Hi,

I'm headed back to Paris after finishing my final event of the year in Las Vegas and —of course—my last flight home is delayed. Classic, right? To top it off, I somehow managed to leave my AirPods in a completely different terminal. Cool. Now I’m in the lounge, bonding with fellow stranded travelers over a glass of wine and collective exasperation with flying. There’s something oddly hilarious about how these little disasters turn complete strangers into temporary besties. Delayed flights: the great equalizer.

I'm still trying to process the fact that 2024 is almost over. How is that even possible? It feels like this year has been... *gestures vaguely at everything* a lot.

Especially the last few days.

I can’t quite believe I’m writing these words: after fifty years of brutal, oppressive rule, the Assad family’s reign is over. Decades of suffering, war, and despair have finally culminated in an unthinkable outcome—rebels successfully overthrowing the regime after nearly a decade of stalemate. The images of Syrians being freed from horrific prison conditions have been weighing on my heart and mind.​

And yet, I find myself caught in a tangle of feelings that refuse to untwist themselves into anything as neat as hope. For those of us in exile, the fall of Assad stirs something fragile: the thought that maybe, someday, we might return to the places we were forced to leave. But that hope feels precarious, like stepping onto a bridge you aren’t sure is stable.

The loss of a homeland is a wound so many immigrants carry. It’s a dull ache that grows sharper with time, often catching you by surprise. It’s not just about the land itself but about all the little pieces of your identity you left behind. This longing is at the heart of Echoes of Migration, my poetry collection. The title is a nod to those paths we’re forced to take, often far from what feels like home, in the pursuit of something—anything—that might allow us to survive.

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Now, with Assad gone, I’m trying to process what this means. On one hand, this is an end to a regime that tortured, brutalized, and ruled with corrupt impunity. And on the other, it’s the beginning of an era we can’t yet define. The devil we knew is gone—but what devil comes next?

I think back to the images of toppling statues in Iraq and Libya—the euphoria, the celebrations, the sense of possibility. But we know now what followed: the vacuum, the chaos, the violence. Syria has endured sanctions that crushed its economy, a civil war that displaced millions, an earthquake that compounded unimaginable devastation. And now, this. Another unpredictable chapter in a country already worn thin by history.

Then there are the larger forces at play. Syria has oil. It has resources. And where there are resources, there are proxies: Iran, Turkey, Russia, the U.S. Everyone wants a piece, and no one seems to want peace. In the past few days Israel has bombed over 250 sites in Damascus alone. My family went from celebrating a fragile and tender hope of liberation to hiding under the threat of deadly bombs.

So, where does that leave me? Ambivalent, mostly. Not hopeful, but not without hope. Just here, sitting with the weight of it all. Trying to make space for the complexity—relief and dread, possibility and uncertainty, endings and beginnings.

Perhaps there are no easy conclusions right now. Maybe it’s enough to feel the shift, to hold space for it, and to let that be what it is for now.

UnitedHealth: How Rage Became a Movement

The recent arrest of Luigi Mangione, suspected of murdering the CEO of UnitedHealth, has consumed America’s attention, transforming from a true-crime headline into a cultural flashpoint that reveals as much about society’s fractures as it does about the crime itself. On the surface, it’s a salacious, clickbait-ready story: corporate greed, systemic failure, and a surreal digital aftermath seemingly engineered for a hyper-online world. But beneath that veneer lies a deeper, more unsettling reflection of the rage simmering beneath the surface of a society where the systems meant to protect and serve often do the opposite.

For a fleeting moment, Americans on both the left and the right found themselves united—not in solidarity, exactly, but in shared disdain for the for-profit healthcare system. That alone is a remarkable phenomenon in a nation where political polarization saturates every interaction. Nearly everyone has a story: a denied insurance claim, an urgent procedure deemed “not covered,” or a hospital bill so exorbitant it shattered a family’s finances. These aren’t isolated tragedies anymore; they’ve evolved into a collective narrative, woven into the cultural fabric of what it means to live—and struggle—in America.

UnitedHealth’s role in this story only amplifies the public outrage. Known for denying more claims than any other provider in the U.S., the company recently rolled out an AI system that erroneously rejects life-saving treatments 90% of the time. Ninety percent. That’s not a glitch—it’s an indictment of a system that prioritizes profits over people. Instead of leveraging technology to alleviate suffering, they’ve weaponized it to deepen inequities, obscure accountability, and protect corporate interests. It’s dehumanization, automated.

And then there’s the public reaction. Like the billionaires lost in the ill-fated submarine earlier this year, the CEO’s death has sparked a mix of outrage and dark humor. Critics bemoan the lack of sympathy: He was a father and a husband! they insist. But that argument rings hollow to those asking: where is the sympathy for the countless fathers, mothers, and children denied insulin, chemotherapy, or critical surgeries by the very system he oversaw?

To be clear, violence is never the answer, nor is celebrating a death. But in a world where medical debt routinely ruins lives and survival increasingly feels like a privilege, it’s unsurprising that anger is directed at those who profit from widespread suffering. The fact that the CEO was en route to a meeting—one that proceeded despite his murder—feels grimly emblematic of a system so detached from humanity it prioritizes business as usual over human tragedy.

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From a Digital Anthropology perspective, the online aftermath of this case is a study in collective trauma, resistance, and absurdity. Within hours, mugshots, memes, and conspiracy theories flooded platforms like TikTok and Reddit. There are rumors of a manifesto (possibly fake), merchandise emblazoned with phrases like Deny. Defend. Depose., and fan-fiction that casts Mangione as a modern-day vigilante. His strikingly conventionally attractive mugshot certainly didn’t hurt the viral appeal, and the TikTok parallels to Fight Club’s Robert Paulson only added fuel to the digital wildfire.

What’s perhaps more telling is how quickly Mangione’s perceived political alignment shifted public opinion. At first, he was embraced by leftist circles, his online footprint scrutinized for signs of ideological purity—Reddit posts, Goodreads reviews (covered by the NYT!), tweets, and subscriptions picked apart like digital tea leaves (this Substack by Robert Evans does an excellent job of analyzing Mangione). But when clues emerged suggesting he might lean right—Thiel-adjacent, even—the cracks in this constructed hero narrative widened. Mangione wasn’t who they wanted him to be, and in that dissonance lies a fascinating truth: in our rush to assign meaning, we often fill the blanks of identity with our own projections.

Corporate America’s response has been equally telling. Rattled executives are scrambling to enhance security measures—a reactive move that misses the broader critique entirely. The NYPD, meanwhile, is investigating a wave of Wanted posters depicting various corporate CEOs, an ominous sign of growing tension between ordinary people and the corporate elite.

Historically, the grievances being voiced echo the rhetoric of revolution—calls against inequity, exploitation, and systemic cruelty that feel eerily reminiscent of the French Revolution. With Pluto in Aquarius once again, a cosmic alignment synonymous with upheaval and transformation, the parallels are hard to ignore. (Yes, of course I’m bringing THAT astrology dispatch into this again, I'm obsessed ok?)

From a digital perspective, this isn’t just a story—it’s a cultural artifact. It encapsulates how modern frustrations manifest online, where collective grief and anger morph into humor, resistance, and defiance. The memes, merch, and playlists aren’t just distractions; they’re tools of storytelling, coping mechanisms for a world where absurdity often feels more real than reality.

And so, we watch. We meme. We cope. And we try to make sense of a world teetering on the edge of something big—something inevitable.

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Permission to Play: The Radical Joy of Stickers

Somewhere along the way, between childhood and adulthood, we’re told to leave silliness behind. To grow up, be serious, focus on what matters. But lately, I’ve been finding a surprising kind of joy in something deeply silly: stickers. Yes, stickers—those tiny, shiny, unapologetically frivolous things that most of us associate with childhood notebooks and the giddy joy of Lisa Frank binders.

But here’s the thing: stickers aren’t just for kids. They’re for anyone who needs a little burst of delight in their day. They’re simple, accessible, and wonderfully satisfying. Stickers give you the pleasure of creating something—decorating, embellishing, playing—without the burden of needing elaborate supplies or any real skill. You just peel, stick, and suddenly the world feels a little less serious.

For me, stickers tap into something deeper than simple aesthetics. They make my inner kid so happy. Every time I press a little fox or a glittering star onto the page, I’m reminded of how much joy I used to find in small, inconsequential things. That unselfconscious delight is still there, buried beneath the layers of responsibility and self-seriousness that come with adulthood. Stickers are my way of reconnecting with it, of letting myself enjoy something just because.

They’ve also taught me a powerful lesson about perfectionism. For years, I hoarded notebooks and stationery, always saving them for some imagined “perfect” moment—when I had more time, more creativity, more reason to justify their use. But that day never arrived, and those beautiful things just sat there, pristine but untouched, weighed down by my own impossible expectations.

Stickers broke me out of that cycle. They encouraged me to start where I was, to use the things I already had, and to let go of the need for everything to be flawless. A little crooked? Who cares. Not quite the right color? Doesn’t matter. What began as a small act—decorating the corner of a to-do list—turned into something bigger: permission to embrace imperfection, to find joy in the now instead of waiting for some imagined future.

It’s easy to underestimate the power of small actions. But in a world that feels relentlessly heavy—where every headline feels like a fresh wave of chaos—these tiny acts of frivolity matter. They remind us not to take ourselves, or the absurdity of everything, so seriously. A sticker is just a sticker, yes. But it’s also a rebellion against the grind, a way to carve out a moment of joy in the middle of everything.

On the road, stickers have become my favorite companion. They’re light, portable, and endlessly forgiving. Stuck in an airport terminal, scrawling half-coherent notes in my notebook, I can slap a little star or a cartoon fox on the page, and suddenly it feels less like a chore and more like a moment of play. It’s a tiny shift, but it’s transformative.

And maybe that’s the broader lesson: play isn’t frivolous. It’s necessary. Stickers might seem trivial, but they’ve become my way of pushing back against the weight of perfectionism, the pressure to perform, the relentless march of productivity. They’ve taught me to find joy in imperfection, to embrace silliness, and to make space for small, beautiful things—even when everything else feels overwhelming.

Because sometimes, it’s the smallest things that carry the most meaning. A sticker, a doodle, a scrap of washi tape—they’re not just decorations. They’re acts of joy, resistance, and self-compassion. They’re reminders that even in a world full of chaos, we can still make room for beauty, however small.

So if you’ve been waiting for permission to play, here it is. Go grab a sticker sheet, a notebook, or even just a pen to doodle in the margins. Let go of the need to get it “right.” Let yourself play. You might just find that the smallest acts of silliness have the biggest impact.

[I really went wild in Japan's LOFT store]

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My Holiday Bucket List

The Winter Solstice is a time for rest and renewal, a pause to honor the longest night of the year and the slow return of the light. It’s about gratitude for surviving another turn of the wheel and preparing your “mental soil” for all the ideas and projects you’ll plant in the spring. This season, I’m focusing on cozy traditions that ground me, spark joy, and celebrate the beauty of slowing down.

Here’s what’s on my holiday bucket list this year:

Drink

• Mulled Wine: Seriously, the best thing to warm up with on a cold night.
• Homemade Hot Chocolate: Rich, creamy, and topped with whipped cream, of course.

Eat

• Sugar Cookies: A classic for good reason.
• Gingerbread House: Equal parts decoration and deliciousness.
• Cinnamon Rolls on Christmas Morning: The smell alone is worth it.
• Cheese Advent Calendar: Our local cheese shop has outdone itself this year, and I can’t wait to enjoy a new cheese every day!

Cozy Activities

• Finish Crochet Blanket: This has been my easiest project of the year, and I’m excited to wrap it up—literally!
• Complete Mini Greenhouse Model: A tiny, delicate project that’s been so rewarding to build.
• Sit by the Fire: Bonus points for pairing it with a good book.
• Create a Yule Log: This tradition has become one of my favorites. We set up a log, tie little pieces of paper with our wishes or things we want to release, and burn it in pieces over the 12 nights of Yule. It’s meaningful and magical.
• Feed the Birds: Don’t forget your feathered and furry friends—leave out nuts, seeds, and bird food for them!

Watch

Movies:

• The Holiday (a forever classic!)
• Klaus (pure heartwarming magic)
• The Family Stone
• While You Were Sleeping
• Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman (and yes, Hot Frosty—because WTF?)
• A Castle for Christmas: Don’t ask me why, but I love this movie. Waiting for the perfect night to watch it.

Special Marathons:

• Harry Potter Marathon: Every two years, like clockwork.

Interactive Fun:

• Hallmark Movie Bingo: Jesse and I blind-pick holiday movies, predict the tropes (big city girl comes home! Snowstorm wedding!), and compete for points all month long. It’s silly, competitive, and endlessly fun.

TV Episodes:

• The Office:
  • Christmas Party (S2 E10)
  • A Benihana Christmas (S3 E10/11)
  • Moroccan Christmas (S5 E11)
  • Secret Santa (S6 E13)
  • Classy Christmas (S7 E11/12)
  • Christmas Wishes (S8 E10)
  • Dwight Christmas (S9 E9)
• Black Mirror: White Christmas (2014)
• Community: Abed’s Uncontrollable Christmas (S2 E11)
• Lost: The Constant (S4 E5): Not explicitly Christmas, but one of the best episodes of TV ever.

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Coming Up:

Thanks to everyone who voted in the poll! I’ll be pulling together a list of my favorite reads of the year—hopefully just in time for you to sneak a few extra gifts under the tree. Whether you’re shopping for someone else or treating yourself, I hope you find something that sparks inspiration, curiosity, or joy.

Next week will be our very last dispatch of 2024, and I just want to take a moment to say thank you. Your support, engagement, and thoughtful conversations have meant the world to me this year. I’m so grateful for this little corner we’ve carved out together, and I can’t wait to see what next year has in store for all of us.

Until next week, take care of yourselves, find those glimmers of joy where you can, and don’t forget to rest—your body, your creativity and your productivity will thank you for it!