TAYLOR ENGLE ANDERSON BRAIN

This November marks three years since I texted you and asked, “What are you doing tonight?” You said, “Waiting for you,” and we’ve never had to wait for each other since—except when it’s time to go and you’re sitting on the couch, not dressed yet, screaming, “Am I ready?! I’ve BEEN ready for 17 hours." You’re insane and hilarious—the only person who’s ever held my attention long enough to win me for life. You’re the only person I’ve ever killed my ego with.  Sometimes you’re

After releasing my women’s magazine , which celebrated feminine relationships and connection (and included resources on syncing your life to your menstrual cycle ), my husband and I poured ourselves into creating a magazine for men: centered on mental health, creativity, strength, softness, and truth.  We wanted to make something that felt real. Something that could help men feel comfortable being vulnerable; something that made men feel supported and inspired. We wanted to r

To my first love story. Happy Mother's Day, mom. A mother is our first love story. Correction— My mother was my first love story, And I wish everyone could be loved by Lori. Correction— If you’ve met, you’ve surely felt her love: A sweet outpour, it’s generous and delicate. Correction— It’s hard-earned and self-taught, The way she really makes sure she sees you. Correction— Because maybe what she sees in you Is her own purity reflected in your gaze. What came first? The soul

Imagine the cruel fate of being a Pisces sun with a Leo rising: deep need for solitude paired with a karmic duty to be seen and perceived.  I moved to New York City to get lost in a sea of performers—the ones in LA weren’t Old World enough. And as my skin grew paler from Northeastern living, I drew closer to my sun, learning to let the tides carry me. Emboldened by the softness of my sun, I could finally end the performance. I became addicted to silence: the ideal I’d been ch

I’m 30 years old today. As usual, I’m wearing green.  The day started out with this birthday-themed yoga practice —which I’ve been doing for years—followed by an intense kickboxing session with my husband, my newest St. Taylor’s Day tradition. Now I’m sitting at my favorite coffee shop and writing this intro: reflecting on thirty years of learning, growing and experiencing. I spent the weekend surrounded by all of the people I love most: people who’ve seen me go through sever

“We accept the love we think we deserve” is one of the hardest-hitting lines Paul Rudd ever delivered. Thirteen years later, this simple but powerful piece of cinema still resonates with so many of us, especially as we develop a deeper understanding  of the law of attraction and the role our thoughts play in the outcome.  Historically, we’ve been drawn to this statement because we were deeply emo in the early 2000s and 2010s, and romanticizing pain was in. Today, we’ve moved

As the year comes to an end, I’m reflecting on every blessing that came from it. That’s how I choose to see everything that happens to me: as a blessing that was meant to occur.  It’s a choice, and sometimes a difficult one, but if you challenge yourself to see the blessing in everything that happens, especially experiences you perceive to be negative, your brain starts to look for the blessings more and more. From there, you call more positivity and enlightenment into your l

“I’m going to count you down from ten, and when I snap my fingers, you’ll open your eyes and be filled with an overwhelming sense of joy as soon as you see the color red.” You hear the words from a distance, but your body is limp and leaden. You struggle to conceive of a time when you were able to move. “Ten.”  But the state you’re in doesn’t concern you; you simply observe it. Nothing concerns you right now. Some might say at 11, you’re too young to have experienced real con

It goes like this: I’ll be writing some email about some human system we made up to soothe our own egos and decided status as the superior species on earth—automated workflows, KPIs, growth hacking —and then, BOOM. Something tangible happens, and I remember I’m inhabiting flesh that bleeds. Sometimes, it’s in the form of someone unabashedly cutting through the echoing jargon.  You’ve been pre-approved to feel again!!! I get on a call with someone I’m interviewing for an artic

The coffee is toasty and naturally sweet, and my mouth is coated in its caramel essence. I regret having eaten before I got here, but I’ve made it my mission to stay long enough to build up an appetite. The Bombay-inspired small-batch bakery looks too mouthwatering to resist, and the flavors remind me of my husband’s Turkish latte: a delicious espresso adorned with cardamom, turmeric, cinnamon, oat, and crushed pistachio.  I was on the hunt for a place to hunker down and writ

I love writing about Shaun. I’ve been doing it for almost two years, and through this act—which is as natural as taking a breath—I’ve finally discovered the power of having a muse. Writing about our connection has helped me move closer to my center as a writer. From noir and surrealism to gothic and transgressive fiction, I can always get down with exploring the darkest limits of human emotion, but the stories I find myself most often returning to—and wanting to emulate mysel

It all started with a dream.  If you really needed me to, I could spend half a day scrolling up through my text thread with Shaun until I found the message—the one where I told him I loved him, I hope he’d have a great day, and I just had a fantasy of us lazing around together on a boat in Italy. It’s something we do often and out loud: dream back and forth of a daring and luxurious sweetness, visions of future experiences to amplify the sweet life we’re already blessed with.

I was recently blessed with a four-day trip to Italy: two days in Milan, one day in Como, and one in Venice. Although quick and unexpected, we made the best of our time there—especially when it came to eating.  Day one: Espresso, too much pasta, and more espresso The day we landed, it was about noon in Milan, and we’d been traveling for around 20 hours. By the time we got to our hotel , it was still an hour too early for us to check in, but the staff was kind enough to hold o

It’s been seven years since I started recovering from anorexia and exercise addiction . In honor and celebration of this near-decade of healing and self-discovery, I want to share my story with you. My history with anorexia and exercise addiction Like many girls and women, I began experiencing body dysmorphia at a young age. I spent adolescence standing in front of so many mirrors , yanking at my skin and feeling a rage bubble up inside me. I shouldn’t have been able to grab

I started recovering from anorexia  in 2017. It was a grueling process, and one of the biggest lessons I had to learn was how to self-care. I’d spent years working myself into the ground because I thought punishment and sacrifice were necessary for success, but I’ve since learned that true success can only come from balance, consistency, and letting your inner child thrive. It turns out living a fruitful life has nothing to do with work. Still, most of us have to do it if we

My dad was the whisper in my ear in the corner of a crowded party. His sole intention was to make me laugh.  Our relationship felt less father-daughter and more like we’d each found a kindred spirit. We shared similar outlooks on life and mirrored each other’s mannerisms. Sometimes, we watched TV together. Our favorite was MMA. We were particularly fascinated by the women—driven athletes who, in our opinion, went way harder than the men.  My dad was eager to expose me to this

To tell you how I became a writer, I have to talk about how I recovered from anorexia. I keep these accomplishments forever intertwined—not because I want to live in the past, but because understanding my past is how I’ve figured out my future.  I believe we’re born understanding exactly who we are. For a few brief moments, we get to exist in this innate freedom and play. Then, we’re quickly swept up into the fervor of the world, shamed into assimilating to a cookie cutter we

Writing about my dad still makes me feel weird and itchy—like it’s my first day after quitting a vice. I guess that means I continue to experience withdrawals from his lack of presence. However, time has taught me how to find hints of his life force in and around my own for brief moments of comfort. Thankfully, I can always find it in our words, which we put together to write 211 Blue: The Story of The Chameleon Cop , a recount of his young life as a cop-turned-robber.  I was

To everyone who attended my first book signing for 211 Blue: The Story of The Chameleon Cop , thank you for supporting me and showing me love. I'm incredibly grateful I was able to share the story of co-writing my late father's memoir with you. In fact, I was so touched by the experience, I decided to keep the door open a little bit longer for anyone who didn't get a chance to snag a signed copy in person. That's how this pre-order project was born: the deal was, you order a