Hi Reader,

At the end of May, I packed up the Lower East Side apartment I’d lived in for over four years—my first solo home in New York City—and put everything into storage. Not just the things I owned, but also a version of myself.

It wasn’t entirely by choice. I’d gotten the place at a great pandemic-era rate, and somehow it was rent-stabilized. But earlier this year, the building found a legal loophole that allowed them to deregulate the unit and increase the rent by 35%... I considered fighting it, which could’ve bought me another year through legal action.

But something in me knew that wasn’t the way. Instead, it was time to go nomadic for a while.

Don’t get me wrong, I adored that place! Private outdoor patio plus two floors—a living space upstairs and a work sanctuary downstairs—connected by a spiral staircase that most people found steep, but it couldn't be more perfect for me.

See, I’ve had a double spiral staircase tattooed on my body for years. One for going up, for the perseverance it takes to keep climbing and expanding, even when it’s hard. The other is for going down—for the courage to descent deep down into hidden parts of our minds or tough places in our relationships with others that are uncomfortable to face.

This apartment let me do both.

Upstairs was where I lived. Downstairs, I created. It was where I played, dreamed, and began writing the book I’m working on now.

More than a place, this flat became a protagonist in my story.

It was the first time I ever lived in on my own--and the first time I experienced home as a source of absolute safety to be completely myself. I didn’t grow up with a safe or stable home—my parents’ marriage was rocky, and after the divorce, my sister and I lived with different parents who did not get alone. After I moved out during my college years, I had always lived with roommates and/or romantic partners, always having to negotiate my space with the needs and schedules of other people. Now I could finally be completely myself at home.

And it gave me more than solitude and security. It brought me love.

I met my partner just a few blocks from there. Our relationship unfolded in that apartment, and during the final three months before I left, he ended up moving in, due to unexpected changes in his own housing situation.

I worried it might disrupt my flow or compromise the sense of sanctuary I had carved out. But it was actually really beautiful to spend those last three months in that space together.

As afraid as I was that it would take something away, he fit in so seamlessly and cared for the apartment so well that I got to experience a whole new level of safety in my home, with added love. And while three months isn’t a long time, it was the perfect amount for us to live that chapter together. It deepened everything.

For the first time, home didn’t just feel safe—it felt safe and shared.

And the two weeks before I moved out, my mother and sister came to visit. My sister saw the place for the first time, and my mom helped me sort through and pack up every single thing I owned. I unearthed objects I hadn’t touched in years. Some I released. Some I repacked with new reverence. The process was surprisingly intimate and cathartic, like excavating old selves, saying thank you, and letting them go. And it was beautifully connecting - after living separate lives for much of my life, it was so rewarding to do this together with my mom.

Letting go of that apartment was one of the hardest decisions I’ve made in a while. It wasn’t just about the flat—it was about surrendering the structure that held me. And yet, I didn’t want to cling. I didn’t want to battle my way into another year of stability that wasn’t truly aligned anymore.

So for the next couple of months, I’m in sunny, green, quiet, clean Albuquerque, New Mexico. Living in a studio attached to the home of my brilliant friends Geoffrey Miller and Diana Fleischman—evolutionary psychologists who are also deep in their own books and research this summer.

They’ve graciously opened their home, their minds, and their adorable young daughters to me. I get to nanny the kids for a couple of hours each day, then return to writing. The days have a rhythm: slow, grounded, nourishing. I’m surrounded by love, light, and big minds while working on the book that was born in that Lower East Side apartment.

And the irony is not lost on me: I’m writing a book about how humans navigate our needs for security and exploration, just as I surrender one of the most secure structures I’ve ever known.

This lifestyle wasn’t something I planned. But it feels like the right thing for now. Like life handed me an unexpected invitation—and I said yes without needing all the answers.

I initially thought this nomadic chapter might last six months. Now as I'm settling into it, I’m thinking it might be more like a year. Maybe even longer.

I don’t know where I’ll land next. And I’m okay with that.

What I do know is that I’m bringing the core of that spiral staircase with me—both the upward climb and the downward descent. I want to keep growing, keep digging, keep holding myself through the discomfort of not knowing. And I want to see what beauty and insight can emerge when I choose movement over attachment, curiosity over control.

And while it’s a little scary to be here, it also feels… clarifying. It’s all still unfolding. But for now, I’m enjoying this lily pad I've landed on.

And while I settle into this first stop, I’m also pressing pause elsewhere. I’m taking the entire month of July completely off: no social media, no emails, no inbox. A full season of quiet.

So if you don’t hear from me for a while, that’s why. I’ll be in writing mode. In transition mode. And I hope, in your own way, you’ll give yourself permission to pause too. To reflect, to feel into your next move. To unclench.

Thank you, truly, for being here. For walking alongside me, even if just by opening these emails each week. Your presence matters.

And thank you, especially, for your patience while I’m deep in research and writing mode. This book means the world to me, and demands most of my energy these days. I can’t wait for the moment when the manuscript is done. When I’m standing on the other side of the mountain—still nomadic, maybe, but with new clarity and a lot more time for other things in hand.

Until then, I’m so grateful to have you on this journey with me.

I’ll see you in August.

With love,
Dr. Zhana