The World is Ending Again and the Kids Will Be Alright
Yesterday, in an emo flurry of emotions, I came across a man crying on the internet. His tears were a real time emotional metamorphosis from deep grief to gratitude.
This internet man had a brother named Sam who lost his life to suicide 5 years prior, and through the grief, he managed to create a website called Reasons to Stay. I kind of fell apart as I wrote my little encouragement to a stranger on the internet.
I was an anonymous pen pal in a world where every action, from the breakfast we eat to the colors we choose, seems to be coated in a filter of branding, selling, and becoming a product.
Before this moment of crumpling under it all, there was (and is) a life of growing my own freelance social media management business after years of working at the rock climbing gym. This was my chance, and I couldn’t mess it up.
And then I ended up faltering, over-promising to clients, rushing things, and putting insane pressure on myself. The competitive athlete in my bones was creating high expectations for myself that no one else knew I was setting. This is my default mode. NOT conducive to creativity.
People are dying in our streets, and protestors are not getting due process. Everyone’s pointing fingers, choosing sides, missing the point, yelling louder in their echo chambers.
The pressure I placed on my work grew heavier, especially my social media work for Protest! A book being released soon. It’s a book born from the increasing threats to protest, a historical log of successful and inspirational marches that moved to make the world a more equitable place. I started this work before the first No King’s protest in 2025, and it has never felt more resonant as the days go on.
At night, my dreams began to fill with tasks, flashing between violent and overly positive images; as I slept, I was trying to find a steady voice in the sea of slop that is social media.
The love-hate relationship we all have with socials is nothing new. But the things we know in theory can still trick us, suck us in, eat us alive. For me, my analysis paralysis finally came to a head, and I need a way to come back home to myself without completely shutting the world out.
I knew I needed an outlet that was quieter, less likely for my mom to read, more likely (ideally) to attract thoughtful, reader types that ponder similar things.
My intention for this blog is to continue fertilizing my curiosities without the noise that other platforms seem to have. To take the muck, the pain, the nasty stuff, and to make it into something coherent, real, a catalog of influences, thoughts, growing pains, etc.
I’ve had a blog before, and it took a lot of personal work to get it off the ground. It started with the Artist’s Way, and then seeking out what I wanted to write about. Carving out time for exploration was no easy feat in our productivity-obsessed culture.
So here’s to exercising my creativity and critical thinking muscle: this blog is my gym and my job is to ease my way back into it all after years of atrophy. I intend to write one post each week for the next month and check in with myself to see how I feel after doing this. I am declaring it here for accountability.
I’ll be mostly writing about my journey of nurturing my inner artist, and the fixations that got me there, whether that is exploring nature, design, nonfiction books, or articulating my own existential dread. If any of this resonates, I’d love for you to follow along. It is an incredible gift to have your time and attention. Thank you for being here.
In community,
Margarita
PS: The following letter touches on mental health and survival.
Here’s the letter to a stranger I wrote in case you needed some encouragement today:
Hi stranger. Today was heavy. I tried to do everything I could today to take care of myself, but it didn't shake the feelings of dread, disconnection, this feeling that I'm floating in a sea with nothing to grasp onto.
I found this site and started to recount the one time in 2019 that I was admitted to an inpatient facility because I felt dangerous to myself. During that time, I had met someone, a truly incredible human that I now get to call my partner of 6 years and counting. I didn't know it at the time, but if I hadn't decided to continue, I would have never gotten to experience our beautiful life. We have chickens, a garden, a community, and each other.
Not all days are easy, but on most days now, after years of therapy and finding hobbies that feed my soul, I feel like myself again. My appetite is back, I have my coping mechanisms, and when those don't work, I let myself rest and return with more kindness for my person, for my chickens, for the garden that needs tending, for my dog that needs love and care. If you can't do it for yourself, do it to make the world a more beautiful place, even if those things are small. Maybe, those things will eventually bring you back home to yourself. I love you.
