TAYLOR ENGLE ANDERSON BRAIN

Writing becomes a spiritual practice the moment it helps you pay attention. Every time you sit down with a blank page, you're invited into a conversation that doesn't happen anywhere else. The page doesn't care about your resume, your social media following, or whether or not you've figured your life out yet. It just asks, "What's true today?" Sometimes, you know the answer. Sometimes, you discover it while you're writing. What does writing teach you about yourself? One of th

There is a tree near my house that I talk to. I call her Tree. One day a few years ago, I got the pull to walk over to her and put my hands on her trunk. Peace came over me, and I was reminded that I used to talk to nature all of the time as a child—until someone overheard me one day and made me feel like a fuh-reak. I stopped, intuiting that if I didn’t, I might be either ostracized or hospitalized (or both). I had no idea I’d be back on my bullshit twenty-five years later.

Some stories are about what happens. Existential writing is about what it means. At its core, existential writing explores the big questions of being human. It asks why we're here, how we create meaning, who we are beneath our roles and labels, and what we choose to do with the time we've been given. Readers are drawn to existential writing because it makes them feel seen. Writers are drawn to it because it offers a way to explore questions that rarely have simple answers. If

Why taking breaks is crucial for maintaining creativity and productivity. There is a persistent myth that creativity thrives on pressure alone—that the mind is at its most brilliant when stretched thin, racing, always reaching toward the next thing. It sounds convincing at first, almost romantic in its urgency, but if you listen closely, you begin to notice the quiet fatigue underneath it, the dulling of color, and the way ideas start to echo instead of expand. Anorexia recov

The world feels loud, fast, fractured, irreparable. Still, kindness always finds a way to stubbornly break through. This is where I try to keep my focus. The other day at my favorite coffee shop, a woman in a wheelchair fell forward onto the floor. Before the shock even had time to settle, three or four people were rushing to her from different corners of the room. No hesitation: just movement. I think about that moment a lot. It’s what gives me faith when the light feels d

Writing is isolating work. It is solitary by nature. It requires you to sit still and live inside your own head for long stretches of time. It’s a beautiful thing, but it can also be intense and overwhelming. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a writer, full stop. I imagined a life of books, quiet rooms and endless drafts. But over time (and into a 10-year professional writing career), I have realized that full-time writing demands a deep interior life. You have to

In the long gallery of medieval Europe, few went as hard in the paint as Hildegard von Bingen. Born in 1098 in the Rhineland, she was a Benedictine abbess (can any of us say the same?), visionary mystic, composer, natural philosopher, medical writer, and political correspondent at a time when women were rarely encouraged to be anything at all. Hildegard did not so much transcend her era as bend it, using its language of faith to articulate a defiantly original intellect. She

This is a fiction piece, inspired by losing my father in 2021. As he was leaving his body, he ludicrously, deliriously asked us to help him escape the hospital so he could go on his own terms. That didn't happen—but in this story, it does. I submitted this piece to a writing contest. It was not accepted, so I’m taking control of my voice and publishing it here. I’ve stopped treating rejection as a verdict. I’m less interested now in knocking on doors and more interested in le

When someone says “forgive but don’t forget,” I don’t hear an instruction to harden myself or keep score. I hear an invitation to value myself. To be loving, but also firm about what is healthy and acceptable for me. Forgiving and forgetting doesn’t feel loving. Forgiving while maintaining necessary boundaries does. That distinction matters. Forgiveness, at its best, isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about choosing how the past gets to shape you. Memory as protection For som

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