Slow Notes 04

August and September 2025 in review—and a few recommendations and prompts for you.

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👋 Notes on August and September

I don’t need a permission slip, but I have one. It was given to me across time, space, and pixels from a dear friend who mentioned I’m “good at the internet” and then, in the same breath, released me from any obligation to show up here.

It’s funny to receive that validation and reminder, given the nature of Slow Stories and my work as a whole. Speaking of work, it’s the word I would choose to describe this year, particularly the last couple of months: working to make a living, as we all have to do, but also working towards some kind of understanding about being in the world at this critical moment.

For that reason, August was a mess of feelings: floods of nostalgia, craters of anger; truly, the depths of despair. Luckily, September, as it does for many, marked a turning point—with narratives about other ways of living, found in Annika Norlin’s The Colony, and outdated ways of working, shown in Beatriz Serrano’s Discontent.

It was interesting to read these novels in succession. (There’s nuance to these stories, but essentially, both protagonists are burnt out and yearning for something… else.) Norlin’s city-dwelling Emelie is a journalist who, after a breakdown, escapes to the woods and stumbles upon a group that’s turned away from societal conventions. Eventually, Emelie’s direct encounter with them reveals a shared need for connection, no matter what end of the spectrum we find ourselves on. As Norlin writes:

“I noticed I could no longer rank the different ways [of living], and I had an aha moment about myself: who is truly the loneliest, someone who lives far out in the middle of nowhere but is lumped together with people, or someone who interacts with hundreds of people every day but refuses to let anyone under their skin.”

Similarly, Serrano’s Marisa grits her teeth (and pops anti-anxiety medication) while navigating the insidious nature of advertising agency culture. She puts in the bare minimum, enjoys the numbing effect of scrolling YouTube, and visits the Prado Museum searching for signs in her favorite triptych. Her fragile connections with colleagues, family, and friends highlight the emotional work of maintaining our humanity in an age that increasingly renders us isolated and disillusioned.

With humor, honesty, and heart, both novels pull at the root of modern living and ask us to consider: What do we work towards when nearly everything around us is no longer working?

Not long after reading, I was reminded of a moment at the start of my career. I’d (accidentally) founded a fashion Tumblr-turned-boutique content company at age eighteen, which ended up being a defining milestone in my early twenties—and laid the foundation for much of the work I do now (read: interviewing incredible creative people). Looking back, I recognize the youthful influence on some of my standard questions, one example being: How would you advise the next generation to leave an imprint on the world, simply by doing what they love?

It’s something worth asking, yet I recall those on the receiving end gracefully telling me that “doing what you love” mostly isn’t enough. I knew that deep down, but I think I still wanted assurance that passion equated to a forward trajectory; that it could offset a kind of pain. As Serrano writes:

“I think about pretense: about the things we do to feel other things. Wake up, shower, get dressed and ready, fantasizing that maybe today will be different. I wonder if faking could end in real feeling. I wonder if, deep down, everyone isn’t just as desperate to feel something else: the void in your stomach the first time you go on a rollercoaster, the warmth you feel when you return home after a few weeks away. I remember that feeling. It must be somewhere.”

There’s arguably no concrete “happy ending” in either of the novels, just continuation. More choices to make. (Isn’t that true of most stories?)

For me, that’s what this season underscores—offers—both on and off the page: It’s a permission slip to choose something else amid the changing colors. To log off or go deeper. To move on from things that no longer serve us. To do what we can, and try to love (while) doing it. To trust that what and who we leave can still matter to us, even with distance, and perhaps come back in ways we never imagined.

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Transitional Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Aperçu Alyssa Sunglasses in Vintage Tort - EILEEN FISHER Washed Organic Cotton Poplin Classic Collar Long Shirt- Loeffler Randall Ken Shirt* - Loeffler Randall Landon Espresso Ballet Flat* - Madewell Darted Barrel Leg Jean - Madewell Greta Ballet Flat in Chocolate Raisin - Salter House Wendy Skirt - Sézane Mara Bag - Sézane Nine Shirt* -

Stories

The Colony by Annika Norlin* - Discipline by Larissa Pham* - Discontent by Beatriz Serrano* - Maggie by Katie Yee

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

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Slow Scenes

A few scenes that especially slowed me down in August and September…

💭 Wandering through the marvelous Dia Beacon

🌞 Enjoying beautiful mornings at INNESS

🖌️ Visiting one of my favorite Leanne Shapton paintings at Picture Room

📚 Admiring the shelves (and latest show) at Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery (“A Shared Scaffolding” is on view through November 1st)

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Fall Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider in honor of autumn’s arrival…

🍂 What are you working on—and towards—this season?

👁️ Consider how your daydreams overlap with what’s capturing your daily attention.

🌆 Reflect on something or someone you’re currently saying goodbye to.

📗 Write a short story with August and September as the main characters.

💭 What does a transition look and feel like in this current chapter of your life?

August and September in Notes 👋

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For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll: