necessarily a celebration I need others to mark with me, but more of a quiet look, I did it. Another year. And now I get to see what I can create and build and watch unfold in this one. 41. Let's go.
Lounging in Santa Barbara
I had planned something special for myself at the start of the year — a solo trip, as a commitment to exploring more. I took a 9-hour Amtrak from Oakland down to Santa Barbara. First time in Southern California. The resort was so lovely it was almost embarrassing — I felt like my own little princess the whole time. It was a short stay, three days, but I soaked every bit of it in. And I'll say this: train travel is now officially my favorite way to move through the world. This was my third trip by rail this year and something about it — the pace, the scenery, the fact that you can just be in transit without it feeling like a punishment — I'm completely converted.
That's not a fact I say with pride exactly, but I don't say it with shame either. For a long time it was genuinely useful — a source of inspiration, a way of feeling connected to people who made things and cared about things, a window I could press my face against when I felt isolated in my own life. I built real habits around it. I organized my looking around it.
What I didn't notice — not fully, not for a long time — was how slowly the water was warming.
I've been thinking about the frog in the pot. The one who doesn't jump because the temperature rises so gradually that nothing ever feels like a threshold. That's what it was like for me. The platform changed in increments that were each individually forgettable, and I just kept adjusting, kept showing up, kept treating it as the thing it used to be.
I've been noticing something lately - a lot of my friends are going through major life changes right now, at the beginning of their 40s. Relationships ending, careers shifting, old patterns breaking down. At first I thought it was just coincidence, but then I realized: we're the first generation with widespread access to mental health care. Not just for the wealthy or the educated elite, but actually available and culturally acceptable. We're doing the work our parents' generation couldn't or didn't do. We're unraveling things that previous generations just... lived with.
So when I tell you January was a month of moving and grieving and rebuilding, know that it's part of that bigger story.
It's December 31st at 7:31pm and I've already attended and left my "New Years Eve" party by myself at a great little place called Book Society in Berkeley where I sipped on a mocktail made in the "Great Gatsby" theme and left in the rain with two new books underneath my arm to start 2026 with. I was dressed in Dark Parlour grandeur in a silk bias cut dress in the hue of a heavily oaked glass of chardonnay. My face was completely enshrouded in a thick layer of green fringe and topped with a 1940s hat, underneath it I adorned one of my favorite pieces I've made this year - one of my watch face chokers in black.
NYE 2026 look
Now I sit on the couch eating leftover pasta, listening to jazz music and letting my thoughts wander to my next inspiration for the things I want to learn and make in January.
