How the Shift to Summer Affects Writing Habits (and The Ovulation Phase)

Summer in Southern California. The evenings slow and stretch. People linger outside longer. Feet everywhere—although we tend to keep it open-toe even in December. During summer, the energy shifts outward. But even though I’ve been living back in California for over four years now, a big part of me still associates summer with Brooklyn.

Summer in the City was SO physical. Subway platforms radiating wet, swampy heat. You’re sweating in places you didn’t even know you could. Tiny apartments become unbearable around noon, forcing everyone onto sidewalks, rooftops, bars, parks, stoops. The whole city seemed to collectively decide that nobody should be indoors unless absolutely necessary. Why? Because WE OUTSIIIIIDE!

I spent five summers there, and looking back, I think that’s part of why I understand ovulation the way I do.

Because ovulation has that same exact energy.

Ovulation is social energy. Magnetic energy, expressive energy.

It makes you want to text people back, host dinners, post those photos, flirt a little. Start a podcast, wear extra poppin’ lip gloss, and tell the waiter your entire life story after two margaritas.

Biologically, ovulation occurs around the midpoint of the menstrual cycle when estrogen peaks and the body prepares to release an egg. Many women experience increased confidence, verbal fluidity, sociability, and energy during this phase. Communication becomes easier. Visibility feels less threatening. You stop over-editing yourself quite so aggressively.

This is fascinating when you think about writing, because every phase of the menstrual cycle seems to produce a different relationship with language.

Menstrual phase writing feels private: almost subterranean. That is winter writing. Journaling under blankets. Voice notes sent to yourself at midnight. The kind of writing that asks questions without needing immediate answers.

Follicular writing feels curious, just like spring. Research spirals. You’re sprouting countless new ideas. Starting seven Google Docs you may or may not finish. Suddenly, you’re convinced you need to learn about 14th century herbal medicine or narrative theory—or both at the same time.

Ovulation writing wants an audience in the way music wants speakers.

This is the phase where writing becomes performative in the best sense of the word. Not fake, but deeply alive. Writing during ovulation often feels faster, more rhythmic, more conversational. You can suddenly access the version of yourself that knows exactly what she meant all along.

During ovulation, I want to publish things. I want conversations instead of introspection. My ideas stop feeling like little seedlings under the soil and start feeling ready to leave the house.

This is usually when I:

• pitch articles

• record new videos

• answer emails I’ve been avoiding

• start new creative projects

Modern work culture expects everyone to operate in a permanent state of ovulation. Constantly visible. Constantly collaborative. Constantly producing. But bodies are seasonal whether we acknowledge it or not. Nature does not bloom year-round.

Even here, where bougainvillea hangs over fences in February and the weather app barely changes, there are still rhythms. Dry seasons versus bloom seasons. Long evenings where creativity feels effortless versus seasons where every sentence feels like dragging patio furniture through wet sand.

Writing is no different. Some phases are for generating. Some are for refining. Some are for disappearing temporarily so your brain can compost in peace.

Ovulation simply happens to be the season most associated with expression.

It is summer energy. Summer energy has always fascinated me because it changes how people behave. Especially women.

Women are suddenly wearing brighter colors. Staying out later. Becoming more animated with their hands while telling stories. Speaking louder without apologizing for it.

There is a collective thawing. The body is asking to participate in the world again.

That desire is deeply biological, but it is also cultural and emotional and creative. I think that’s why so many women feel disconnected from themselves for years before discovering cycle syncing. It is not just about hormones. It is about finally realizing your internal landscape has patterns. Tides. Seasons. Certain forms of creativity belong naturally to certain phases.

Once I understood that, my writing stopped feeling like extraction.

I stopped sitting at my laptop wondering why I could not produce the exact same kind of work every single day of the month. I stopped interpreting fluctuating energy as failure.

Now I think about writing the same way I think about seasons.

Winter writing restores.

Spring writing explores.

Summer writing expresses.

Autumn writing edits.

The mistake is assuming one season is better than another.

Summer is beautiful, but nobody wants July forever. Creativity needs contrast to stay alive.

Still, there is something undeniably exhilarating about ovulation. About those few days each month where language comes easier, confidence arrives unannounced, and your body briefly feels less like a private ecosystem and more like an open window.

That is summer. Not constant happiness or endless productivity. Just expansion.

The reminder that we are allowed to take up a little more space than we thought.