v.14 Curiosity, Chaos, and Cutting Back: A Magpie's Guide To Making Space For What Matters
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
2024 was my Magpie Era—a much-needed year of gathering. I collected ideas, objects, and emotions, all in an effort to make sense of everything. Along the way, I quietly began to realize that sometimes, less truly is more. The years before had been a rollercoaster of the highest highs (Microjoys was published to much acclaim, my remaining family was healthy, and I was finding my footing) and the lowest lows (my nephew’s murder, my mama’s passing, and my diagnosis). By 2024, I knew I needed to pull inward, to refocus, and to remember who I was in this ever-changing world.
By the time the year ended, I had done the work of retreating inward, gathering myself after so much turbulence and triumph. It was a year of necessary introspection—a pause button on the relentless forward march of life. But as I began to resurface, I realized that in my quest to understand and regroup, I’d accumulated more than I could carry. Books, ideas, feelings, pottery, questions—so many questions. Now, standing on the threshold of 2025, I find myself wondering: What do I take with me, and what do I leave behind?
As we (sloooowly and cautiously) step into 2025, I can’t help but feel like I’ve overpacked for the trip. Sure, I’ve got my hopes and intentions neatly folded and tucked away (as a good student of the new year does). But along with them, I’ve got my ever-present companions: curiosity, a relentless love of learning, and an almost magnetic pull toward all things shiny and exciting. Curiosity is electric—until it’s not. At its best, it sparks creativity and growth, but at its worst, it leaves me overwhelmed and exhausted from having so many ideas and interests.
And let’s be honest: the start of the year doesn’t exactly help lighten the load. Everywhere I turn, someone is shouting, “New Year, New You!” or “You Can Do Hard Things!” or “This is YOUR year!” Please, for the love of everything sparkly, shut up already. I get it—it’s meant to be motivational. But honestly, it can feel like everyone else has a perfectly mapped-out plan while I’m over here staring at my overstuffed pink AWAY carry-on, wondering what the hell to unpack first.
Curiosity is a gift, but it’s even better when it feels expansive instead of overwhelming. So this year, I’m reframing curiosity from “more” to “better,” letting it lead me toward depth instead of distraction.
It’s not just the external noise that adds to the overwhelm—it’s my own insatiable curiosity, too. It’s not just a spark—it’s a full-on bonfire. I probably buy 50 books a year and actually read, oh… maybe seven. I’ve got an astrologer, a psychic, and an energy worker on email speed dial (because, really, you just never know). Ice baths? Tried them. Sound baths? Obviously.
And then there are my collections. Vintage pink Bennington Pottery? Currently obsessed. An ever-growing gallery of one-of-a-kind art? Absolutely. A skincare arsenal that could give Sephora a run for its money? Yep. My wardrobe is another chapter altogether—a kaleidoscope of maxi dresses, patterned tops, and yes, ball gown skirts. (Skirts! Plural!) And yet, despite all these #lewks, I spend most cold months in the same cashmere cardigan and some version of soft pants. Where exactly am I going with all these fashion moments? Because it’s definitely not outside.
Truth is, this all brings me joy—it really does. Until it doesn’t. Because that’s the thing—at some point, it’s not joy anymore; it’s chaos. I can’t wear all the dresses, read all the books, or find enough space for yet another thrifted vase. And while curiosity leads me to discover so. much. beauty, it also leaves me with a to-do list I didn’t sign up for: the books I haven’t read, the questions I keep asking, and the emotional weight of trying to chase down every shiny thing.
Curiosity doesn’t just show up in my closet or the books stacked on my shelves—it’s in the way I interact with people, too. I’m the person who asks strangers questions while waiting in line at the coffee shop or uncovers long-hidden stories from friends during a casual catch-up. People often tell me things they didn’t expect to share, and I like to think it’s because my curiosity creates a safe space for connection. But I’ve learned that holding space for everyone else means I sometimes forget to leave room for myself.
This year, I’m shifting gears. Instead of chasing every shiny distraction, I’m refocusing on what truly matters to me today—teaching again, stepping back into the spotlight with more media opportunities (maybe creating a podcast or hosting a TV show!), rebuilding community, and connecting with people in ways that feel energizing, not draining. I’m not abandoning my curiosity, but I’m learning to set boundaries around it. When I feel the pull to dive headfirst into something new, I’ll pause and ask myself, “Do I have the emotional bandwidth for this right now?” If the answer is no, I’ll let it go.
And I’m rethinking my love of collecting, too. Instead of buying more books, I’ll read the ones I already have. Instead of scattering my focus across a dozen new ideas and practices, I’ll choose one or two that feel deeply meaningful and give them my full attention. (I’m looking at you, daily yoga practice!)
This isn’t about giving up on the joy of discovery or exploration—but I’m channeling it more intentionally. Curiosity is a gift, but it’s even better when it feels expansive instead of overwhelming. So this year, I’m reframing curiosity from “more” to “better,” letting it lead me toward depth instead of distraction.
If you’ve ever felt like your curiosity had you running in too many directions, I see you. It’s so easy to get swept up in the thrill of chasing every possibility, every spark of “what if?” But maybe, just maybe, we can approach things differently this year. Here are a few questions I’ll be asking myself—feel free to borrow them if they resonate:
Do I have use for this right now? Not someday or maybe—right now.
Do I have the time or energy to give this my (emotional or physical) attention? If not, it’s probably going to sit there making me feel guilty (hello, stack of unread books) or overwhelm my brain with the flood of ideas I’ve unleashed by asking too many damn questions.
Can I let this go? Whether it’s work that no longer excites me, a once-beloved treasure, or that oat milk creamer I tried once and didn’t love, I’m learning to release the excess.
Maybe it’s as simple as reading one book at a time instead of building a teetering tower of unread titles. Maybe it’s finding joy in what you already have instead of chasing more. Or maybe it’s just giving yourself permission to pause, breathe, and enjoy the moment without feeling like you need to do, buy, or achieve anything else.
Here’s to a year of curiosity with focus, joy without chaos, and maybe—just maybe—fewer trips to the donation bin.
(And if you have any tips for resisting the allure of “brilliant” ideas, send them my way.) I’ll be here trying to convince myself that I don’t need to add one more thing to my already full, and focused plate.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
Tis the season to take down our pink holiday tree (Her Pink Highness😂) A satisfying microjoy, indeed. Enjoy.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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