005 - The Weekly Wander
My 33rd -- Birthday Edition
Current Location: Iowa + Wisconsin + Minnesota (All in one day!)
It’s been a happy and sad birthday. Grateful, because I got to be with family. Absolutely gutted, because of why. It’s hard to accept, but like the changing leaves, we have to make peace with change, with goodbyes, with the last slice of birthday cake.
So, while celebrations are being postponed to NYC Marathon Day, I’m calling this my soft launch into 33 — and sharing 7 memories from the year that feel worth remembering.
I decided my marathon training plan would be... not a plan. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing — obsessively following a ChatGPT schedule, overanalyzing long runs on Reddit, or over-comparing gels and electrolytes. I just wanted to listen to my body, do what lit me up, and make it fun.
That’s how I ended up at the NYC Unofficial Walking Marathon, hosted by Caroline Weaver — a small-shop legend here in New York. We walked 26.2 miles from Columbus Circle all the way up to Wave Hill in the Bronx. Early morning bagels with strangers who somehow became friends — easily one of the best days of my year.
A friend of mine—Gaby, an incredible painter I met at Grand Central Atelier—painted this door she found in Barichara, Colombia. A sun-worn, lavender blue perfectly imperfect door. It looked like it had seen things, it looked like it had secrets.
I had absolutely no business going to Colombia. None. But as soon as I saw that painting, I knew I needed to find it. Like, physically stand in front of this door and see if it was real. So I booked a flight and went.
Barichara was one of those places that doesn’t try to be charming—it just is. I met new friends in hostels, visited a paper factory that smelled like earth and lime, ate the best bread of my life, and drank coffee that ruined me for all future coffee. Somewhere between getting lost, missing a bus, and saying yes to every invitation, I attempted to deal with the unexpected as best as I could.
Incredible experiences were gifted to us—all thanks to a door.
“Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today” My uncle lived by this. As a farmer, he didn’t really have the luxury of waiting for “the right time.” I try to live like that too — not in a frantic bucket-list way, but in the sense of asking: Who can I share this with? Who would make this moment better? Because it’s rarely about the thing itself.
Discovering our favorite neighborhood coffee shop: Nako. From the moment I stepped inside, I knew I wanted to do something there so right before our trip to Japan in the summer I shared paintings I created over past year. It was perfect — donuts from Cloudy next door, 37 of my favorite people, and the kind of night that makes the city feel like it’s conspiring with you.
Planning the Mini Olympics to raise money for the Brave House was honestly the best kind of chaos. I spent hours scheming tiny prizes—mini tape measures, mini Vaseline, mini anything that was so charming yet useful. Playing cards, a harmonica, and of course— I’M SO HAPPY YOU’RE HERE stickers. Little things that felt like they could sneak a smile into someone’s day.
And then the day itself. We wanted it outside, so we rolled with it—and rolled it did. A monsoon poured down like the sky was testing us, but somehow, it was perfect. The crew that showed up laughed at the shifting plans, moved with the rain, and turned every soggy setback into part of the fun. Honestly, the planning was the thrill; the doing, messy and wet, somehow made it even more special.
Biking to LaGuardia before getting on a flight. Getting LASIK. Moving into my place in Borerum Hill. Coffee in a hotel lobby with a stranger who becomes a friend. The big moments are great, but it’s always the small ones that stick — going out of our way to catch the sunset, the handwritten love letters on post-its, long squeezy hugs from family.
Learning to let it be both: This year taught me that things can be beautiful and brutal at the same time. A happy birthday and a sad one. A marathon that’s more walking than running. A door that opens and closes in the same breath. I’m learning to live in that in-between space — to let joy and grief sit at the same table, probably drinking something sparkling, probably laughing too loud.
Here’s to 33 — my Jesus year, my favorite of favorite numbers. To more marathons, or anything that asks just as much of me — patience, stamina, surrender. To the people who make you feel so seen that you can’t help but become a louder, truer version of yourself. To the sweetness you can extract from everyday life — the ripe peach at the bottom of the bowl, the friend who texts you back immediately, to the crisp crunch of the reddest apple, or the moment the light hits your coffee just right and you think, okay, maybe I’m doing fine.
Keep Wandering,
Johnna