It’s kind of wild—my whole life, I knew how to be okay. I was good at it. I could brush things off, shift into love and kindness almost effortlessly. That was my default. My survival skill.

But for the first time, I’m learning what it means not to be okay—and to be okay with that. To sit in discomfort without trying to fix it or sugarcoat it. To let myself feel what needs to be felt without rushing toward peace.

In the past six months, I’ve experienced a lot of drastic changes unfolding inside me. A few falling outs left me feeling very confused about who I’ve been, what I’ve been choosing for myself, and ultimately, who I truly am.

If you’re someone who enjoys clean, nourishing foods, you might appreciate this as much as I do: Philosopher Foods’ sprouted almond butter.

Over the years, I’ve tried many different nut butters—some good, some forgettable—but this one truly stands out for both its flavor and integrity. It’s creamy, rich, and subtly sweet in a way that tastes deeply natural—not overly processed or masked by added sugars or oils.

When I first began diving deeper into the so-called “spiritual world” — meditation, energy work, inner healing, all of the beautiful practices that invite you inward — I felt like I had found something real. And in many ways, I had. It was good. It is still good. These practices brought me back to my breath, my heart, my body. They gave me tools for navigating the quiet places inside myself and offered language for the things I used to only feel but couldn’t explain.

But over time, something subtle began to happen — I unknowingly adopted a new kind of ego. A spiritual ego. One that quietly whispered, You should be more calm. You should respond with love. You should never feel anger or judgment. I started performing an idea of what a spiritual person was supposed to be, rather than simply being myself. I thought spirituality meant becoming someone else — someone softer, more serene, more “enlightened.”

Leo season, which runs from late July to mid-August, invites all of us to reflect on what it means to be seen — truly seen — and to show up as our whole selves. This isn’t about performing or seeking validation. It’s about aligning your external life with your internal truth.

Even if you don’t love traditional exercise, you’re probably moving your body more than you realize. There’s a term called NEAT (Non-Exercise Activity Thermogenesis), which encompasses all the everyday activities that burn calories outside of formal workouts — like cleaning, walking, gardening, and even fidgeting.

True health is rooted in joy, balance, and being present with yourself.

At its best, loyalty is a conscious choice rooted in love, trust, and mutual respect. It’s a bond that says, “I choose to show up for you because I want to.” But when loyalty becomes entangled with guilt, fear, or pressure, it can shift into obligation. And obligation doesn’t always come from a healthy place—it can stem from fear of disappointing someone, fear of being judged, or fear of being perceived as “disloyal,” even when you’re simply evolving.

When you learn to trust your gut, you stop outsourcing your truth. You no longer need to consult ten people or seek constant reassurance. Your body, your inner compass, already knows. It speaks not in loud declarations, but in subtle signals: a sense of ease, a quiet pull, or even a sudden stillness that says, “This is right.”

We don’t need fixing—and we don’t need to be “healed” in the way we’ve been conditioned to think.

What we need is awareness.
We need mindfulness.
We need to expand our consciousness—not to escape who we are, but to finally meet ourselves with clarity and compassion.

In the teachings of Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, there's a simple yet profound truth: “Words can travel thousands of miles. May my words create mutual understanding and love.”

What that experience taught me—and what I saw mirrored in the Kardashians’ stories—is that our harshest judgments often stem from within. We tend to criticize in others what we haven’t yet come to terms with in ourselves. And when I watched them navigate their own challenges—balancing motherhood, relationships, business, and self-identity—I saw them wrestling not only with public perception, but with their own inner narratives.

In my lifetime I have heard this over and over again, “You’ll be lonely if you don’t have kids,” or “Isn’t it hard being without a partner?” But what they don’t understand is that loneliness isn’t about who is or isn’t around you. I’ve felt more alone in a crowded room or even with a beloved pet than I have in the quiet of my own heart. When we had a dog, I loved her deeply, but I was also constantly overwhelmed—so busy and scattered that I couldn’t connect with myself. After she passed, I grieved, but I also returned to myself. I was able to listen inward again. I think of her often, and always with love. Some memories are tinged with sadness, but mostly they’re sweet reminders of love shared, not love lost.

We live in a culture that constantly tells us we need to improve, optimize, heal, hustle, or somehow become better than we are. There are endless books, podcasts, therapies, supplements, and programs designed to “fix” what’s wrong with us—our bodies, our minds, our emotions, our lives.

But what if nothing is wrong?

What if there is nothing to fix?

What if the path to peace, healing, and wholeness isn’t about doing more or changing who we are—but about learning how to be fully present with what is?

In a world of fast food, multitasking, and constant distraction, eating has often become just another task to check off the list. We eat while scrolling, driving, or standing at the counter—rarely pausing to notice, much less appreciate, the food in front of us.

But around the world, and across cultures and centuries, people have long understood that giving thanks to food is more than polite—it’s powerful. It reconnects us with ourselves, with nature, and with the deeper meaning behind nourishment. And in today’s rushed society, reviving this simple ritual might be one of the most radical and healing things we can do.

In the early 20th century, amid the chaos and sacrifice of World War I, a quieter, everyday form of patriotism took root in kitchens, gardens, and communities across the United States and Europe: food conservation. It was a powerful movement driven not by scarcity alone, but by solidarity, purpose, and resourcefulness.

Today, as we face modern crises—from climate change and economic instability to global food insecurity—the practices and principles of wartime food conservation offer a blueprint for how we might live more mindfully, sustainably, and collectively.

Empaths are deeply feeling individuals. They absorb the emotions, energies, and sometimes even the unspoken pain of those around them. While this sensitivity can be a powerful gift—enabling profound compassion, insight, and presence—it also comes with unique challenges. Empaths navigate the world in a heightened state of awareness, and without the right support or boundaries, this can easily lead to burnout, emotional overwhelm, or disconnection from the self.

One suggestion our teacher shared was the importance of helping someone build a connection with their meals. That could be something as simple as setting the table nicely, maybe adding flowers, and creating an environment that brings joy to the eating experience.

As empaths, we often feel guilty for speaking our truth—worried we’ve hurt someone or overreacted. We tend to second-guess our feelings, especially if we’re around certain personalities. Even if someone hasn’t treated us well, we look for the good in them. We tell ourselves, “Well, they’ve done nice things,” and dismiss our deeper feelings.

Dr. Cowan’s approach to food goes beyond just focusing on whether it’s organic or not. He brings attention to the fundamental importance of soil health, biodiversity, and the way food interacts with our bodies on a deeper level. Here’s a closer look at Dr. Cowan’s perspective on organic food and how we can make better choices for our health and the environment.