And I love a nature walk. A time to take in my surroundings & see the season unfold.

The interesting thing about this time of year, at least here in the Midwest, is how uneven it all is. You’ll see trees & plants in full bloom. I’m talking rich, luscious, healthy displays of color. They’re fully in their “I’m IT” era.

And then right across the street, you’ll find trees that are barely getting started. A few buds here & there. Sparse, meager-looking, easy to overlook, & not much to draw the eye in.

Seeing that visual made me think of my friend group.

We’re all in our mid-30s, & many of us are in seasons of growth & expansion. Couples are pregnant or have a baby crawling around. Homes are being expanded, renovated, or fully reimagined. Careers are taking off: promotions, new roles, bigger responsibilities. And in between all of that, there are trips being planned, passports getting stamped, group chats buzzing about weddings, baby showers, & where everyone’s headed next.

There’s a very visible sense of forward movement. Life is playing out, loudly & beautifully, & in ways that are easy to point to & say, yes, this is progress.

Then… there’s me.

I won’t say I’m the only one, but I’m definitely in the minority whose life looks a bit different right now. There’s no baby on the way. No life partner. No clearly defined career path at the moment. And sure, I could look at that & say, damn… my life isn’t moving the way it’s supposed to.

But that wouldn’t be true. And honestly, it wouldn’t be fair.

Because the more I sat with it, the more I realized: our lives, no matter how close they may look from the outside, are entirely our own.

What’s meant for you will find you. What’s meant for me will find me. And it will unfold at a pace & in a timing that is uniquely ours.

And if I’m keeping it a hunnid*, internally, I’ve never been better. I feel at peace. I feel happy. I feel content with my life & the decisions I’ve made. And sometimes… that doesn’t line up with what’s visible on the outside.

There’s a quiet beauty in that. Because not everything that’s growing is obvious. Not everything that’s blooming looks loud or impressive or even “on time.” Some things are happening beneath the surface, in ways that don’t need comparison to be valid.

So if you’ve been looking around lately & wondering where you stand in relation to everyone else…

This one’s for you.

*keeping it a hunnid, AAVE for honest or completely genuine

Dear You,

It happens so quickly. You look up for a moment, & suddenly you’re measuring…

Where someone else is. What they’ve done. How far they’ve come. And without even realizing it, your own life starts to feel smaller in comparison. You look to the left & someone seems ahead. You look to the right & someone seems behind. And somehow, you end up right in the middle, questioning where you’re supposed to be. But your life was never meant to be understood that way.

There isn’t a single timeline we’re all moving along. There isn’t a shared clock keeping score. The idea of being “ahead” or “behind” only exists when you step outside of your own path & try to place yourself on someone else’s.

And of course, it will feel off when you do.

Because your life is not meant to mirror theirs. Your timing is not meant to match theirs. Your unfolding will not look like anything you can compare it to.

You are building something that can only be built at your pace, through your experiences, in your own way. And comparison has a way of pulling you out of that. It makes you forget what’s already working, growing, & uniquely yours. It makes you overlook your own life.

Ask yourself:

• Where have I been comparing instead of noticing what’s mine?

• What would shift if I stayed rooted in my own path?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You are not behind. You are not ahead. You are in your life.

And that is the only place you’re meant to be.

With you, right where you are,

Kasim

And I haven’t found myself here in a forced, hyper-aware, “I’m practicing mindfulness” kind of way… just in a quieter, more natural way that I don’t think I’ve experienced like this before.

I quite literally took the phrase stop & smell the flowers to heart this week. I spent an entire afternoon in my backyard picking dandelions, washing them, & prepping them for a dandelion honey & tincture. Four hours of just being outside, hands moving, no rush to get to the next thing.

And it hasn’t just been outside. I’ve started to feel that same pull toward my home. I’ve owned my house for two years now, but recently I’ve been pouring into it in a way I haven’t before. I spent four full days organizing the garage, opening every cabinet, every drawer, every compartment. It was quite the undertaking, but I did it because I wanted to. Because I was there, & it felt good to care for something that’s mine.

There’s something about that.

About being in a place where you’re not trying to get somewhere else. Where you’re not rushing ahead or trying to fix something behind you. Just… being where you are.

And it’s made me realize how much freedom exists in the present. It’s the only place where you actually get to live. The past can inform you, sure, but it doesn’t have to follow you around.

So if you’ve been spending a little too much time looking back, this one might meet you where you are.

Dear You,

I know what it’s like to live inside the rewind button…

You may notice how easily your mind drifts backward. Revisiting conversations, choices, & moments you wish had unfolded differently. Regret can feel like quicksand, pulling you back into what’s already gone.

Sometimes it’s easier to stay stuck in memory than to face the uncertainty of what comes next.

Maybe you carry conversations you wish had ended differently. Maybe you hold onto choices you’d undo if you could. The past feels safe because it is familiar, but familiar isn’t the same as free. You deserve more than to keep circling the same memory, aching for it to change. The past is not a place you are meant to live. It is a teacher, not a prison.

You are allowed to take its lessons & step forward.

You are allowed to forgive yourself.

You are allowed to begin again.

Ask yourself:

• What am I still carrying that no longer belongs to me?

• Which story from my past am I ready to release, even if just a little?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You are not your mistakes. You are not your regrets. You are more than your memories, & you are still capable of new beginnings.

With you in the release,

Kasim

Reading that line back now makes me sad for the person I once was. Not in a judgmental way, but in a way that feels compassionate.

I was someone who genuinely believed they needed to be productive, to be chosen, to yield certain outcomes in order to feel good about themselves. I was someone who didn’t yet know that simply existing could be enough.

I remember how hard it was for me to sleep at night when a social media post tanked. How quickly my mind would start racing, replaying every detail, trying to figure out what I did wrong or what I could have done better. It never really felt neutral. It always felt like it meant something about me. If a brand declined me for a campaign, it wasn’t just a “no,” it felt like rejection.

But that pattern didn’t start there.

It showed up in school, where I pushed myself to be a straight A student, not just because I cared, but because I wanted to make my parents proud. It showed up in my friendships, where I kept the heavier parts of myself tucked away so I wouldn’t be seen as a burden or “too much.” I learned early on how to be easy, how to be palatable, how to be the version of myself that didn’t cause concern.

So by the time I got to social media, that wiring was already there.

And the tricky part is, none of this felt extreme at the time. It just felt normal. It was my baseline for operations. It felt like the cost of caring, the cost of ambition, the cost of building something in public. But looking back, I can see how much of my identity was tied up in how my “brand” performed & how well it was received.

I didn’t realize how much power I had handed over to things that were never fully within my control. Because when everything outside of you is constantly shifting, you end up shifting with it.

Your confidence rises & falls with numbers, with feedback, with opportunities. And over time, you start to forget what you feel like without all of that.

But now, I can say this proudly, authentically, & with my whole damn chest: my worth is unconditional.

And I don’t say that from some perfectly stable, everything-is-figured-out place with a dream body & a pocketbook that is bursting at the seams. I’m saying that as I sit here writing this, with no job, no significant external indicators of success, & a quickly dwindling emergency fund. If we’re measuring things by traditional standards, this is probably the part where I’m supposed to feel uncertain about myself, perhaps even a little shaken.

But I don’t. And that, more than anything, has been surprising.

I am still worthy.

Not because I’ve replaced one form of validation with another. Not because I’ve figured everything out. But because I’ve finally started to understand that my worth was never supposed to be tied to those things in the first place.

My worth doesn’t have to be earned.

It doesn’t need to be negotiated. It doesn’t require proof or validation. Simply because I exist, I am worthy. That’s it. That’s the full sentence. No asterisk. No fine print.

And no matter who you are, I want you to know that too. Maybe you’re a friend reading this, maybe you’re someone I’ve never met. It truly doesn’t matter. It truly does *not* matter.

You are an individual. No one can do things the way that you do them. No one’s mind works the way yours does. The way you think, the way you process, the way you move through the world is entirely your own. Even the things you second guess, even the parts you wish were different, they are still part of what makes you, you.

You are uniquely you.

And you are so very worthy. If you needed that reminder, this letter is written for you.

Dear You,

There are days when the voice inside whispers that you are not enough.

Not accomplished enough, not lovable enough, not beautiful enough, not worthy of being chosen. That voice can be relentless, convincing you that your value must be earned, proved, or justified.

But here is the truth:

Not because of your achievements. Not because of how well you perform. Not because of who notices you.

Your worth is not conditional. It is woven into your being.

You are not a problem to solve or a project to complete. You are already whole. Already enough.

Ask yourself:

• What practices remind me of my inherent value?

• How can I anchor myself in the truth that worth cannot be lost?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You are not defined by the measuring sticks of others. You are not lesser because you question your value. You are, & always will be, enough.

With you in your enoughness,

Kasim

It came from a time in my life when I thought I had carefully set down most of my performative tendencies. I believed I was finally moving through the world in my most authentic skin. Or at least… I thought I was.

But the wild thing about pretending for so long, about holding a smile long after it should have dropped, is that you don’t always recognize where the performance ends & you begin.

The most superficial layers were obvious. The easy ones. The things you can quickly point to & say, “yeah… that’s not really me.”

But there are deeper things woven in there too. Behaviors that have become so ingrained you don’t even clock them at first. And then one day you catch yourself doing something & think, well shit… I didn’t even realize that was part of the act.

Being “on” all the time has that effect on you.

It fogs things up a little. Makes the line between the performance & the person a little blurrier than you’d like to admit.

And then slowly, very slowly—painfully so, you start finding your way back to yourself.

When you get even a glimpse of that real version of you, the one that isn’t trying to keep the room entertained, the one that isn’t hustling for approval or productivity points, something clicks.

You realize you don’t have to be on all the time.
You don’t have to be the funniest one in the room.
You don’t have to prove your worth through constant motion.

And believe it or not… that’s enough.

We’re whole a$$ human beings with depth & complexity and contradictions. Why spend all that time performing something we’re not?

This letter is for anyone who is over the theatrics. Whether that performance shows up in small ways, like saying yes when you really want to say no, or in heavier ones, like telling people you’re fine when you’re quietly falling apart.

Now, before we get into this week’s letter, I do have one small piece of housekeeping.

After this week, TWYN will become a once-per-week ritual. Over the past year, I’ve had a surprising amount of time on my hands, which has allowed me to write these letters frequently. Something tells me that season of spaciousness is about to change & change fast.

Moving forward, TWYN letters will be available in full to paid subscribers, while free subscribers will receive the weekly intro.

Whether you’re contributing a few dollars a month or simply showing up as a reader, please know how deeply I appreciate the support. I launched the digital TWYN archive in December of 2025 & the in-person installation in April 2025. We’re coming up on a year of this project existing in the world.

Which feels kind of wild to say out loud.

So… onto the letter.

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The quiet kind of hesitation that shows up right before you begin something new. It’s not panic. And it’s definitely not dread.

Just that subtle voice that says, maybe wait a little longer.

I then decide that I should wait until things feel clearer. Once I reach a certain level of clarity, then I can proceed; with more information & variables accounted for, I can make the ‘best’ decision.

If I’m honest, that voice & I go way back.

For most of my adult life, I’ve approached things with what I believed was thoughtful intention & preparation. In reality, it was often just control wearing a very convincing disguise.

I liked having a sense of the path before I started walking it. I liked knowing what I was getting into. From hobbies to career decisions, I’ve spent years trying to anticipate outcomes before allowing myself to begin. At the time, it felt responsible.

Looking back, it was also a little suffocating.

This past year has been the first time in ages where I can remember letting myself start things without that level of certainty. It began with small things. Curious things. I started making little home goods just to see what would happen. I perfected a night lip balm which somehow turned into a small tradition of gifting friends handmade cosmetics & even custom birthday candles.

I started making collagen cubes for soups, stocks, & occasionally dropping them into my coffee like some kind of kitchen alchemist. I recently tried my hand at metalworking—or something adjacent to it—after finding an old engraved bracelet at a thrift store & spending an afternoon sanding & reshaping it into something sleeker.

None of these things began with expertise. They began with a choice.

The same kind of choice that led me to walk away from the career I spent ten years building & step into something I knew almost nothing about. There wasn’t a dramatic moment where everything suddenly made sense. No lightning bolt of certainty. Just a quiet decision that I wanted to try. And somehow, that became enough.

Which brings me back to this week & that familiar hesitation.

The next thing sitting in front of me isn’t a hobby or a small experiment. It’s the production of my next short film, Picture Perfect. I’ve submitted applications to grants, accelerator programs, & just about every opportunity that might help bring it to life. Part of me keeps thinking the responsible thing to do is pause until someone says yes. Wait for the green light. Wait for confirmation that the timing is right.

But the truth is, I still get to choose to begin.

Even if the grants don’t come through. Even if the accelerators pass. Even if the path forward is unclear.

And if you’ve been sitting on something—be it a project, a dream, a pivot—wondering whether you’re ready yet, this letter is for you.

Dear You,

I know how convincing the voice of “not yet” can be.

It tells you that you need a little more clarity first. A better plan. More preparation. Maybe a bit more confidence. Just a few more pieces in place before you finally begin.

And so you wait.

You wait for the right timing, the right circumstances, the right version of yourself to show up. The one who feels ready, capable, & certain about what comes next.

But the truth is, that version of you rarely arrives before the first step.

Many of us learn to believe we need everything aligned before we begin. The plan mapped out. The outcome understood. The risk minimized. It feels safer that way.

But starting rarely looks the way we imagine it will.

It’s most often messy. Incomplete. Uncertain. You may not know what you’re doing yet. You may feel awkward or exposed or unsure of yourself. That doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It usually means you’ve stepped into something new.

It’s about deciding that the unknown is no longer a reason to stay still. Sometimes, the only thing you need is the willingness to try before you feel fully ready.

You may discover that courage doesn’t show up before the beginning.

It grows because of it.

With you in the first step,

Kasim

No really. I’m serious.

Give me the next thirty seconds. That’s it.

Wherever you are right now—sitting, standing, hunched over your phone or laptop— just return to your body for a moment. Try to release whatever was running through your mind before you opened this. The to-do list. The thing you forgot to respond to. The thing you’re already worrying about for later today.

Give yourself just five seconds of calm. No more, no less… especially no less.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Full, deep breaths.

Next, ask yourself: how am I doing? Allow whatever answer to bubble up & set it aside, just until you get through the rest of this week’s Substack.

Now answer this honestly:

Not five minutes, not a meditation app, & not a yoga class. Just a few intentional seconds where you actually paused & checked in with …

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Certainty.
Precision.
Control.

Those have been my north stars for as long as I can remember. How much can I plan? How much can I anticipate? What variables can I eliminate so the outcome bends in my favor?

Preparation felt like protection & control felt like safety. If I could foresee it, I could survive it. If I could manage it, I wouldn’t be blindsided. And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

Lately, I’ve been watching more TV than usual. Not “avoid your responsibilities” levels, but enough to notice patterns. One to three episodes a day; a respectable binge, if I do say so myself. My current rotation? The Bear & Being Mary Jane.

Two very different worlds. One chaotic kitchen in Chicago. One polished newsroom & personal life in Atlanta. But both protagonists share something familiar: they are gripping tightly to the version of life they believe is best. Managing, orchestrating & overcorrecting. Trying to bend outcomes through sheer will.

Sound familiar?

There’s a scene in the final episode of season two of The Bear—slight spoiler, but stay with me—where the protagonist gets locked inside the walk-in refrigerator during a chaotic but critically important service: Friends & Family night. The handle of the fridge breaks. He cannot intervene. Cannot direct. Cannot fix. He has to sit there, trapped in the cold, listening to the noise outside, forced to trust that his team will carry it.

For someone who thrives on control, that’s torture.

And yet… things don’t implode.

They adjust & survive without him micromanaging every detail. At least that’s where I stopped in the episode.

That struck something in me.

Because sometimes letting go isn’t about quitting. It isn’t about giving up. It isn’t about irresponsibility. Sometimes it’s about accepting that white-knuckling your way through life is exhausting.

I know this intimately.

There are things in my own life I’ve held onto long past their expiration date. Not because they were right, but because they were predictable & familiar.

And familiar, even when uncomfortable, can feel safer than unknown.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself different questions:

What if uncertainty isn’t the threat I’ve made it out to be?

What if unclenching doesn’t mean collapse?

This letter was born from that tension.

If you’re gripping something tightly right now, whether it be a role, a relationship, an identity, a plan, a behavior, & you know in your body that it no longer fits, this one’s for you.

Dear You,

There’s something you’ve been holding onto that doesn’t feel right anymore.

Maybe it hasn’t felt right for a while.

But it’s familiar, & familiar has a strange kind of comfort to it… even when it hurts.

Sometimes we stay because we know how to survive there. We know the rules, patterns, & how to brace ourselves. The unknown, on the other hand, feels wide & uncontained. And if you’ve ever felt out of control before, you know how scary that can be…

So you grip tighter.

You tell yourself it’s not that bad. You say you just need to try harder. Adjust more. Be more patient. Be less sensitive. You convince yourself that letting go would be dramatic, irresponsible, or selfish.

But what if it’s none of those things? What if letting go is simply admitting the truth?

That something has run its course. That you’ve outgrown a room you once needed. That the version of you who could survive there isn’t the version of you who wants to keep living there.

I know the unknown can feel like standing at the edge of a bottomless dark pit. But sometimes that edge is the doorway.

Sometimes what feels like loss is just space clearing.

Ask yourself:

• If I’m honest, what am I tired of carrying?

• What would change if I stopped trying to force this to work?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You don’t have to burn everything down. But maybe you can start by unclenching your hands.

There is something gentler waiting on the other side of that.

Remember that.

With you in your surrendering,

Kasim

I observed my reflection a bit longer than usual.

At first, I noticed what was physically present. A few more stubborn gray hairs in my beard. I swear, when I pull one, five grow back to replace it. A head full of tight, thick black curls now, in contrast to the short, low fade I grew accustomed to. The kind of change you don’t notice all at once. It just accumulates quietly.

But past the surface, I saw something else.

An energetic difference.

My face was carrying less tension. There was a softness around my mouth that I don’t remember seeing before. My eyes weren’t guarded or jaded. They were bright. Not in the naive sense. Just lighter. Like something heavy had finally been set down.

And I realized that this past year didn’t just change my circumst…

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If you’re scratching your head at “unbecoming,” plainly put, it’s the deliberate choice to release an old identity so that something more honest can live. It’s the heartbeat of my first short film, The UNBecoming, where that internal shift is brought to life through metaphor & imagery.

We’ll unpack that more in a moment.

But first, let me tell you about the last 48 hours I spent in Gary, Indiana.

When I pulled into the frigid city of Gary, the sky felt heavy & low. The kind of gray that flattens everything. Wind cutting across open lots. Empty buildings standing like quiet witnesses to a different era. I remember gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter, scanning my surroundings without meaning to. Not scared. Just alert.

The only thing I knew about Gary before arriving was that I had been selected for the Bill Johnson Film Festival. That & a passing mention of a song called Scary Gary by Freddie Gibbs. Transparently, I don’t even know the song. A friend said it when I told them where I was headed. That was my entire reference point.

Driving through the city, I could see how it earned its reputation.

There were blocks that felt abandoned. Windows boarded. Paint peeled. Infrastructure that looked tired. Gary has been through something. You can feel it in the stillness. It is a city that needs revitalization—a power up.

And yet.

The first night of the festival, we were welcomed with a dinner reception that felt less like procedural programming & more like familial hospitality. Sparkling grape juice poured into plastic flutes like it was champagne. A delectable charcuterie spread. Tender barbecued rib tips, sticky & smoky, falling apart with the slightest pressure. Pizza-on pizza-on pizza. A table of desserts that felt like someone’s aunt insisted on making sure there was more than enough.

There was laughter. Handshakes that lingered. People asking where I was from & actually listening to the answer. It felt like being folded into a family you didn’t know you had.

The next day, Dr. Vernon G. Smith (Dr. Smith), the organizer of the festival & one of the kindest-most thoughtful-most selfless men I’ve ever met, gathered the filmmakers & took us to lunch. Good old Southern soul food. Plates HEAVY with flavor. The kind of meal that slows your speech. That makes you sit back in your chair & close your eyes for a second just to register it.

If you know, you know.
I remember thinking, this is care. This is intention.

Gary-ians—we’re running with it—radiated warmth that completely disrupted the narrative I had quietly carried in with me.

And then came the final night.
The UNBecoming screened.

I was steady at first. Until I wasn’t.

There’s a scene where I hold a gun to another version of myself, a metaphorical death of the identity I could no longer carry forward. When the trigger was pulled, there were gasps in the room. Audible reactions. A woman behind me said loudly, “OH HOLD ON. WAIT A MINUTE NOW.”

I felt myself shrink. Shoulders up. Spine *tight*. I stared straight ahead, bracing lololol. Preparing for misunderstanding. For rejection. For someone to tell me I had gone too far… I was ready for it.

But when the screenings ended & the awards were handed out, something unexpected happened. One person approached me. Then two. Then five. Then ten.

They weren’t critiquing the scene. They were telling me their stories. About the versions of themselves they had to let die. The identities they had to shed. The behaviors they had to outgrow. The quiet deaths no one applauds but everyone survives.

They said the film felt like clarity. Like seeing something they had only ever felt.

And in that moment, standing in a city I almost underestimated, I remembered why I chose this work.

Not to be rich. Not for fame. But to offer language to what people are already living through.

Gary is unbecoming. You can see it in the boarded windows & empty lots. But beneath that shedding is warmth. Community. Care. Life that refuses to disappear.

Sometimes what looks like decline is transition.

Sometimes what feels like falling apart is actually the honest beginning of something new.

And maybe that is true for you, too.

Dear You,

There are seasons when everything you thought you were begins to fall away…

Old identities no longer fit. Masks you once wore for survival feel suffocating. Roles you performed so well no longer bring you peace. It can feel terrifying to shed what once defined you. To watch pieces of yourself unravel without knowing what will remain.

But unbecoming is not destruction.

It is the sacred work of release.

It is clearing the soil so that something truer can grow. Every unraveling makes space for new threads to be woven. Every ending is the quiet seed of a beginning.

You are not failing by letting go.

You are becoming by unbecoming.

Ask yourself:

• Where can I trust that loss might be clearing the way for renewal?

• How might unbecoming actually be the most honest form of becoming?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

This moment may feel like falling apart, but it is also the threshold of something new. You are not less for shedding. You are more for daring to.

Remember that.

With you in the shedding,

Kasim

A cup of hot tea—it’s great for the gut—& five quiet minutes with my journal. For the past year, five out of seven days, I’ve written down three things I’m grateful for.

I started this ritual during one of the darkest chapters of my life. Not the explosive kind of dark. The quieter kind. The kind where nothing is technically wrong, but everything feels off. I knew I wasn’t fully committed to the life I was living, but I didn’t yet know how to step away from it. It felt like standing at the edge of something deep without knowing how far down it went.

And let me be crystal clear, I was not waking up radiating gratitude. I was waking up confused.

A close friend & my therapist both suggested the same thing: consider what you already have.

At first, it felt annoying. Very performative. I thought maybe I just wasn’t a grateful person because nothing felt deep-seated. I’d write, “I’m thankful for my mom.” “I’m thankful for my friends.” And it felt… flat.

But I kept doing it.

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At least in your boy’s humble opinion.

And I mean that on a grand scale. Zoom out with me for a second. Maybe it’s a job you loved. Coworkers you grew alongside. An office that felt more like you than your actual home. A steady paycheck that covered the bills & then some… but quietly cost you time & energy.

Pieces of yourself you could no longer settle to live without.

Maybe it’s a long-term relationship. The kind that began in your formative years & slowly became intertwined with your identity. The kind that didn’t explode or implode. Nothing critically urgent. No countdown clock. No dramatic exit.

Just a slow realization that something isn’t aligned anymore.

That’s what makes it hard.

When there isn’t a gun to your head. When there isn’t a bomb ticking down. When everything is relatively “fine.” You tighten your grip until your knuckles feel like they’ll split. And in the short term, it almost feels secure. Like holding on proves commitment. Like letting go would mean failure.

So you tell yourself:

One more shot.
One more month.
One more conversation.
One more chance.

And sometimes that’s necessary.

But I also believe that deep down—in our bodies, in our spirit—we know when time is up. For me, it was my decade-long career as an influencer.

I had the partnerships with brands like Crock-Pot & Impossible Foods. I was doing live TV, flying to Chicago for shoots, signing contracts, & watching steady deposits hit my account. On paper, it was everything I once prayed for.

And I was proud of it. I was good at it.

But I remember landing campaigns that should have made me ecstatic & just feeling… neutral. Wrapping up a shoot, packing up lights, & standing in silence with no real sense of aliveness attached to it.

That scared me.

Because it wasn’t burnout. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was a quiet, internal shift I could no longer ignore. And once you feel that shift in your bones, pretending becomes impossible.

Letting go was terrifying. Being in a place where I didn’t know what was next? Even more terrifying.

But what I learned was trust.

Trust that something would meet me on the other side. Trust that I could move forward & build something that felt more aligned. Trust that releasing something good didn’t mean I was losing, it meant I was evolving.

It is hard to release what you’ve held onto for so long. But once you let go, you don’t fall into emptiness. You create space.

Not a void. Room to breathe again.

If you’re gripping something tightly right now, unsure whether it’s time to loosen your hold, this letter is for you.

Dear You,

It can feel unbearable to loosen your grip on what once
meant everything…

Perhaps it’s a memory, a relationship, an identity, or even a dream. Letting go can seem like betrayal, like giving up, like erasing the part of you that once needed it to survive. And so you hold tighter, even as it slips through your fingers, even as it weighs you down.

But letting go isn’t failure.

It isn’t abandonment. It’s trust. Trust that something else will meet you on the other side. Trust that release creates space for renewal. Trust that you can honor the past without being bound to it.

And I know, it’s not easy.

Sometimes the hardest thing to release is the version of yourself you thought you’d be by now. But even this loss can be a form of liberation. What’s waiting for you is not emptiness, but room to breathe again.

Ask yourself:

• If I loosened my grip, what space might open in my life?

• What would it feel like to trust that letting go is its own kind of becoming?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You do not dishonor the past by setting it down. You honor yourself by making room for what comes next.

With you in the release,

Kasim

Some last a few weeks. Some last a few decades. Some were never meant to be permanent, even if you wore them long enough to forget that.

When I think about some identities, I think about masks. Costumes.
Things you try on.

Sometimes it’s impulsive. You meet someone in your formative years & think, that looks like it comes with benefits. So you try it. Sometimes the mask is handed to you. You learn quickly who you need to be in order to stay strong, composed & easy.

There was a stretch of my life where being “easy” felt like a superpower.

Easy to work with. Easy to depend on. Easy to trust. I could read a room in seconds & adjust. I could smooth tension before it grew teeth. I rarely made things heavier than they needed to be. I was “easy.”

At first, that felt like maturity. And some of it was.

But over time, adaptability slowly turned into self-editing. That subtle awareness turned into hyper-awareness. Being considerate quietly became being careful.

Careful not to be too much, disrupt, & not to need.

No one forced that mask onto me. I picked it up because it worked. It really helped. It kept things calm.

Borrowed & temporary masks often do.

But there comes a point where you realize you’ve wrapped who you are tightly inside who you thought you needed to be. Read that line again.

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Ya boy was a full-on thespian through high school & early college, sang & danced in show choir, placed second in a Steve Adubato public speaking competition, & later served as the national spokesperson for ALDI on live TV.

The signs were always there.

I’ve always been comfortable taking up space, being visible, stepping into the spotlight when it’s offered.

That part of me has been there for as long as I can remember. But there was a stretch of my life where visibility didn’t always translate into being seen. Mhmm, read that sentence again.

Where I could show up consistently, contribute meaningfully, give pieces of myself away, & still walk away with this quiet, unsettling question:

That isn’t where I am now, but it’s a feeling I remember vividly.

Looking back, I can see how much of that ache came from waiting. Waiting to be acknowledged. Waiting for someone else to say, I see you. You matter. You’re making a difference. Waiting for confirmation that my presence was landing the way I hoped it was. And in that waiting, it became surprisingly easy to let other people’s silence shape how I saw myself. I started to shrink my own sense of impact. And began to question whether I was actually contributing anything meaningful at all.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how subtly that waiting was training me to outsource my self-worth.

How often I was measuring myself by reaction instead of reality. By feedback instead of fact. And how much energy it took to live that way, constantly scanning the room for proof that I belonged.

This letter came from reflecting on that season with more distance & more compassion. From thinking about the difference between being visible & being truly seen. And from recognizing how powerful it is to stop waiting for others to validate your presence & begin acknowledging yourself instead.

If you’ve ever found yourself wondering whether your presence really matters, even when you’re showing up fully, this letter is for you.

Dear You,

It can feel like you’re always waiting.

Perhaps it’s for the text, the invitation, the gesture that says:

You matter, I see you, I choose you.

That longing runs deep, because to be chosen is to be recognized. And when it doesn’t come, it can leave you questioning your own worth. But your value is not measured by who picks you.

You are already chosen: by your own breath, by the life that continues to rise in you each day, by the resilience that has carried you this far. You are chosen by the people whose lives have shifted simply by knowing you, even if they’ve never found the words to say it.

Your longing is not wrong. It is a reflection of your heart’s hunger for connection.

And that hunger is proof of your aliveness.

Ask yourself:

• Where have I already been chosen, even if I’ve overlooked it?

• What would it mean to choose myself before waiting on anyone else?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You don’t have to wait for permission to matter.

You already do.

With you in the longing,

Kasim

A physical space with an address. A front door. Four walls that hold our things, our routines, our memories. A place you can drive to on autopilot.

Home, in that sense, feels concrete. It’s very defined and easy to point to.

Lately, I’ve realized that the kind of home I’ve been craving has very little to do with square footage or a lease. A few days ago, my mom asked me, “Do you miss your apartment?” I gave it up last year and moved back in with my family while I figured out what was next.

And honestly? My answer surprised even me. It was a very clear, very grounded no.

I don’t miss that version of “home.” But I’ve been thinking a lot about the other kind. The kind you can’t point to on a map. The kind that isn’t tied to a place at all.

It lives in your body, and maybe your soul too. Something you recognize before you can name it. A quiet sense of rightness. A lightness. A feeling of ease that stays with you, no matter where you are or who you’re around.

If I’m being honest, I’ve confused familiarity with home more times than I can count. I’ve returned to places, patterns, and versions of myself simply because they were known. Not because they felt good, but because they felt recognizable.

There’s a difference. (A big one. Ask my past self.)

Sometimes we’re not actually homesick for a place at all. We’re homesick for a feeling. For safety. For belonging. For the version of ourselves that once felt steadier and more certain. And when that version no longer exists, it can feel disorienting. Like walking around with your life packed in stuffed boxes and overflowing suitcases, waiting for a room where you can finally unpack.

This letter came out of that in-between space. The one where you realize home might not be behind you. It might be ahead of you. Or something you’re actively building as you change. And honestly? That can feel both exciting and terrifying. The thought of new soil and rituals. New definitions of what “home” even means.

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We all know that, at least intellectually, but we aren’t always given permission to actually live inside that truth.

So let me say this gently, to you & to myself—

So much of the world we’ve built feels obsessed with how agreeable, friendly, & palatable we are. How easy we are to be around. And honestly? That shit is utterly exhausting.

It’s also not real life.

Sometimes we aren’t agreeable. Sometimes we’re tired, overwhelmed, or just not in the mood. And that doesn’t make us difficult or unworthy. It makes us human.

We don’t have to be at our best to be valued or loved. We don’t have to have it figured out to be deserving. We’re allowed to be in transition. Lost. Tender. Even completely in the dumps.

Pretending & performing might help us get through the day, but it comes at a cost.

I’ve learned that peeling back those layers, laying down the mask, brings an immediate sense of relief. A lightness. A feeling of finally being able to breathe. And that kind of relief is something we all deserve, no matter what we’re navigating.

So I invite you into something quieter & braver: radical acceptance. Choosing yourself in all your forms, ALL of ‘em, not just the polished or pleasant ones. Letting yourself be seen as you are, not as you think you should be.

Because you, exactly as you are right now, are enough.

Dear You,

I know how exhausting it is to keep wearing the mask.

It takes a surprising amount of energy to live as a version of yourself that feels acceptable. To keep your reactions in check, your smile steady, your edges softened. Some nights, you realize how much of yourself you’ve set aside just to make it through the day.

Maybe you learned early that people only wanted the “best” version of you: the agreeable one, the easy one, the one who never caused trouble. Perhaps you believed that if you stayed likable & bright, no one would see the mess, the ache, the confusion beneath the surface.

Pretending became protection.

Here’s the truth: you don’t have to keep performing to be loved. You don’t need to hold everything together to belong. You are worthy in your unfiltered state, in your unguarded laugh, & your messy thoughts.

Ask yourself:

• What would it feel like to set the mask aside, even for a moment?

• Who in your life feels safe enough to see the unpolished version of you?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

Pretending may have protected you, but it isn’t the only way to survive. You don’t need to be perfect to be accepted.

You are already enough. Just as you are.

With you in the unveiling,

Kasim

Rest is productive (period).

Not the kind of rest you have to earn. Not the kind you bargain for by telling yourself, after I get through this week, I’ll finally slow down. You are worthy of rest regardless of what you accomplish. But most of us were taught the opposite. First achieve. First push. Then, maybe, you’re allowed a moment of ease. Sounds familiar, right?

I’ve spent most of my life operating from that belief. Pushing past signals. Negotiating with exhaustion. Convincing myself I’d pause after the next thing was finished.

But the truth is, we’re human.

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Not in a motivational-poster way. In a real, lived, already-inside-you way. Like you really are that girl, or that guy, or that they, or that… whatever you identify as.

But you are that person.

I’ve been returning to that question, do you realize how powerful you are, quietly in my own solitude. This season of my life has been less about making noise and more about planting seeds, the kind of quiet preparation that feels natural for winter.

Exactly a year ago, I was waiting. For permission. For clarity. For someone to tell me when it was time to move and how big the move should be. I outsourced my confidence more than I realized, letting other people’s certainty stand in for my own.

The space I occupy now is unrecognizable, truly unrecognizable, from that version of me.

I don’t need to be told when to jump or how high. I don’t need approval to begin. I’m making decisions in the face of uncertainty instead of waiting for it to disappear. That part is very important.

The shift within me didn’t come without discomfort. Reacclimating to myself was very intimidating. Remembering how to trust my instincts again took practice and commitment.

But here’s what surprised me. I was NEVER missing anything. I already had the tools. I just stopped giving myself permission to use them.

In the past two months, I’ve applied to grants, accelerators, and programs I never would have even opened before. Not because I wasn’t qualified. Not because I wasn’t capable. But because I doubted my own power. And once I named that, the fear lost some of its authority.

I’m strutting into 2026 differently.

More grounded. More self-directed. More willing to move even when my voice shakes. I’m not waiting to feel fearless. That may be miles away. But I’m choosing to trust myself anyway.

This letter is for anyone who has been playing small out of habit, not truth. For anyone who needs the reminder that their power hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s been here the whole time.

If that’s you, then this letter is for us.

Dear You,

There are moments when you doubt your own power.

Not because it isn’t there, but because you’ve learned to keep it contained. You’ve learned to call restraint maturity, hesitation wisdom, playing small humility. Doubt can sound convincing when it wears all of those layers.

But doubt is not truth.
It’s often just fear asking to stay in charge.

You did not arrive where you are by accident. Every step, including the delayed ones and the uncertain ones, required choice. Required courage. It all required you. The fact that you question yourself does not mean you are unqualified. More often, it means you are standing near something that matters enough to scare you.

Power isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s the willingness to act without waiting for fear to disappear.

Ask yourself:

• Where have I mistaken caution for truth?

• What changes if I stop being the one who holds myself back?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

Your power is not something you earn later.

And it is not something granted by approval or success. It lives in your ability to choose, to begin, to take yourself seriously.

So take yourself seriously.

You are not becoming powerful. You are simply remembering that you already are.

With you in the remembering,

Kasim

I wrote today’s letter during a time when I was reflecting on how easy it can be to use humor as a reflex. Reactively dropping a joke to keep things light.

It may make others comfortable, but sometimes there’s something heavier sitting underneath. This letter is a reminder that you don’t owe anyone a punchline to be worthy of care.

We all love a stand-up comedian, or that friend who has us bent over laughing until our cheeks hurt. But even they (or possibly, you) deserve moments where they don’t have to perform.

Where they can be held, not just entertaining.

If you’re tired of being the funny one all the time, this one’s for you.

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Where can I tighten my grip? What can I further assert my will onto? Recently, control has made a come back and it’s been staring me down 24/7.

Probably not in the way you imagined…

Behind the scenes, I’ve been deep in the early stages of my next short film, Picture Perfect.

The protagonist is a high-performing interior designer. On the surface, she’s polished, accomplished, composed. Her life looks curated and intentional. Everything has its place.

It’s picture perfect.

And then her husband asks for a separation, and the illusion starts to crack. Writing those moments has forced me to sit with how familiar that instinct to fix everything really is.

Because control often presents itself as reasonable. It sounds like preparedness. It looks like competence. It convinces you that if you plan well enough, anticipate every outcome, and manage every detail, you can stay safe. That nothing will hurt you. That you can keep life from surprising you in ways you’re not prepared for.

As I’ve been building her world, I’ve had to look at my own past behaviors and instincts with brutal honesty. The way I would tighten my grip when things felt uncertain. The comfort I found in planning, preparing, planning even more, bracing.

Control has been one of the most reliable tools in my toolbox for a long time. It helped me survive. It helped me stay steady when the ground felt shaky.

But I now know it comes at a steep cost.

It’s utterly exhausting to always be managing. It leaves you with little to no room to breathe when you’re holding every thread. Control can quietly turn into what feels like two full-time jobs that never actually deliver the safety they promise.

This letter comes from that reckoning. From understanding that what once kept me safe doesn’t have to be the thing I rely on forever.

There will be time to share more about Picture Perfect and what’s unfolding next with paid subscribers. But before any of that, I wanted to pause here.

If control has been your survival strategy too, this letter is for you.

Dear You,

Sometimes control feels like the only way to survive.

If you plan well enough, anticipate every outcome, and tighten your grip, maybe nothing can hurt you. Maybe you can keep life from surprising you, from wounding you. Control promises safety, but it’s a safety that is exhausting to maintain, and one that never truly satisfies.

Because life, in all its wildness, was never meant to be controlled.

The more you try to hold every thread, the less space you have to breathe. True safety isn’t found in the plan.

It’s found in trust.

In trusting that you are capable of facing whatever comes, even when it’s messy, and especially when it doesn’t go the way you expected.

You may have learned to rely on control because it once protected you.

It helped you stay steady. It helped you feel prepared. That doesn’t make you rigid or fearful. It makes you resourceful. But what once kept you safe doesn’t have to be what carries you forever. Read that line again.

It’s not easy to loosen your grip.

But once you do, you create space. Space for rest. Space for breath. Space for life to meet you in gentler ways, too.

Ask yourself:

• What am I gripping so tightly that it’s wearing me down?

• What would it mean to trust myself instead of the plan?

If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.

You don’t need perfect control to be safe.

You already carry what you need within you.

With you in the loosening,

Kasim

I used to be a big goal person. The color-coded, quarterly planning kind. Rigid milestones, strict targets, and even stricter timelines.

Accomplish this by this date.
Save this by that month.

Before every new season (yes, every three months), I’d sit down and map out exactly what I wanted to accomplish. Some goals were small. Some were ambitious. Lose 15 pounds. Gain 2,500 followers. Hit the gym six times a week. Always something to chase, something to improve, and something to optimize.

That drive served me in many ways. It also pushed me harder than I often needed to be pushed. Ambition, unchecked, can be a double-edged sword. I’ve fallen on it a few too many times.

And every new year, like clockwork, I’d stack a fresh list of resolutions on top of the old ones and promise myself this would be the year I nailed them.

But 2026 feels different.

After all the unearthing, unlearning, rebui…

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