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On letting go of the post I thought I *should* write.

I was all set to write about my 2018 trip to Burma this week.

It’s a topic that means a lot to me — layered and personal and emotional and culturally significant. My dad grew up there. I went with him. It was the first and last trip we took together as adults. There’s so much I want to say.

But I couldn’t figure out the narrative, the thread, the shape, the entry point, the… words. My brain feels like a pan of scrambled eggs. I procrastinated for a week, and here I am on Monday evening, still stuck. It’s just not happening right now.

Every time I sat down to write, I felt blocked. Not just a “staring into the abyss of a blank page” kind of stuck, but a heavier resistance. The kind that made me question why I was forcing it.

I don’t want to write because I have to. So I asked myself:

• Why am I pushing myself to write right now? (Because I told myself I’d stick to a weekly schedule.)
• Who am I writing this for? (It should be… me, no?)
• Why am I being so hard on myself about sticking to this exact topic, this exact week? (This week marks six years without him, which felt timely and important.)
• Am I trying to prove something, and if so, to whom? (Maybe? But I have nothing to prove to anyone. Surely not on Substack where people can read my writing for free.)
• Am I confusing consistency with rigidity? (Probably.)

That line of questioning gave me clarity:

• I don’t have to write something meaningful just because I planned to.
• I don’t have to dig deep on a topic just because I told myself I would.
• I don’t owe anyone anything.
• What I owe, at most, is honesty with myself.

And the truth is, I’m just not feeling it this week. I don’t have the words this week. For anything, and definitely not for a long-form post about a heartfelt topic.

It feels so meta to write a bunch of words about not having the words, but I guess that’s what this week’s post is about. It’s ok to put things on the shelf for later. It’s ok to pivot. It’s ok to create from where you are, not from where you think you should be.

And where I am today is tired. Not everything has to be on a schedule or deadline.

That’s it. That’s the post.

P.S. – I really hate that every time I use an em dash (and I actually use an en dash because it’s shorter, and therefore, I use it incorrectly, and idc, y’all get the point), I second-guess it because everyone will think it’s AI. I overcompensate by keeping all my run-on sentences to prove I’m not a robot, but a rambling human.

Breaking free from the algorithm is kinda nice.

Some of my favorite discoveries didn’t come from plans, algorithms, or five-star reviews. They came from wandering, wondering, and paying attention (sometimes in the form of eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations).

I didn’t plan to learn about txakoli wine. But one thing led to another, and suddenly I was deep in the internet rabbit hole of Basque winemaking like it was my new life’s calling.

My txakoli deep dive happened online, but it was sparked irl, at our neighborhood wine shop. And not in the usual way, either. Normally, I pick up a bottle and get curious about something on the label. This time, we were just browsing, trying to decide what wines to keep on hand for when people come over, when R turned to me and asked, “Should we pick something up for Chuckly?” (“Chuckly” is a nickname he uses when someone is annoying but lovable — sometimes even for our dog.)

The wine store clerk overheard his question and said, “We have both red and white Chuckly!”

… what?

She gestured to the shelf, and I saw it: txakoli. Both red and white. Txakoli is pronounced, you guessed it: Chuckly. 

That moment didn’t come from a color-coded to-do list or an Instagram recommendation. It came from being out in the world, living life and paying attention.

We live in a world that is very online. Algorithmic and curated, designed to show us exactly what we want — before we even know we want it. Or at least, what the internet thinks we want. Personalized newsfeeds, curated playlists, autofill email responses, targeted ads that make you feel certain your phone is always listening.

But sometimes, you don’t know what you want until it surprises you. And the algorithms don’t leave a lot of room for surprise.

Some of my favorite memories didn’t come from a color-coded travel spreadsheet or hours of research of “what to do in [insert destination here]”. They came from wandering, from overhearing, from being open to adventure. Some of them are:

• We met our now-close friends in a random shoe store we wandered into in Florence.
• We found an amazing off-the-tourist-beaten-path cocktail bar in Maui after overhearing some locals talking about it.
• We ended up in a tiny sushi restaurant in Tokyo, with no reservations and no plan, having a private dining experience with two friendly regulars who turned dinner into a whole experience.
• I found my ceramics studio after chatting with someone at a local pottery pop-up.

None of those things would’ve happened if we had stuck to the plan (or had a plan in the first place). So how do we un-curate our lives a little and leave room for moments like these?

We spend a lot of energy trying to optimize our time: Get in, get out, get the best version, maximize the moment. It often, at least for me, ends up in analysis paralysis and/or decision fatigue. But sometimes the most memorable parts of life are the ones you couldn’t have scheduled if you tried.

So I’ve been trying to… try less. Here’s what that looks like for me:

Leaving room at the edges. Not filling every block of time with a task (it’s been a hard habit to break). Letting there be gaps and wiggle room. Space to breathe, to wander, to see where the day wants to take me.

Saying yes to small talk. Even if it’s awkward or boring, because sometimes a casual chat with a stranger in an elevator or a grocery store aisle or a random shoe store in Italy… turns into a whole story later.

Taking a risk and going off script. Trying the new spot with only five reviews, picking the unfamiliar bottle of wine, asking a human instead of Google for a recommendation.

Stay curious. Letting a question linger instead of immediately Googling it. Guessing, wondering, asking someone nearby. It’s harder than it sounds when the internet is in my pocket.

I’m not anti-algorithm. I like when Apple Music plays a throwback I forgot I loved. I appreciate a well-targeted restaurant rec. There’s comfort in seeing familiar faces on my feed. But I think it’s healthy to pop the bubble once in a while.

If all we ever see is more of what we already like, we could start mistaking the algorithm for the whole world. We start to think we already know what’s out there. We miss the strange, the funny, the offbeat, the oddly specific. We miss what’s just beyond the edges of the algorithm.

What if we stopped trying to optimize every experience and let some of them simply unfold? What if we got comfortable not knowing exactly where we’re going, or how long it’ll take, or whether it’ll be worth it? (This goes against my Type A tendencies, but your girl is trying!)

Because sometimes, the worth is in the wondering… or the wandering. The next delightful thing might not be trending, might not have thousands of reviews, might not even be on the map… but it might be just around the corner. You just have to be a little more open and little more willing to be surprised. And maybe you’ll end up buying txakoli for Chuckly. 

If I could find a way… (Do you have Cher stuck in your head now? Do you?)

I spent the last two weeks in Crested Butte, Colorado. It’s a beautiful (butte-iful?) little mountain town about four hours from Denver. Scenic drives and hiking trails featuring alpine lakes, aspen groves, and abundant wildflowers are readily accessible from here, and the town itself is top tier when it comes to good food and solid locally owned businesses. 

All that to say, it was so easy for me to pop out and do something awesome at any point of my day. And for the most part, I did just that.

I’m working part-time, and it’s given me a lot of flexibility I’ve never had before. Sure, I have to be online for meetings at certain times, but I try my hardest to structure my days into blocks. For example, if I have meetings at 9:30 and 11:30, I’ll plan to work from, say, 9 to noon. And then I’ll do whatever I want for the rest of the day. In Crested Butte, I sometimes went on a short hike, or drove up to the lake, or walked into art galleries around town. Sometimes, I came back and did some “offline” work for another block of time. But the point is, I feel like I’ve reclaimed ownership of my time.

On paper, I’ve always understood the benefits of owning my time and choosing how I want to spend it. Admittedly, it has felt like a pipe dream. One of those concepts you nod along to in a podcast and then immediately dismiss because your calendar is packed and your inbox is exploding and you’re staring at multiple browser windows, each with 17 tabs open. I understood it intellectually. But in practice, it never quite clicked… until now.

For the first time in my adult working life, I have a schedule with flexibility. Not just flexibility in where I work (remote work has truly changed my life), but flexibility in how I work. I have breathing room between meetings. Time to cook and enjoy lunch at home. Time to play with my dog. Time to read, or write, or even stare off into space and do nothing. Time to take a walk without needing to negotiate it with my never-ending to-do list.

I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been gripping my life until I finally — accidentally? — let go a little.

When you’re working full-time (and let’s be real: for many people, that means working more than the 40 hours that defines “full-time”), it’s hard to separate the structure of your job from the structure of your life. You start living in hour blocks: “I have time for a quick coffee before my 10am standup,” or “maybe after my 4:30.” You can only rest after your inbox is cleared, only go for a walk after your deliverable is shipped. And even then, there’s guilt. There’s always guilt.

I spent years organizing my time around the needs of other people. Meetings, deadlines, availability windows, the dreaded “HOLD” on the calendar. And when you’re good at your job and care about your work, it’s easy to lose sight of how much time you’re giving away. Because being good at your job doesn’t just mean doing what’s asked. It often means anticipating what might be asked, especially in my line of work. Which means you’re never really off. You’re just… “between asks”. Ew. When you put it that way… ew.

This trip reminded me that there’s another way to structure a day, and that it’s not just a vacation thing.

When I was up in the mountains, I worked fewer hours during the week and still got all the important stuff done. And maybe that’s the lesson: when you’re not exhausted or resentful, your work gets more focused. You procrastinate less, you make quicker decisions. And then you close your laptop, mentally detach, and take a hike. Literally.

I think the biggest shift is internal. It’s not just about time management; it’s about mindset. When you feel like you own your time, you approach it differently. You protect it and spend it more intentionally. You are in every minute. There are many reasons for my internal shift, which I will write about eventually, but being forced into having a lot of free time is one of them.

Being busy was all I knew how to do. I think it was a bit of a “boiling frog” situation, but I also think it was proof to myself that I was doing something right, something worthwhile. Saying “I’m slammed this week” became common, and made me feel needed, useful, important. But that kind of validation comes with a price. And when the busyness finally eased up, I realized I don’t miss it at all.

What I did miss was this current version of myself. The version of me who sits outside in the yard, reading a book. Who has ideas in the shower (and not about work!). Who writes more, thinks more clearly, and is just… less tightly wound. I like this version of me.

I’m trying to reprogram my brain and convince myself that I’m not working less because I’m lazy or burnt out. I’m working less because I can. I have agency! I have the ability to make my own decisions! Admittedly, that’s something that’s hard to wrap my head around.

I used to think full-time work was the “default” and everything else was temporary — a stopgap between jobs or a “funemployment” luxury afforded only to people with generational wealth. But what if that’s just not true? What if we’ve all just internalized capitalism so deeply that anything less than 40+ hours a week feels suspect? (I think I have.)

I don’t have a grand conclusion or a dramatic call to action, but I can tell you this: My days feel different now. And not in a flashy, influencer “design your dream life!” way. More in a “I feel more like myself” kind of way.

Maybe that’s the real luxury. Not necessarily a hike among aspens and wildflowers in the middle of the day (though, yes please), but the ability to live at your own pace and to realize that rest and relaxation doesn’t have to be earned, but simply allowed.

Time is still passing, no matter how you fill it. The question is: Do you feel like it’s yours?

After a ten-year hiatus, coffee and I are back together. 

I learned what an americano was during my training days as a part-time summer barista. Espresso and water. (Yes, watered-down espresso. The Italians are cursing us out.) Who knew something that seemed fancier than plain drip coffee could also be so simple and so delicious? 

I lived off iced americanos ever since I got acquainted. I started off with a tiny splash of milk swirling throughout and one packet of raw sugar sitting at the bottom. I eventually started drinking them black. 

And one day in my mid-20s, I decided to quit coffee. I realized I hated the way it made me feel. The jitter, the stomach gurgles, the rush of caffeine hitting me all at once, the crash in the afternoon. Why was I doing this to myself? So I quit.

This was quietly devastating to me, because I loved coffee. I even tried decaf for a while — hoping I could at least enjoy the taste without the side effects — but it just didn’t taste right. (Though to be fair, decaf has come a long way. I think the coffee people fixed it. Or maybe I’m the one that changed?)

I’ve always loved coffee, even before I was introduced to americanos. As a kid, my favorite ice cream flavor was Haagen-Dazs coffee (a questionable choice for a child, but I had it and loved it). Unlike many people I know, I’ve never needed to “acquire” a taste for it. There are so many people who hate the taste of coffee but guzzle it anyway for the caffeine boost. I didn’t drink it for the energy; I drank it because I genuinely liked it.

My hiatus ended up lasting about ten years. 

I loved tea too, so it was a relatively easy transition to getting any caffeine fix I needed. And I did have some coffee in those ten years. I had the occasional cup while on vacation (immediate happiness that often led to regret), or a few sips from my husband’s cup. I savored every moment of it, and a few sips was often the most I could have before feeling too amped up. 

Even when I wasn’t drinking coffee regularly, I still sought out coffee shops — especially on vacation. Mostly for my husband’s benefit, since he appreciates a great cup of coffee (and, selfishly, so I could have a sip of his). I’d find little spots with a neighborhood feel: locally roasted coffee, handwritten signs, chatty regulars. Even better if they had good tea. I didn’t go for the drink. I went for the feeling, for the ritual. It was the routine that I craved, maybe even more than the coffee. In addition to the routine, it was also the sense of community. We often became regulars at a coffee shop for the duration of our stay. Learned all the baristas’ names, made friends with some of the regulars.

I missed that routine back home too. But it felt weird to hang out at a coffee shop when all I was ordering was a tea and a pastry I sometimes didn’t want. So I stopped going.

And then came a company offsite (in Vegas, mind you, a place where caffeine seems essential).

During a scheduled break, a group of people made their way to the coffee shop. There was coffee and snacks in the adjacent meeting room, sure, but the coffee break was a reason to leave and get a change of scenery. I was exhausted, after travel and after sitting through sessions of company rah-rah. So I decided to risk it all and allow myself to have one of those occasional cups that I knew I would regret later. I ordered an americano, black. My go-to. And I was expensing it, so if I couldn’t handle it and had to abandon it… no harm, nothing to lose. 

And nothing happened. No heart palpitations, no jitters, no feelings of “I’m about to puke”. Just a little cup of joy and the familiar warmth of a ritual I didn’t know I’d been missing.

I soon realized why I was ok with coffee. It turns out that coffee wasn’t the problem. The context was: It was the empty stomach. I never ate breakfast, and only started to have breakfast every day in the last five years or so. Ten years ago, I still lived in NYC, never eating breakfast, always stressing out, never slowing down. The coffee wasn’t the problem. I was the problem. 

I used to think quitting coffee was a sign of self-awareness, and maybe it was. But coming back to it feels like something else entirely. Not indulgence or regression, but just… coming back to myself?

Returning to coffee made it easier to return to coffee shops, too. Because no matter how much you like chai or loose-leaf tea, it just doesn’t hit the same when you’re at a third-wave coffee shop known for their locally roasted coffee, and ordering anything that isn’t coffee. It feels very “what’s even the point?”

Now I order a real cup. I take a seat, and I feel like I belong. I’ve returned to the ritual, the community, and it’s made me feel a bit more like myself.

I feel like there’s a profound life lesson here, about timing and circumstances being right, or it being ok to take a break from things even if you love them, or something else. I don’t know. All I know is, I feel like I’ve rediscovered something I used to love, and am appreciating it in a new way. 

Life’s connective tissue is weird. Who knew one of mine would be subtitled and set to music?

My dad came home one day with a rented DVD.

The title wasn’t in English. It was spelled out using letters in the English alphabet, but it was definitely a different language.

Kaho Naa… Pyaar Hai.

I can’t remember the series of events that led him to rent a Hindi movie from what I presume was a video rental store in Journal Square. Somehow, someone convinced him to rent this movie. The DVD cover art featured a gorgeous woman (Ameesha Patel) and a really buff dude (Hrithik Roshan). We had never watched a Bollywood movie before, and Dad was really eager, so we popped the DVD into the PlayStation 2 (our first DVD player, and only DVD player at the time), and let it roll.

I didn’t know it at the time, but those three hours would weirdly define an ongoing thread in my life.

Those three hours were filled with everything that makes a Bollywood movie great. The over-the-top storyline! The cinematography! The songs, accompanied by impeccably choreographed dance numbers! The way Hrithik Roshan dances! Hrithik Roshan, period!

Since we enjoyed Kaho Naa… Pyaar Hai so much, Dad returned to… wherever he rented it… and brought back more Bollywood films. The second DVD was definitely Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the one that cemented Dad’s love for Shah Rukh Khan (SRK), Rani Mukherjee, and Kajol. The third DVD was Mohabbatein, starring SRK and introducing us to Aishwarya Rai.

I want to say most other movies he brought home starred at least one of his favorites: SRK, Rani, Kajol, Hrithik. If a Bollywood movie featured one of those actors and was released in the late 1990s to early 2000s, chances are I’ve seen it. What a random fun fact.

What started as weekend entertainment became a little ritual in our household. We’d laugh at the dramatic pauses, try to mimic the dance moves (mostly failing), and marvel at the costumes and music. Bollywood slowly grew from a curiosity to a comfort — a window into a culture so different from ours, and in many ways, not so different after all.

—

I met my husband at work. He’s Indian-American, and it came up that I’ve seen a lot of Hindi movies. My random fun fact! I might have even seen more recent movies than he had at the time. But it was a way to connect to him and his family’s culture. Because Bollywood is culture. Hollywood might be American culture, I guess, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the way Bollywood lives in Indian culture.

When my dad first met my father-in-law, he left that conversation cracking up. Dad was terrified of meeting my FIL because all he knew about him was that he was very well educated and worked in finance. For some reason, he imagined my FIL would be Amitabh Bachchan — the towering, iconic voice and presence. But when he met a 5’7” bald Indian man with a voice nowhere near Amitabh’s bass, he was both relieved and amused. He really could not stop laughing. What made that moment even funnier was my husband’s comment: “You know what I look like! You think my dad looks like Amitabh Bachchan?!”

We had an Indian wedding. My friends all joked that they would watch Bride and Prejudice to prepare. Luckily, I had already absorbed a decent amount of wedding ceremony basics from all the Bollywood movies I’d seen over the years. I had a general idea of the mandap, the fire, the sindoor — though in the films, it’s always condensed into about five minutes, with a musical interlude and lots of close-ups. Our real wedding didn’t have sweeping crane shots or background dancers — or an elephant — but it did have a costume change, elaborate jewelry, and the pandit (priest) scolding me mid-ceremony for not following his instructions to the letter. The whole thing did feel a bit like a movie. It was beautiful, chaotic, joyful, overwhelming… basically, it was everything I had come to love about Bollywood, and all in one take.

—

We were planning to go to India, and having really suffered from my lack of communication skills the first time I went, I was determined to learn some basic Hindi for the second go-around. I had the brilliant idea to learn language through immersion — an excuse to rewatch my favorite Bollywood films (as long as they were available on Netflix) and maybe watch some new ones.

I learned most of my vocabulary from songs. Turns out, Bollywood bangers aren’t the worst way to pick up vocabulary. Songs have repeating choruses, so you hear the same words over and over. The downside? You mostly learn words related to love.

Here’s my list. A raw copy-and-paste from my Note.

• Aaj- today
• Kyun- why
• Kya- what
• Kabhi- sometimes
• Joot- lies
• Beech men- between
• Ke diya- I said
• Ke do na- Will you say
• Bas- enough
• Divana- crazy boy
• Divani- crazy girl
• Dil- heart
• Pyaar- love
• Pagal- crazy
• Nahi- no
• Koi mil gaya- I found someone
• Kuch- something
• Kush- happy
• Kuch kuch hota hai- something happens
• Tum- you
• Dhosti- friend
• Hay- is
• Suniye- listen / can you hear me

—

Just the other day, my husband was rotating his shoulders, and the movement reminded me of a specific Bollywood dance sequence. I couldn’t remember the name of the song, or the movie. All I could place was the melody of the chorus and the dance move.

“How do you even Google this?”

I thought it could have been from Kaho Naa… Pyaar Hai, so I looked up videos of all those songs. Nope. Then I remembered the movie didn’t star Hrithik at all. “What was the movie where SRK played the violin ALL THE TIME?

And then, the answer struck me while we were on our morning dog walk: Mohabbatein! (If you really want to know the song, it was “Aankhein Khuli”, linked for your viewing pleasure.)

There I was, on a random neighborhood street in Denver, reminded once again how those movies quietly weave through my life — like a thread tying my past, my present, and the people I love.

—

My dad came home with a random DVD one day, and I’m pretty sure he had no idea he was setting off a lifelong chain reaction. But that’s the thing about small, unexpected moments. You never know which ones will stick, or which ones will quietly weave themselves into your life. Life’s connective tissue is weird. Who knew one of mine would be subtitled and set to music?

Every step is a new opportunity to f*ck it up.

I’d been falling in love with ceramics one handmade mug at a time, the kinds I picked up at farmers markets and neighborhood shops. Supporting local artists was part of the joy, but I couldn’t stop wondering how a lump of clay became a beautiful mug or bowl.

Naturally, I went down an internet rabbit hole to satisfy my curiosity. But the more reels I watched, the more curious I became. One of my charming(?) personality traits is that I’ll watch a video and immediately think, “That doesn’t look that hard. I could totally do that!”

I knew trying pottery would require some kind of time commitment and planning and scheduling and all the things you use as excuses not to do something, so I filed it under “someday.” Someday I’ll take a class. Someday, when I have more time.

Then I got laid off. And “someday” arrived! Suddenly, I had free time. And instead of filling that time with job applications, productivity guilt, and doom spiraling, I signed up for a six-week intro to wheel throwing class at my local pottery studio.

Not to be dramatic, but it changed my life. (And I’m sticking with it! I’m on my third round of intro to wheel throwing. I’m a fast learner unless it comes to doing things with my hands, apparently.)

I thought I was just going to learn how to make a mug. Instead, I learned the art of letting go.

It was supposed to be just a fun hobby to pass the time — something tactile and real to balance out all the screen time. But somewhere between being absolutely covered in clay and the hundredth attempt at centering on the wheel, it made me realize the process was about so much more than just making a (tiny, lopsided) cup. Pottery, it turns out, has been helping me unlearn perfectionism and teaching me a lot of life lessons.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to get things “right.” I like plans, checklists, and outcomes I can control. (It’s starting to make sense that I’m a program manager, right?). And yet, here I was, sitting at a wheel, using muscles I didn’t know I had, hunched over a spinning hunk of clay that didn’t give a shit about my goals. It wobbled. It got uncentered. It collapsed. It got decapitated. It flew off the wheel. It got on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, my hair, and, occasionally, my face. No matter how careful or intentional I was, the process refused to be perfect. I had no choice but to surrender and meet it where it was — or give up entirely.

Here are some of the lessons I’ve learned about pottery and life.

—

Let It Be Wobbly

One of the first lessons pottery teaches you — and harshly, I might add — is: don’t get attached. Every step is a new opportunity to fuck it up. Your piece might collapse mid-throw. It might get destroyed during trimming. It might be ugly af. It might crack while drying. It might crack in the kiln. You could go through the whole process thinking you did everything right, and it still might be jacked up because the glaze is gonna glaze. Sometimes, it just doesn’t work. That doesn’t mean you don’t work. It just means… shit happens.

Perfectionism tells us that success comes from getting it right the first time. The pottery wheel laughs in your face.

I’ve learned to embrace the wobble. A bowl that’s slightly off-center is a bowl that has character! That has a handmade imprint! That is unique! I still try to make centered and symmetrical pieces, but I don’t beat myself up as much now when I don’t reach those goals.

Don’t Push Too Hard

There’s something incredibly humbling about realizing that effort isn’t always the answer. Forcing the clay to bend to your will might decapitate your piece or cause it to fly off the wheel (ask me how I know). Some days, the more you try, the worse it gets. Something that became incredibly clear to me during pottery class: I don’t do well at anything when I’m frustrated.

When I start overthinking or trying too hard or want to scream because I can’t get anything right, I can feel everything go sideways. 

There was a point in my first intro class when my instructor Jeanette said to me, “Amanda. I can see you thinking.” Oh. It took me a while to practice “less thinking, more doing”, but I can attest that it works.

I’ve learned to accept that some days just won’t go well. And that doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong; it just means I’m human.

Some Things You Just Feel

Related to not pushing too hard or forcing things… When Jeanette walked me through how to cone the clay up and down, she asked, “Did you feel that?” It sounds crazy, and it doesn’t make any sense until you experience it. When something’s working on the wheel, you feel it. Your hands are in the right position, the clay responds, and for a moment, everything just flows. You’re not thinking about getting it right — you’re just in it. And it doesn’t come from forcing anything. It comes from showing up again and again until your hands and your body learn what your brain couldn’t control.

Don’t Panic

When the clay doesn’t do what I expect, or when I’m trying something new and everything feels off, my first instinct is to freak out and abruptly stop or change what I’m doing. But that only makes things worse.

Instead, I’m learning to slow down and breathe (just not while I’m pulling walls though, iykyk). My inner monologue is often “dontfreakoutdontfreakout”. The worst that can happen is I smush my pot, scrape it off the bat, get a fresh ball of clay, and try again. Giving myself that grace in the low-stakes environment of the studio has started to ripple into how I handle stress and setbacks in everyday life.

Practice, Practice, Practice

Insert something here about how do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice.

There’s no shortcut in pottery. You can’t think your way into being good at it. You can watch all the tutorials, memorize the steps, and know exactly what should happen — and still end up with a rainbow (a smushed pot that you form into a rainbow to let dry to reuse later). The only way to get better is to keep showing up.

Practice is the not-so-secret secret. Each throw teaches your hands something new. You get a little stronger, a little steadier, a little more tuned in. Sometimes it feels like you’re making the same mistake over and over, and then suddenly something clicks. And that moment only comes because you kept practicing.

This has been so healing for my perfectionist brain. Instead of striving to be good right away, I’ve started to appreciate the process of becoming good… through doing, messing up, and trying again. 

—

I still can’t throw a cylinder much taller than a soup can. My bowls are often bottom heavy. I hate making mugs because handles are the worst (side note: there is a REASON handmade mugs are more expensive than plates and bowls, even if they’re smaller!). I can’t make a vaguely similar set, forget about a matching set (yet!!!).

But I’ve stopped expecting perfection. I’ve started to like being a beginner. I’ve started to trust that good things come from the mess. I’ve learned that results take time, patience, and a lot of oops. And I’ve committed to the process! Of continuing my ceramics education, of building my pottery muscles (my god does my lower back hurt sometimes), and of letting go — not just at the studio, but everywhere else too.

It’s not about finding meaning in everything. It’s about letting meaning find you.

“Amanda, what did you say?”
“… the NCAA tournament? Is that not what that is?”
“Why do you say ‘tournament’ like The Karate Kid?”
“What?”
“It’s tur-na-ment, not tor-na-ment.”
“WHAT?”

This was the conversation that sparked an unofficial office poll: How do you pronounce the word “tournament”?

For those who don’t know, I grew up in the Northeast (Jersey City!) and live in Denver now. Most people in that particular office were from the Midwest/West. And that was the day I learned I have an East Coast accent. My friend Greg and I were the only ones who said tor-na-ment — and he was the only other East Coaster in the room.

The conversation turned into a deep dive into regional slang: soda vs. pop, sub vs. hoagie, pecan (PEE-can or pe-CAHN?). We even took The New York Times dialect quiz. (It’s behind a paywall now, but here’s an article that shows all the maps, and where I grabbed the below image from.)

One of the biggest shocks was this map.

TENNIS SHOES?

This made Greg and I irrationally angry.

“Why would they be tennis shoes if you aren’t playing tennis?” I asked.

“They’re called sneakerheads, not tennis-shoe-heads!” Greg exclaimed.

Fast forward to last week, and I was reminded of that conversation when my friend D said “tournament” — tor-na-ment.

I recapped the whole accent debate from seven-ish years ago, and she added, “The band is Sneaker Pimps, not Tennis Shoe Pimps!”

We laughed. Then I mentioned we were actually seeing Greg later that night — even though we hadn’t hung out with him in forever, despite living 15 minutes away from each other.

I thought: How funny that Greg came up in conversation on the same day we were going to meet up with him.

A few hours later, we were at the bar catching up, and my husband suddenly sat up straighter. “The song playing right now… it’s by the Sneaker Pimps.”

What in the Seinfeld episode was this day?

I mean, when was the last time you noticed a Sneaker Pimps song playing in public? I couldn’t name one of their songs if you paid me (so it’s a good thing Husband recognized them). But somehow, just hours after we joked about them, there they were.

Which made me think of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, also known as frequency illusion. It’s the thing where once you learn about something, or start paying attention to it, you suddenly notice it everywhere. Like when I got my Honda Fit and started seeing them all over the road. I think they were always there, but my brain just wasn’t tuned into them yet.

So sure, maybe Sneaker Pimps songs are always playing in the background at bars. Or maybe we only noticed it because it had been flagged as “relevant” earlier that day. Or maybe it was just weird coincidence.

Frequency illusion is explainable. Cognitive bias is real. So… science. But that doesn’t make it less magical. What if it’s not just your brain playing tricks on you? What if it’s the universe winking at you?

Speaking of fun little winks, the day before this sitcom-level synchronicity, we were a makers market. I had no plans to buy flowers (I already had a bouquet at home), but I was drawn to these roses at a local florist’s stall. I’m not a rose person. Too… mainstream? Too Valentine’s Day. (I’m annoying, I know.) But these stopped me. I’d never seen roses like it — a swirl of coral, gold, and peach, like a watercolor sunset. I told the florist how stunning they were, and she lit up when she told me, “I love these. They’re called free spirit roses.”

Of course they were.

A flower I never really cared for, suddenly catching my eye — with a name that felt like a message. (And of course I bought one. Support local small businesses!)

You could chalk all of this up to coincidence, pattern-seeking, cognitive bias, sure, whatever. I also think the world is always whispering, though. Most of the time, we’re too distracted, too logical, or too tired to notice. But every once in a while, when we slow down and get curious, we see how the threads connect.

Your friend Greg comes up in a weird and random conversation about tor-na-ment… on the day you’re seeing him.

You laugh about sneakerheads and the Sneaker Pimps… and then hear one of their songs while out.

You’re drawn to a rose, a flower you’ve never liked… and it’s called free spirit.

And maybe that’s the whole point of life. It’s not about finding meaning in everything. It’s about slowing down and letting meaning find you.

Birthday reflections from a very full, very happy human.

I have a running list of blog post ideas, and this bullet point was “Joyyyyyyy” — yes, with seven Ys. I’m rolling with it.

What better time to write about joy than the week of my birthday?

When you think of birthdays, you think of the big, celebratory, milestone-achieving, champagne-popping kind of joy. There is a time and place for that, of course. But lately, I’ve really appreciated the smaller, quieter, subtle forms of joy.

In fact, I don’t know if it’s a sign of age or wisdom or what, but this birthday was the subtle flavor of joy. And I really did have a happy birthday, even though it wasn’t blue razz pop rocks and bottle sparklers in da clerb.

Some joyful birthday weekend thoughts that are also a low-key recommendation list for the San Francisco Bay Area:

• Omg, I think this is the best glazed donut I’ve ever had. (Chuck’s in Redwood City, btw)
• Omg, this is an amazing clam chowder. And eating it outside by the bay? Even better. I’m on the road to lactose intolerance, but a bowl of New England clam chowder is almost always worth it. If I’m gonna do it, I might as well go hard. (Sam’s Chowder House in Half Moon Bay)
• It is overcast and cold and windy af at the beach and I am still enjoying every second of it. The ocean is truly healing.

• I’m just a plant. All I need is water and sunshine.
• Napping outdoors in the perfect beam of sunshine is a top ten feeling.
• Il dolce far niente: the sweetness of doing nothing (learned that from La Dolce Villa, a corny rom-com we watched this weekend).
• So many dogs said hi to me! The names I remember are Jacob, Ginger, and Nina, and I think it’s so funny when dogs have human names.
• We’ve started giving the name Kona at coffee shops. We give the barista our dog’s name even though we have perfectly good human names. This is especially funny considering my thought right above this one.
• There are so many types of trees, plants, and flowers and there are people who can identify them and tell you all about them, and I think that’s amazing. (Highly recommend the SF Botanical Garden)
• Burma Superstar is not quite as good as my mom’s cooking, but still really delicious. And it’s so cool that the food I grew up eating is so revered in the Bay Area. Including catfish chowder — more chowder!
• I feel like a queen when I have a ton of seafood. Is seafood the ultimate celebratory food? (Cioppino at Sotto Mare)
• Birthday cannoli may be better than birthday cake. In this case, if we’re being pedantic, birthday cannolo because it was only one.
• That’s a beautiful jacket. Oh, it fits me so well. The sleeves are long, but, oh, look how cute it is when I roll the sleeves up. But it’s too expensive; I don’t need it. It’s already being put in a shopping bag because my husband is buying it for me. Because it’s my birthday and he loves me.
• It might be a tourist trap but the Irish coffees at The Buena Vista are actually really good. I asked how many Irish coffees they make a day, and the bartender said around 2,000!
• Here we go again, on the hunt for birthday chicken and noodles. Chicken for good luck, and noodles for long life. As annoying as the hunt can be some years, it’s also such a fun old-school tradition on our birthdays.
• Any drink can be a party drink when you have light-up plastic ice cubes. (The soda at Marufuku Ramen)
• What a beautiful day for baseball. Let’s go Mets!
• I had a birthday cake and balloons waiting for me when I got home from my trip!
• I spent my birthday 1) alive 2) with people I love!
• I’m so lucky to have so many people who care about me.

This year, birthday joy looked like chowder, cannoli, cold beach winds, and curious doggos.

Thanks to everyone who made me feel special this week. I’m lucky, I’m grateful, and I’m really, really full of joy (and food).

P.S. – If you enjoy my writing and want to buy me a coffee, matcha, pastry, ice cream cone, etc., you can do that through ​Ko-fi​ 🙂 I would love that so much.

Because I’m tired of explaining what a Technical Program Manager does.

“So… you manage projects?” (Yes, but that isn’t all I do.)

“Are you a Product Manager?” (No, but I partner with them.)

“Oh, you’re the one who schedules the meetings and takes notes!” (Sometimes, but that isn’t the whole job.)

Things people have asked me time and time again. And while each of these has a sliver of truth, none of them quite capture what I actually do as a Technical Program Manager (TPM).

Throughout my career, I’ve had to explain to many people what a TPM is. I should have written this post a long time ago. It would have saved me a lot of time feeling like a broken record.

I’m writing this now because we recorded a podcast episode about the value of program managers, and one of the takeaways was we need to be our own advocates. We need to educate others and toot our own horns about the value of What We Do. (Podcast plug: If you don’t already know… I’m the co-host of The Messy Middle Matters podcast!)

So here goes!

The TPM role is one of those jobs that’s hard to define, but easy to recognize once you know what you’re looking for. We’re the people asking the right questions, aligning the moving parts, and making sure ideas actually become real things. We translate vision into executable plans, connect technical and non-technical stakeholders, and make sure nothing falls through the cracks. We are the connective tissue, the glue, the duct tape, sometimes the bare hands holding it all together.

We usually don’t write the code (TPMs at some orgs write code, but please don’t ask me to code), and we aren’t the final decision-makers, but we ensure the right conversations happen at the right time, with the right context. We turn ambiguity into clarity, chaos into flow. And when things change (because they always do), we “herd the cats”, assess, reorient, and keep the momentum going. One of the questions I ask the most is “What are the next steps?”

Depending on the team or company, a TPM might be responsible for driving cross-functional initiatives, managing end-to-end project delivery, aligning priorities across engineering and product teams, or setting up processes to scale execution. Unofficially, we may be a backup people manager, the team’s therapist, or the person everyone messages when something is on fire and no one knows where the extinguisher is. Sometimes (oftentimes!) it’s all of the above. The role sits at the intersection of strategy and execution, requiring both systems thinking and high emotional intelligence.

Because I love a good metaphor… if engineers are the musicians and the product manager is the composer, a TPM is the conductor. We don’t play the instruments or write the music, but we make sure everyone comes in on time, stays in sync, and plays at the right tempo. It’s the difference between sounding like music and sounding like a hot mess.

TPMs live — and thrive — in the messy middle (podcast plug #2!). We zoom out to the big picture, then back in to unblock a ticket that’s stalling progress. We write project briefs and define milestones, but we also notice when morale is dipping or when two teams are misaligned. We help organizations scale by creating structure where needed, but not so much that it gets in the way of speed.

It isn’t flashy work; in fact, most great TPMs I know actively avoid the spotlight. You won’t see our work in a demo or a release note. But when it’s missing, people notice. Deadlines get fuzzy. Teams lose focus. Communication breaks down. Accountability disappears. Everyone’s busy, but somehow, nothing’s moving forward. There’s a lot of motion but not a lot of movement. (I can’t take credit for that last line; I heard someone say it in a meeting, and it hit.)

At its best, Technical Program Management is a leadership role — not through direct authority, but through influence, clarity, and trust. It’s about creating the right conditions and empowering teams to do their best work together. And that means understanding how things work (and don’t), what people need (and why), and how to gently (but persistently) drive momentum.

TPMs are also really good at adapting. The shape of the role shifts based on the maturity of the organization, the makeup of the team, and the organization’s goals. It all depends on what problems the organization is trying to solve.

Early-stage startup? Building processes from scratch. Mid-stage scale-up? Connecting the dots across siloed teams. Large company? Translating strategy into coordinated delivery across multiple layers of stakeholders, usually across the entire organization, both wide and deep.

So when someone asks me what I do, I say some version of this:

I get shit done. I empower teams to do their best work. I connect dots. I make complex ideas a reality by aligning people, untangling dependencies, and adapting to whatever the work calls for.

It’s the work that makes the work… work.

If this post was helpful for you, and/or would be helpful to someone you know, I encourage you to share it far and wide!

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And if you were like, “wow, that was so insightful, I’d love to buy Amanda a coffee!”, you can do that through Ko-fi 🙂

Have you tried turning it off and back on again?

I was laid off in December.

Layoffs, unfortunately, are so common these days. It’s never a good time to suddenly lose your job, but to lose it in December? There’s a special place in hell for people who decide to do layoffs around the holidays. In most cases, a company’s leadership team doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide to fire a bunch of people that day, so… it’s nasty work.

I digress. That isn’t what I want to write about today.

What I do want to write about is my reset to factory settings. You know when your phone or computer gets all borked and glitchy and you’ve tried everything to fix it, to no avail, and the last-ditch effort is to reset it to factory settings? And once you’ve done that, you have essentially a brand-new device — a blank slate that usually works better because it doesn’t have 100 apps on it? Yeah, that’s what the last few months have felt like for me.

This is the third time I’ve been laid off, so I’ve been through it before. This time feels different from the others, though, in all the best ways. Third time’s a charm, I guess.

I fell into the trap of always chasing the next best thing: the next job, the next promotion, the next pay raise. Right now, I’m thinking about the next best thing, but in a more curious and expansive way. What does work look like for me? How do I want to spend my days? How much is enough, so that I can happily achieve that and not burn myself out striving for more? What lights me up, and how do I do more of that in a way that is sustainable?

I couldn’t get around to even asking myself those questions if I didn’t uninstall everything first. As it turns out, there was so much reprogramming I had to do. I want to share some of my realizations.

Some of the things I reprogrammed, redefined, or reframed, and I’m sure some of these will become standalone posts at a later time:

My definition of productivity. Before, I had this urge (addiction?) to be productive at all times. Maybe it’s a product of being born and raised in the Northeast. Maybe it’s just my personality. I had to reassess the constant “go, go, go” and “time is money” mindset that seemed to be hardwired in my brain. I had to actively learn that rest is productive. Being bored, and carving out time and space to think, is productive.

Ignorance of my burnout warning indicators. Related to the idea of always being productive… that mode often leads to burnout. Being constantly exhausted because I’m “sooooo busy” is not a flex or a badge of honor. It’s a red flag, a check engine light, a flashing low battery message. I read The Cure For Burnout: Build Better Habits, Find Balance and Reclaim Your Life by Emily Ballesteros, and I audibly said “oh my god” during the entire chapter where she described burnout (chapter 1, probably?).

My perfectionist tendencies. I have always been one of those high achiever types. Because of that, I’m often very hard on myself. This break has really allowed me to try new things that I will inevitably mess up, because they’re new. I’ve had to accept that the first few tries might be messy. Or awkward. Or even bad. And that’s ok.

Some of the things I reinstalled and am actually using now:

Intentional slowness and mindfulness. I am now moving at a purposely slower pace so I can be more mindful of where I’m spending my energy. It allows me to choose what to do and not fall back into autopilot grinding mode. I’ve intentionally made room for stillness and quiet in a world of overstimulation. And I’ve realized that meditation isn’t about mantras and completely clearing your mind, but about being fully present in the current moment. My nervous system thanks me for this breakthrough.

More play and joy. I’m now really leaning into doing things just for the sake of it, because they make me happy. Joy is a reminder that I am not a robot. I can feel joy! I can create joy! Related to mindfulness, it’s realizing that joy comes in the small moments. The perfect pour of coffee. The flowers blooming in the yard (even though I later realized they’re weeds). Listening to music while doing my laundry. I’m going all in on romanticizing my life, because why shouldn’t life be enjoyable?

Self-care. Rest and relaxation are not things that need to be earned. I thought self-care was bubble baths and candles that were the rewards after exhaustion. Self-care is just… drinking water. Limiting screen time. Lying down on the floor because my bad back needs it. Loafing on the couch because it’s a rainy day and I just feel like doing that. I’ve been working on incorporating more self-care into my regular routine and not waiting until I’m burned out.

I recognize this for the privilege it is, and I am grateful for it. Not everyone can afford to take a break from full-time work (voluntarily or otherwise). But this hard reset has been life-changing, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store for me.

All I know is, I’ll be experiencing it with fresh perspective and with a lot less noise in my operating system.

P.S. – People wanted to purchase a paid subscription, but I haven’t turned that feature on. I am flattered and feel so supported, but I am way more comfortable giving people the option to “buy me a coffee” (i.e. a one-time payment instead of a recurring one). If you are so inclined, here’s the link to my Ko-fi!