The Writer's Log

You would think for someone who prides themselves in the ability to piece words together on paper [or on screen], conversations would be nothing short than an honorable exchange with a word smith but assuming such things would only leave room for disappointment. 

For me, writing is an open playground in which to frolic, pretend, unload and even dream. It is a place where not a single critic exists. Here, there is only room and life granted for stories - my stories, deepest fairytales, delusions and aspirations but when pens are stashed away, laptops powered down, my words become limited. I've often heard people state that my ability to express emotion in open conversation is a rare occasion and I most certainly agree. It is a statement I find no offense in. I am at best a novice at expressing emotion before others, worst of all, admitting their existence within myself. But something life producing happens when I am drawn to the pen. Conversations begin to form as gentle whispers lay burden over my heart jarring open a pandora's box of emotions stored away in a well stacked, cemented facade.

It is in writing that conversations between God and I take place, it is where I discover my love for another - a love greater than ever realized in the hustle and bustle of the day to day. Here, my language is neither Spanish, English, nor Christianese, though it borrows from another it is a language of its own.  It is one that can only be deciphered with the eyes, understood with the mind and felt with the heart. Thoughts that time will not allow in instant conversation, writing does. To each his own. For the artist, his paintings bear the story, for the songwriter it is the song. For me, words will tell the story of the life that is, has been, and will be. 

Insecurities Nest

A well composed piece possesses great power over perception. Edited and polished, anything from words to photos can be positioned to replace reality but only for a short time. It is what PR professions are made of, what culture is composed of and what our hearts have all too often bought into. 

After a weekend of styled shoots, I took some time to review photos in effort to narrow down shots for a post. Scouring numerous times through the batch I found that every round uncovered a new layer of images flawed. Unseen by most and yet blazingly evident to me. The process of it was a reminder of how big a critic one can be of them self. It is the pursuit to preserve pride, one that emphatically proclaims - before anyone is to break me, I'll break myself first, before anyone drives the dagger through my soul, I - will give myself the fatal blow. So in pride's honor, where some find fashion inspiration in my personal style, I see a girl far from the bar of established and acclaimed fashionistas. Where others find beauty, I see inches of unwanted weight, blemished skin, uncooperative hair, beauty lacking and a list of insecurities that diligently wait at my bedside, greeting me every morning with much embrace. These thoughts are constant, relentless, nagging long enough to tear down the most secure walls of perceived confidence. How grave these accusations can be! Like a sea in the eye of a storm, overwhelming the soul down to its core. It was then that something in me snapped. Either I choose to swim with the current and ride culture's wave of a polished brand or fight against, rising to the occasion of exposing the truth and beauty of a flawed nature, brokenness in its many forms. 

I don't know who reads this blog. Statistics will never reveal faces, names, personalities and/or struggles. As far as I know you are but a number based on the analytics. But I know wherever you are, who ever you are, this message was intended for you. For you, I will choose to be unedited, unpolished and bare in these pages. Honest and open in my journey with hopes that you too can find beauty and voice against what culture and perfection demand. I too carry insecurities just as you do, do not be fooled, nor do I intend to fool you. On the contrary, here I fight against them, with every post published. That in documenting this journey I may look back on every single one of these pages as a mere reader, fall in love all over again, applying messages to my life that were originally granted to me to share.

Thank you, who ever you are.   

UN-Follow of The Heart

The heart, though sensible at times can often play the role of evil. Latching itself to stages and stories, both real and imagined, comforts, dreams and unattainable fairytales sold by the plots that once wooed our hearts as children. At times passionate, at times destructive, fiercely pursuing the poisons that we've freely accepted and embraced at the cost of our souls. Unfollow the heart for it is but a child, insisting on its selfish and blind cause one tantrum at a time. Unfollow the heart for it has no remedy outside of the workings of its chief mechanic, needing replacement rather than mending as we so often pray and wish for. Unfollow the heart for its paths are often darkened by impulsive behaviors, short sightedness, and lack of vision. Unfollow the heart unless it is broken, for brokenness dents irrationality and jars reality back into scope.

I followed my heart once, twice, three too many times - I'm sure you have too. And though the lessons accompanied by its many heartbreaks are ones I do not regret experiencing, the  hardest lesson of them all was the one that taught me to abandon its voice and allow for its replacement. 

Dare To Dream, Again

At the age of 22 the years of homework assignments, late night cramming sessions and tears shed over much despised calculus courses had come to an end. At last, I was an official college graduate. Armed with a bachelors degree in hand, I'd convinced myself that I was ready to take on the world having all but a clue of what it meant to put dreams to action. No less than two months later, after walking down the boastful aisle was I laid off from a part time job I absolutely hated but was regrettably paying the bills at the time. As I sobered up from an ironic meltdown consisting in tears of joy, sadness and fear, I began to realize, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to pursue a career to enjoy, than a job to miserably slave in. Fortunate for me I was introduced to an internship opportunity that set the pace for the following years to come. From cheerful unpaid internship season to seasons of desperation, I scored a part time position after a year and a half with the company, one that eventually led to a full time role within corporate, a process that took nearly 3 years.

Having had many aspirations for the future after graduation, the years of uncertainty that followed certainly had their effect on my confidence. If you're at all familiar with the job hunting process you would know it sucks. It's grueling, pride sucking, inflicting such a number on your hope ability that lays dreams to rest almost permanently. By the time you've reached an open door the opportunity presented is more than you could've asked for after years of unanswered emails & job queries. It is then that complacency and comfort looms over reality, opposing themselves to the dreams you once so delicately nurtured. It breaks you. Mistaking disappointment for the end, I buckled under pressure and ceased to dream of the future for it proved uncertain, uncontrollable, and worst of all, unattainable. Dreaming was child's play and settling for safe was better than enduring another beating. But what brokenness fails to reveal at its arrival is its intent to break barriers. It wasn't until recent conversation when prompted about my visions for the future that I was jolted to see my slump from an outside perspective.

Disappointment had its purpose; removing threads on the heart's safety net, tearing down roads of self reliance, leaving the soul striped like a blank canvas before its artist. The process refined such character in me that would otherwise never be carved in a state of dreams alone. In no way was I asked to abandon ship, though the circumstances at the time would've implied so. I was called to stand firm, to hope, to pray more than ever and above all persevere, for the end result would prove much greater than I could ever imagine. Today, I dare to dream again, and boldly. Not easy by any means, it takes discipline that I have yet to grasp, courage that I must learn to assume, and a daily decision to die to myself that is beyond human capacity but made possible through the love of One.

Dare to dream again, I dare you.


NYC to Philly

"Come down in 3" read the text as I waited for his arrival. Having only but a white jean stipulation and a 7:30 AM call time, the day was bound for an adventure, one he so cleverly kept under wraps for days. I set my sight to the street side from where he typically strolls to meet me, yet minutes had passed and there was no sign of him. Suddenly, like a chariot on wheels he arrived, surprising me with a road trip to Philadelphia for our one year anniversary. 

It was a celebration of firsts as we welcomed the second year with the first road trip to highlight our timelines. Far beyond the most evident causes for excitement, one first was clear for both of us, this trip would define forms of communication in ways we'd never experienced before. With beau behind the wheel, I was directing navigation and if there was ever a time to be more in sync, it was now. He needed me just as much as I needed him and not in a culturally unhealthy context. More than an escape from the NYC norm, it was an opportunity to venture outside of the realms of personal comfort. It was imperative that I become ever more sensitive to the state of another, insuring his ease over my own and without demands of reciprocity, knowing the same would be done onto me through the greater love that sustains and guides our existence. 

Regrettably, I don't drive - I don't even have a permit but surely enough the roles assigned were of no coincidence. They reveal areas in which God currently dabbles his healing touch, allowing each scenario to place emphasis on strengths and clarity over weaknesses, the facets of my acclaimed laxed persona were magnified. Though often serving as comfort to most, it bears much disdain for pressure. Under such state I am frazzled, shaken, impatient and hot tempered, here, change is not welcomed. But when there's no room for selfish inclination, a part of you is forced to relent, bearing life only to a willingness to sacrifice. Beyond the cheesesteaks, the memories, the unforgettable laughs, this day I will commemorate for the beautiful moments in which self came to die. I would do it hundred times over just to see that cross as clear as I did on this day. May year one be the first of many more to come. 

Take The Bench

I've never played a single sport in my entire life. As a matter of fact the only relationship I've ever held with sports were the injuries suffered while pacing along the side lines as I practiced dodging techniques for the sake of impressing crushes. And though far from an athlete, my competitive spirit has always made an appearance in the arena of the arts; music, fashion & design. Whether there's an event, photoshoot, project or the casual hangout, know that deep inside lies a prideful mini me with arms crossed saying "You Got Served". As embarrassing as that is to admit, I am a work in progress. But the interesting correlation between sports and life is one that sees no barrier in sports fans, resentful spectators nor innocent by standers. No experience can be more despairing and simultaneously humbling as the moment when you are benched. The anticipation of watching other players take the court by storm is nerve wrecking, it provokes anger and anxiety but after the rapid fire of emotions settle, there is something beautiful to take from being benched. From that bench, you are the audience instead of the player, the student instead of the teacher, the son or daughter instead of the parent. Long before you realized it, the bench was just what you needed to recharge, re-strategize, and renew. For once, being the spectator grants you access to the outer scope, allowing you to learn from the journey of those seizing the arena. 

I've been benched, all too many times. It is evident in months of dead blog air, evident in disappointments passed, evident in the struggle to dream after life's hurdles break the spirit. But for every season that I am forced to sit through the game, there is opportunity to step onto the court yet again, as a better player. Though pride will argue and insist it a loss, bury me in accusations for failing yet again, at the heart's core I know the bench was just what I prayed for. If you've been benched, take a seat, and take notes. When you're done fighting it, find where to grow from it.


Before our snowy brunch at Sweet Chick I surprised him with an unexpected twist in plans and made a stop at Make Meaning, a crafts spot where you can paint and create ceramics, canvases and even cakes. At first glance the shop seems more like a crafts version of a kid's Discovery Zone, with screaming children and parents surrounding the entry way but I promise you, normal adults without children go here (I looked it up!). I'll admit, the overwhelming amount of kids provoked some hesitation in my decision. Couldn't help but think, was it too much for a grown man to do crafts? I certainly didn't think so but if there was any lingering 'too cool for school' attitude in this boy's heart I was going to need a drink and fast, cause the nerves were real. 

Having decided to create a coaster we sorted through the glass pieces in efforts to put together a design that would best represent both our styles. For a moment I sat back and watched as he grew intense and intentional with his choices, wearing gloves too small for lumber jack hands and a beard too strong for an ax to break. I was enamored by the concentration. If he wasn't enjoying the date, he was certainly making efforts to make this coaster something amazing, subconsciously taking a back seat on design I observed his choices. Often comparing his to mine, I took notes on the differences in our aesthetics and sought to gain more understanding of his choices without requiring much words, just action. The simple thought of this coaster creation signifying more than a piece of glass blew me into a mental trance that kept me from diving into the process as more than a helper. Far from imprisonment, it was liberating to watch him take the lead. But with the existing doubt looming over my mind throughout the progression of the date, I ventured off for mental distraction and began piecing a whole new concept of colors to which he immediately questioned the intention. Though I couldn't see it then, his call for my intentions were beyond necessary. For a moment I had lost sight of the memory we were creating right then and there, together, with this simple coaster. The question was thought provoking, triggering behavioral, spiritual and emotional reflection. With so many years spent in self consumption and broken relationships the experiences had resulted in bad habits with tendencies to shut down and hide away in moments of inner panic but with a simple question or call for attention you are jarred out of the world where only you seem to exist. Inviting you to the meaning of coexistence, allowing another to shed light in the dungeons of the heart where no man has ever ventured before. And like that, a coaster was made, memories created and in all but a few seconds, life changed in the slightest matter.

Beyond scoring some major cool points on this day (which I did suckers!), piecing jagged glass edges and broken pieces onto a then blank canvas was an implication of the very fabric of our lives, knitted together by individual experience. We're all broken and somewhat jaded but never far from being made into a new and more wonderful piece of art.

The coaster turned out different than expected, looking like pieces of gum jammed between two melting sheets of glass but it was exactly what it needed to be, abstract, somewhat undone and yet beautifully done. Grown man doing crafts never made a girl so smitten.


As the sun sets over the horizon, peaking over the hills of Jersey, splattering rays over the clouds that hang above, I come alive at 5. Never in an anxious wait, my soul just seems to naturally awaken at its appearance. You can call me a sunset chaser but it wouldn't suffice, or maybe a nature beaver but I'm far from the like. More than observing its beauty for what it is, I wait to see its maker. For every day that sets, the art is unique, 365 paintings for 365 days. Splashing colors throughout the scape of the sky for a mere few minutes to enjoy.

In recent months I've been reading a book called Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge, describing the beautiful design and purpose of women. Highlighting one key point in the latest chapter of my reads, Stasi describes an instance in which her husband, John, walked across an vacant beach asking God to speak to him in some manner to which God responds with the sighting of a majestic whale hovering over the waters at a distance too close to shore. John, has always been described and is a self proclaimed nature beaver, a mountain climber that gets a kick out of all that exudes God's design throughout nature itself. Having heard this experience, Stasi then gets an opportunity to stroll across a vacant beach and begins to beg God for a whale of her own. To no avail, Stasi is left in silence, settling with the thought that her pleas were somewhat foolish, but only a few steps further into the beach she encounters a starfish. (FYI, In my familiar skeptical ways I quickly dismissed the flimsy fish as a sign of God's response while reading.) Pacing down a few steps farther she suddenly finds herself surrounded by thousands of starfish on the sand to which her heart is awakened by the realization that God had answered her pleas. The beauty of this was that God responded to both John and Stasi in a manner that spoke uniquely to each. While Stasi begged for a whale, it would not have been as special of a love letter as it was to John just as her starfish would not have impacted John in the same manner it did her.

In reading this, I so foolishly followed Stasi's suit, begging for a whale or a sign of His unique love for me. Quickly losing persistence in my plea I resorted to doubt, it was then he responded. Splattering pink rays over the clouds and melting my heart to a drip. 'HE LOVES ME!' It was evident in the sky's print that evening and even more so in the overwhelming joy that lingered over my skeptical heart, joy far from the short lived happiness of a shopping spree or a human wish granted. This was a love letter from the world's creator to me, an endearing kiss from a father to his daughter, a personal message from a personal God, one that cannot be encountered at arms length. So whether the sky is grey, blue, pink or stark white, I will come alive at 5 for the serenading and wooing of my soul has forever been in place, long before I ever came to acknowledge it.

In Total Abandonment

Would you believe me if I said that this past Saturday was my first official Valentines Day, ever? That in 26 years of life I have never quite experienced the fullness of this day. This may seem nauseating to those of you broken hearted, failed and dismayed but believe me, I was there not too long ago and I plead that you bear with me through this post for a chance to hope again.

Certainly there were the occasional cards, flowers, love letters and gifts in the past, many from admirers with unrequited love, crushes too shallow to seize a good dive and relationships with all too many roadmaps for a journey of little to no direction. I'd grown so detached from what was once a joyful crafts day in kindergarten that I couldn't quite bring myself to plan for the day. Past disappointments and fairytales unmet had made their mark on me and left me bitterly reluctant. Lucky for me he was planning. Diligent, researching for days and weeks on end, calculating time and details, for to him it was an opportunity to celebrate. Flowers at my door, chocolates for unfamiliar cocoa cravings and a day full of events from skating, shopping to dinner and more.

With morning seemingly riddled in disaster, hair was uncooperative, clothes were uninspiring, and time was running short. It wasn't until we arrived at the skating portion of the day that I started to see it unfold before my eyes. Not having stepped onto an iced rink in years, I grappled onto the edges like a roach on candy and watched as everyone skated by freely. After struggling through the first lap and a half something in me snapped and finally made a decision to step out in all my fear, departing from all safety. Truth be told, a much greater implication of insecurity was at hand than the fear of falling. It was the fear of losing control, trying and failing. Nothing seems to have more damage on a human's heart than the marks laid against their pride and I sure am prideful.

You will never have control over past heartbreaks, current failures, nor impending disappointments but with the brokenness will forever exist the flip side of happiness, hope, joy, freedom and experiencing such things can only come when you let go of the rails in total abandonment. I'd rather leap and hope to God that he catches me on the way down than stare from the edges of the mountain dreaming, hoping, never having taken the risk of abandoning the hauntings of 'what if?' 

I skated, fell and got back up. It was then I understood, only love so true, so pure from the source could dare one to be so free.

Last Cup Of Red Wine

Sipping my first cup of red wine, enjoying a catch up meet of couples, there came the infamous and necessary question of 'Where do you see the blog going?' Nothing can make me cringe more than the question of the unseen, the 'where do you see yourself in 5 years?' questions, the ones that require much more thought and depth, the ones that make your brain wish it could self destruct on command. At this very moment red wine seemed like a wonderful parting gift as I pleaded with God to let the earth swallow me whole from where I sat. Truth is, when the answer to such question has yet to be defined, the feeling of being stumped with yourself can cause some major frustration. 

I couldn't offer an answer even if I wanted to. Not knowing its full purpose or what exactly I wanted it to become. For so long I'd held on to an idea whose original intent had changed without much notice or warning and finding myself at a fork in the road, I chose what seemed like the best guess. Lets talk forgiveness, without much fashion (phase 1). How about more fashion and die down on love (phase 2). But the evidence of its purpose has always been there, written in the very tag line of 'Fashion. Love. Forgiveness'. I didn't know it then when I first decided on this but the tag would forever be the reminder pointing my heart north. It's difficult to speak on what you do not know. Fashion, I admire but personal style remains of personal impact. Love remains a myth so long as my belief is tainted with conditions and past experiences. Forgiveness is far if you have yet to fully understand, experience and believe that you have been granted such gifts freely. The question seemed like the death of me but in reality it was the death to my facade and the rebirth of a true story.

Where do I see the blog going? I see it becoming a writer's hub, pages of my pursuit to find God's print and love across chapters of my life. A diary of reminders that He takes interest in me (and in you) and the very things that uniquely speak to you from the inspirations, food experiences, fashion, music, sunsets, conversations and more. It will be a recordings of the love letters He's drafted and splattered across the sky. I've got nothing more precious to share than the love story being written over my heart daily, why not share that?