Rediscovering joy

“Your true self cannot flourish if you’re hiding in the shadows of who you think you should be.”

Debbie Ford

Creativity has always been woven into the fabric of my life. In elementary school, I wrestled over whether to choose “enriched art” or “enriched music” because I wanted both. I dove into sculpture, painting, and drawing in middle school, and by high school, I was in IB and AP art, learning piano during lunch, designing yearbooks, and writing songs. A piece of my art even hung in the Texas State Capitol. In college, I learned guitar and started my degree in advertising with a focus on creative work. Even professionally, I was the one in media who could mock up anything we needed because I knew Photoshop. Outside of work, I took vocal lessons, wrote and recorded music, and even started this blog as a creative outlet.

Creativity wasn’t just a hobby; it was a huge part of who I was—and I even had validation to keep going throughout the years.

But when I joined a full-service agency with designated creatives on staff, something shifted. I started to “adapt.” I let my situation define me, shrinking away from the creative side because I didn’t feel like it was my place anymore. And I didn’t even realize it.

For almost a decade, I allowed that part of me to disappear. The other aspects of life simply increased, so the hole that creativity left, was filled with something. Just not something as meaningful.

It wasn’t until therapy, about a year ago, that I realized just how much I’d lost. I was seeing an art therapist—though I didn’t know she was one until Mom looked her up and told me. When I asked her to incorporate art into our sessions, it was like unlocking a part of myself I’d forgotten. I started making art again, wrote a song for the first time in years, and found joy in creating things like I used to. That rediscovery even led to us starting our podcast together, something I still re-listen to on tough days.

Looking back, it’s wild to me that I spent so many years without realizing what I had lost. Creativity was such a big part of my life, and yet I had let it fade away without a second thought. And if something so important to me could fade away, anything can be lost if we don’t realize it.

I share this because I’ve realized that adaptability—while often celebrated—can sometimes take you away from what makes you, you. I let my environment steer me away from something I loved, and I wish I hadn’t. So when you read this, I want you to think about what brings you joy. What part of yourself have you left behind in the process of adapting to the world around you? And if there’s something you’ve lost touch with, please, pick it up again. Don’t wait a decade to remember who you are.

Whether it’s creativity, a sport, a hobby, or a connection with people—whatever brings you joy, take it back and reignite the parts of yourself that make you whole.

The gift of generosity

"No one has ever become poor by giving."

Anne Frank

My mom, your grandma, is an odd duck. So.Many.Quirks.

But there’s one quirk that used to drive me crazy—her generosity. Too much generosity, if you ask me. I had to be careful about complimenting something she owned because she’d likely give it to me on the spot. I had to avoid asking for help, because she’d drop everything to assist, no matter how busy she was. And I had to hold back from sharing my worries, because she’d worry on my behalf, probably more than I did.

And it wasn’t just me. My mom is the one who literally created a company to help a friend struggling with his dance career. She’d fly back to India for a birthday party and return the next day. She even rearranged every room in her house to accommodate her high school friends who only visit once a year.

Her kindness wasn’t exclusive—it extended to anyone, regardless of how long she’d known them. And that’s what made it hard for me to watch. People took advantage of her generosity, using her time and resources without ever reciprocating. It infuriated me, watching them take and take, knowing she was being exploited.

I thought she was a victim of her own kindness.

I told her once that I disliked the people who were taking advantage of her. I expected her to agree, or at least acknowledge it. But what she told me changed my perspective completely. She said, "If they need to take advantage of me, then maybe they need what I have more than I do."

She wasn’t naive at all. She knew what she was doing, and she was okay with it. My mom found joy in giving, in sharing her blessings with others, and to her, it wasn’t about being taken advantage of. She was choosing to give, and that shifted everything for me.

It was a moment of deep respect. It wasn’t just her generosity that struck me—it was the mindset behind it. She was never a victim because nothing was taken from her—she chose to give.

I’m still learning this. I try my best to give, but I struggle when I see people taking more than they should. But I remind myself of the lesson your grandma taught me: generosity isn’t just a gift to others, it’s a gift to yourself. When you give freely, you aren’t depleted—you’re uplifted by what you’ve done.

So, when you find yourself in similar situations, remember: it’s not just about what you give; it’s about how you choose to see it. Generosity is as much a gift to yourself as it is to others.

Lessons from the kid: The power of empathy

"While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about." 

Angela Schwindt

When you were three, Mom and I sat with you in your playroom. There wasn’t anything magical about that day—no special date or occasion that I can remember. But I do remember Mom and I having a disagreement. We had promised never to have full-blown arguments in front of you, so I know it was relatively mild. But after a few tense words, Mom left the room to keep it from escalating.

As soon as she left, you came over to me, pointing out the window. Your small hand stretched beyond the sill, past the lawn, toward a flower bed near our neighbor's fence. You were showing me a cluster of sunflowers, their yellow petals turned toward the sun.

“Dad, you see those flowers over there?”

“Yes, Lyla, I see them. What about them?”

“Did you know that each one needs a different amount of sun and water to grow?”

“I suppose that’s true,” I said, curious where this was going.

“Well, Dad, you and Mom are like flowers. You need different amounts of sun and light, but you’ll still both grow into flowers.”

It stopped me in my tracks—how you, at just three years old, managed to see through the disagreement and offer an analogy that would take most adults a lifetime to come up with.

That night, I asked Mom if she’d shared that thought with you, but she hadn’t. To this day, we still don’t know where it came from.

What I do know is that your ability, even at that young age, to see through emotions and offer such deep wisdom is a gift. As an eight-year-old now, your emotional intelligence is even more incredible. I had to study and practice emotional intelligence before I felt confident in how to connect with others. Yet here you were at three, showing me how it’s done.

I’m writing these lessons for you, but I realize how much you’ve already taught me. As you get older, you might forget some of the things you’ve naturally known all along—and that’s okay. Sometimes we need to relearn what we already know. But never forget who you are, Lyla. Trust your instincts, your intuition, and never hesitate to guide others, just as you’ve guided me.