Slow Notes 14
July 2026 in review—and a few recommendations and prompts for you.
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👋 Notes on July
The operating room looked like something out of a movie. I didn’t have as much time as I expected to take it all in before a team of doctors began prepping for the hours ahead. The anesthesiologist first positioned each of my arms on either side of my body, and soon I was splayed across the operating table like the man on the cross. This sense of intimacy was further underscored when the incredibly kind surgeon took my hand.
“What are you looking forward to the most when all of this is over?” she asked brightly.
Despite the fact that it was an outpatient surgery, it’d been well-established how panicked I was by the entire ordeal, but I was thankful for her bedside manner. “A glass of water,” I replied, noting that my mouth felt like sandpaper from fasting while also thinking these better not be my last words.
She smiled and squeezed my hand tighter. “Dream bigger, girl! What else?”
What else? What else is there to say as a mask is placed over your face and you breathe in a substance that almost instantly puts your body on airplane mode? What else could I tell her about my anxieties? (The night before, unable to sleep and writhing in discomfort from the pre-op medication, I wrote a haphazard “will” in my Notes app—just in case.) What else could I share about the dreams that kept my mind busy when my body grounded me to a halt? What else could I do but smile politely before darkness enveloped the space?
···
A few weeks before the procedure, I found myself in a different kind of liminal state. I’d just finished the first draft of my novel—a quiet triumph after three years of toiling. Night tipped towards morning and the apartment was shrouded in sleep, save for my rabbit Pepper munching on a few strands of hay. I stared at the blinking cursor and listened to her rapid chewing under the moon-like glow of my laptop screen. My mind and body were humming, which I attributed to the symptoms that ultimately led to needing medical intervention in the first place. Yet even when my physical condition stopped me from showing up in the world the way I wanted to, I never let it stop me from nurturing the one inside my imagination.
I’m not at the point where I can tell you what I’ve learned about writing a novel—that work is just beginning. But I can tell you about cultivating a body and a body of work. About the stamina that’s required to tend to both of those things without losing yourself in the process. Though if I’m being honest, recent months have proven to be just as taxing creatively as they have physically: It turns out imitation isn’t the sincerest form of flattery, time doesn’t heal all wounds, and, in some ways, reciprocity has become synonymous with transaction.
Put simply, after fifteen years of continuous hard work, I began to feel dismissed. But then I returned to a recent letter from my grandmother, an artist and confidante, who reminded me of something true: “Nothing seems to be gained in life without a lot of hard work beforehand, and that means letting go as much as holding on. It is hard work, yes, but it is good work.”
I went back and forth on whether or not to share the specifics of my disheartening discoveries for fear of being misunderstood or cast out. (After all, they’re only a fraction of my story and don’t diminish all of the good and community that’s come from my efforts—but when everything compounds, it can feel overwhelming.) I wrote them here again and again, and, for a moment, it felt satisfying. But every stroke of the delete key became a form of healing. With each draft, I slowly let my anger go.
Here’s what I’ll say instead: In my post-op stillness, I recognized that sitting with the exhaustion of making things in this chaotic landscape—while trying to release what I can’t control—offered a renewed exercise in perspective. Trust. I have to trust that bumps in the road don’t necessarily signal a wrong turn. That I will achieve some sort of equilibrium again. That doing the work, despite the demands of capitalism, is still worth it. That the right people are usually right there with me. That putting myself in a position to be cared for (and be vulnerable) is allowed.
Most importantly, I have to trust in my continued ability to recover, both physically and creatively. And I do. In fact, writing this letter reminded me of something I wrote in Slowing:
“With enough willingness, I’ve started to remember that when I’m doubled over in anguish—waiting for the pain, fear, or despair to pass—there will come a time when I have the capacity to be doubled over laughing instead. For now, I let seasons remind me that time passes, and everything changes. I let nature show me our ability to heal after hurting. I let green grass and little moments of connection move me until I’m back in my body and know that something extraordinary is still possible—until I smile. I prescribe myself patience and hope for the best.”
···
In the recovery area, I awoke to heated blankets and tentacle-like wires snaking around my limbs. My husband wore an expression somewhere between worry and relief. The surgery ended up being longer than anticipated, and more of what needed to be removed was found. It’s too soon to tell if I feel better or just different, but I’ve come to understand that those things sometimes look the same.
I’ve also taken this lesson to the page.
As of this month, my novel is in the hands of trusted readers—friends. I’ve released the reins and opened myself to another type of operation: an excavation of the heart, a journey through the draft’s tissues and bones. It’s a strange sensation to feel a lifelong desire take shape while your insides rearrange the days. But I’m upright now and on the mend—dreaming bigger—which is another way of saying that I’m grateful to have made it to the other side.
July Essentials
The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…
Style
Aperçu Alyssa Sunglasses in Vintage Tort - Daunt Books Tote - DÔEN Sebastiane Skirt -Donni Pop Drawstring Cargo Pants - Donni Pop Boxer - J.Crew Pointelle T-Shirt - Jamie Haller Ballet Flats - Jamie Haller Bit Loafers - Loeffler Randall Leonie Wine Woven Ballet Flat - Madewell Greta Ballet Flats - Madewell Signature Woven Tote - Merlette Paradis Dress - RUMORED Olive Grove Mini Dress* - RUMORED Teacup Mini Dress* - RUMORED Willow Mini Dress* -Rouje Ilaria Skirt - Sézane Alcyone Shirt* - Sézane Leonie Bag* - Sézane Maia Basket Bag - Sézane Paula Babies -Warby Parker Carmel Sunglasses
Stories
Kitten by Stacey Yu*
“I took something from my mother by being born, both her youth and her future, and every day it became harder to give it back.”
A heartbreaking and life-affirming debut featuring an unforgettable narrator—and her unlikely companion. With careful prose, Stacey Yu crafts a painfully honest portrait of early adulthood that asks us to consider how much we’ll let the past deter us from claiming (or at least considering) our futures. I’ve followed Yu’s book recommendations for years, and her discerning sensibility was present in every detail of Kitten. (I was also thrilled to have her share some life chapters and slow stories here.) Make sure to pre-order a copy or pick one up at your local indie on August 4th!
*KINDLY GIFTED
July Details
A few scenes that especially slowed me down this month…
〰️ Hanging at home with Pepper
〰️ Enjoying golden hour strolls in the neighborhood
〰️ Admiring the swans in Prospect Park
July Prompts
A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…
🤝 What are you learning to trust again?
❕ What is your relationship with (creative) control?
🌞 What slow summer moments will you remember from this year?
⚪ What have you (positively) let go of recently? What came in its place?
💭 What questions do you hope to answer by the end of the season?
July in Notes 👋
For Your Next Chapter
If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…
