Superbloom

I have a different attitude about content than most. Maybe it’s because I came up in a time in this business when the fashionable thing to say was, “You don’t have to try to be everywhere.” Or maybe it’s because I have adhd. Or maybe, just maybe, I still believe in quality over quantity and the idea that we all have to post fucking constantly to maintain the attention spans of the traumatized and over-exposed masses is choking the life out of our culture.

Whatever it is, after 18 years, I am still completely incapable of sitting down to write unless I actually have something to say.

I wish that wasn’t the case, sometimes. It’s probably cost me a lot of money and clout over the years. But here we are.

Here we are in this churning blend of those who are screaming that this is the end and we’re all gonna burn and those who are just doing carpool and selling makeup and doing normal things like everything is fine.

Here we are. Some of us are holding our breath so hard we might just welcome the cartoon dilation of blackness that comes with never exhaling.

Here we are. Businesses and clients and customers and money as concept - all changing under our feet - faster than anyone can process.

While American cities burn.

Children are afraid of going to school.

And no one knows what fresh hell might happen next.

And yet, here we are. In spring.

Persistent superblooms in Death Valley this week.

If that’s not a metaphor we should all get behind, I don’t know what is.

The complexity of this moment is not something anyone is or was prepared for, and every single one of us is experiencing it and handling it differently.

Apparently Death Valley is like, “Fuck you and your labels. I’m gonna grow a shit-ton of flowers!”

Until today, I hated the desert. Hated the heat. The harsh, overtly aggressive conditions that seem to loathe all comers never seemed like a place that wanted me (or anyone else). Happy to oblige.

But now? Fuckton of flowers.

And now I don’t know how to feel. About heat or harsh conditions. Or about how those conditions try to cook us alive.

What if, just under all that hard, cracked earth there were a hundred million perfect yellow flowers just trying to break through? All of them just waiting for the right moment - for their moment?

What if, right now, as the ground feels harder and harder under our feet and each one of us feels more and more alone. And we all suffer into finding and being forced into contortions of circumstance and relevance. And everything just feels like it’s trying to break us, smother us….kill us.

What if just past that, a quiet, sleeping part of yourself was about to wake up?

The wild part.

The feral part.

The bright yellow tenderness part of fragility and beauty and inspiration.

What if all you needed was the perfect conditions to let them emerge?

Would you know? Would you see them if they unfolded in front of you?

Would you know how to keep exhaling until they could?

I don’t have an answer.

But what I do have is some educated guesses and a desire to nourish the possibilities.

We need simplicity.

Care.

Joy.

An excuse to laugh until we pee once in a while.

We need human things to exist while we hold our breath.

Learnings to exist while we wait for the evolutions of Spring.

We need to find ways of weaving disparate people together in safe ways to build the scaffolds of what comes next.

This is not done in the grind of content production or networking or running errands or doing your taxes. It’s done in the deliberate moments in between. The cracks between what is seen and what isn’t. The cracks are where the water can trickle in and find safe protection from the blinding heat of the present.

The cracks are where we nurture what can be. What will be. What already is, just underneath.

If you are interested in joining a lively and nourishing space, Bread & Butter 2026 is now open. We begin the first week of April. New format this year, designed to meet the moment. + A generous sliding scale. Learn more.