Oh, hi. It’s me, Tass. This newsletter is an invitation for an unhinged conversation, the kind we could have over brunch or a glass of wine with friends who actually care.

We don’t just talk, we meet in real life too:

Join our book club

If you make it all the way to the bottom, there’s a second invitation for a free tarot reading night—and some very cute pictures of me as a wedding officiant. Can you believe it?

the year was 2018, and I was broken inside due to a toxic relationship with a toxic boyfriend. I had no idea I could just leave. In that same year, I met Jéssica at work. She was younger than me, but knew things I didn’t.

Her self-love overflowed, and I was lucky to be by her side with my empty cup and the humbleness to listen. My old friends had already tried to heal my broken wings, but I became good at dodging their advice and faking my feelings. I admit I tend to ignore advice, especially from my sister. Later, I ask her, “Why didn’t you tell me?” — of course, she did.

In the spring of 2025, Jéssica invited me to officiate at her wedding, and I immediately said yes. I would not only be honoured, but would also have the chance to share with many people what we had elaborated about love over the years of friendship and shared experiences.

Our conversations were the way out of the situation I was trapped in. She showed me I wasn’t crazy or ungrateful. Or asking too much, and most importantly, she made it crystal clear that it wasn’t supposed to be sour and uncomfortable. Not now and then, not ever.

Our 60-minute lunchtimes at work were not only for eating, but for long chats about what a healthy relationship is, what is unacceptable, how we should communicate, how to develop intimacy, and what intimacy boundaries are. We compared, we talked about movies, and of course, we gossiped. She proved to me that romantic relationships were meant to be easy.

Jéssica became my life saviour, a great friend, and a woman whom I look after and care deeply for. Last Sunday, I put all I learned from her and her now husband into words and officiated their wedding in the most lovable, fun, and light ceremony I have ever witnessed. The vibe was pure love and joy.

The marriage I live today is, in many ways, inspired by hers—and I hope I can influence others in that direction too. I know there are different ways to love, different agreements to be made. But the basics, I believe, are universal.

To write the wedding ceremony, I interviewed a few of the bride and groom’s closest friends and decoded their Secret of Love. I think everyone should hear it.

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself.

This evening we’ll have our How to Read Tarot for Your Besties Workshop on Thursday, 12.02 at 18:00, a Galentine’s night, for intuitive and fun girl talk hosted by me at the launch of Peach Studios, Kamppi. It’s gonna be magical and full of surprises! If you can’t join, we still have one last spot in our Brunch Book Club the following week.

It’s damn cold outside, so grab a hot chocolate and enjoy the five-minute read 🗝

I know it’s not much for many people, but it’s my personal record: I’ve been proudly going to the gym for three weeks. It has already become a sacred time where nothing can hurt me or reach me. The perfect way to start off the day.

However, I made a mistake.

I opened my social media during a 10-minute elliptical warm-up. You know how ridiculously sensitive I am to it. Exactly. The anxiety monster topped me with cream and—SNAP!—I was dessert before lunchtime. Luckily, I had a therapy session that day, and my therapist quickly rescued me.

Using our phones while we exercise tends to spike our cortisol — yes, cortisol, aka stress hormone — and drops the quality of the exercise. Can’t believe I’m talking about exercising! We can blame (or thank) the vision board we did last month. It’s God Damn Working.

Speaking of therapy, I actually started this entry to share something my therapist said that blew my mind 🤯

What I Learned in My Last Therapy Session

She said this to nudge me while I was whining about people who don’t respect my time. She walked me through different situations where I disrespect my own time, emotions, energy, effort, truth, ideas, space, priorities, and promises. All that mirrors how people treat me.

I already knew people treat us the way we treat ourselves. But I had only applied it to romantic relationships and never realized it holds for everyone who crosses our path.

If I were a mom, I’d be thinking about how to raise kids who respect themselves unapologetically. I’m a tarot reader, though. So I’m thinking about The Lovers x The Devil.

Reflection and projection: what I notice or dismiss in myself is mirrored in how I treat others.

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The Lovers have an angel blessing their naked souls because they stayed loyal to themselves and nurtured each other’s deepest truth. They didn’t take shortcuts that kept them trapped in vicious cycles. They didn’t negotiate their souls with the Devil or disrespect themselves for instant gratification.

The Devil, on the other hand, chains the couple who sold their souls to get what they wanted immediately instead of doing the hard things.

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

If you love meeting in person, join our Secret Book Club Brunch on February 18! It’s gonna be a casual, super cozy, and delicious meeting at Moko Market Punavuori, here in Helsinki. Scroll all the way down to find two more meetups happening in February!

Grab a warm cup of hot chocolate, and enjoy the three-minute read 🗝

It used to piss me off that I’m always changing something in the community. And whenever I made a change, I promised myself not to ever change it again. Then, a few months later, I would be doing something differently again and fighting internally. But not anymore! Today, I finally understood why I do that, and I discovered that twisting things now and then is actually amazing, and needed to keep Secret Club alive.

Would I be part of a community I don’t really like? No. And because I’m sitting on the community lead seat (Goddess knows it took me a while to admit it), the club has to satisfy me. I know! You have no idea how dreadful it sounds to my ears. Pleasing myself is something I say I should do, but when it comes to something that involves other people, it terrifies me.

I couldn’t even convince my colleagues at work to have lunch at my favourite restaurant because it felt unfair. It bothers me if people have to do something different because of me. I couldn’t ever be a vegan. I simply couldn’t ever bother people to choose a different place to eat because of me. Well, nowadays in Helsinki it’s not a problem, but pretend you’re in France, then you get me.

Secret Club only becomes fantastic when I love it without hesitation. And if I slightly dislike something, I must change it immediately. Because a community is a living thing.

To add a cherry on top of that liveness, our precious pearls always influence Secret Club with their presence: it can be a comment in the chat, or here on Substack, a link to a restaurant, an invitation, a suggestion, or bringing their energy to enlighten our meetups. Our vibes are there to play.

Secret Club is a collection of womanhood vibes — iridescent, layered, and softly shimmering like mother-of-pearl.

I usually say we are “the most vibrant community in Helsinki,” and now I know what I actually mean.

OH, BUT THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO CONFESS

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

This Saturday, 10.01 at 15:00, we’ll have our very first workshop of 2026, which will be a creative Tarot & Journaling Workshop!

Grab a warm cup of hot chocolate, and enjoy the three-minute read 🗝

My husband had been in Brazil for two weeks. When he came home, he proposed.

We always liked the idea of getting married again, and since we don’t wear rings, it felt just perfect.

But then, something went wrong.

We signed papers because I needed a visa to stay in Finland; we love each other and want to stay together as long as forever is. Although we had never really cared about wedding stuff, just before the office date, we even booked a professional photoshoot. We find it corny now, but I know we’ll love it in ten years.

It surprised us how much joy we felt saying “Yes, I do” in front of the marriage officer three years ago. It mattered because we meant it. Suddenly, I felt a stronger bond: this dude is here for me, and I’m here for him.

*

We were in the kitchen, opening the gifts and food packages from Brazil. Out of nowhere, he said he had something special. I was sure he would give me my favorite popcorn from a small town where I lived when I was a teenager.

But I see the ring.
I am elated. Absolutely surprised.

My mind racing during the slow, cinematic moment when he put the ring on my finger: Am I getting emotional? Am I about to cry? Is this the right finger? Oh God, I didn’t expect this. He really loves me. How lucky I am. The luckiest girl in the world. The best husband I could ever ask for.

Then, I feel something unexpected.

Loose.

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

Grab a warm cup of glögi, take five, and enjoy the read 🗝

Merry Christmas!

I celebrated Christmas on the 24th with my closest family circle. My mom, my sister, and I are basically one organism. We also welcomed a very close friend, and it was a perfect evening of laughter, warmth, and love.

I planned this evening during a mental health crisis a couple of months ago. I assumed I’d be deeply in my head, so I made the safest, softest plans possible. Jesus’ birthday can be a tough day even if you’re not Christian — it’s a family day, a day to be surrounded by people, to give and receive love. I genuinely thought it would be hard.

It wasn’t.
It was actually easy.

AT NOON

I went to the sauna and the pool, swam in ice-cold water, and ate a kuuma koira. Then, I headed home to get ready for Christmas Eve. I did, however, lose my own personal challenge of not shaving a single hair from my body while my husband is away. It’s almost 2026, and I still don’t feel comfortable walking around with hairy legs in public.

I hope your Christmas was — or will be — a delight. This time of year is for delight. For buying the things you want, or not buying anything at all. For opting out. For resting.

Just do you. You made it.

Merry Christmas, love.

My 13 Wishes Ritual

I wrote down 13 wishes, but I hesitated on the last piece of paper, which read “launch a podcast.” A dream that scares me because I have absolutely no idea how I’d fit that into my schedule, or how I could make it properly.

Then, a few minutes later, I received an email.

Because I love synchronicity (and mild chaos), I blindly added that 13th wish to the jar. And here are my wishes — or at least how I remember them:

✰ Launch a podcast
✰ Write a book manuscript
✰ Publish an essay in a famous publication (hello, Vogue Scandinavia)
✰ Get paid to write from a hotel
✰ Create my own journal notebook
✰ Finally publish my own tarot deck
✰ Go on a writing retreat
✰ Exercise once a week (I have a feeling this will be the final one, let you know later)
✰ Receive a writing grant
✰ Buy a car
✰ Reach 10k subscribers on Secret Club
✰ Read one book per week
✰ Get a big, chunky sum of money

Then I joined a Winter Solstice cacao ceremony, where we were asked to write 12 wishes. I wrote 12 brand-new intentions, all dedicated to my writing. They were more abstract, things like confidence, trusting my gut, and letting myself be seen (!!!).

When I got home, I didn’t know what to do with those papers. So I added them to the same jar. And now I’ve been burning two wishes every night.

Maybe I messed up the ritual. Maybe I didn’t.

I’ll let you know.

Continue reading 🪐

✺ Saturday, 10.01 at 15:00 — Our very first workshop of 2026 will be a loud, creative Tarot & Journaling session! The venue is a delightful, colorful spot — not a hotel this time, but trust me, you’re going to love it.'

✺ Wednesday, 14.01 at 18:00 —

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

Grab a warm cup of glögi, take five, and enjoy the read. 🗝

Today I wrote a letter to Pamela Anderson.

Dear ,

Living in Helsinki, I’ve learned that small things become newsworthy—like discovering you have Finnish roots. Everyone here already knew, of course, but as a foreigner I’m always slightly out of sync — orbiting close, but never quite landing.

Seeing you in Vogue Scandinavia instantly brought me back to that scene of you reading your diaries in the Netflix documentary: so gentle, so candid.

I’m obsessed with journaling, and recently I’ve decided to encourage more women to journal, too. When we let the pen lead, it goes straight to where it hurts and releases our feelings onto the paper. I felt so validated when I saw you have a lifetime of diaries and a real love for words. I, too, feel either wildly creative or wildly dramatic.

Do you think writing raw and honestly, as you did, protected your soul and kept your spark? I got the impression that it helped you to never give up on love, life, or falling in love again.

Thank you for being so vulnerable.

Okay, but if I am honest, I didn’t know who you really were before watching Pamela, a Love Story. Your name, of course, recalled a blonde sex symbol from the ’90s. A Playboy kind of girl who, omg, probably had to endure so much because the world was something else for women back then.

I was a child when Baywatch was on TV. I’m not sure when exactly they aired it in Brazil, but I do remember the Brazilian title: “S.O.S. Malibu.”

I always thought women like you were a different species. For me, it felt safer to be weird, nerdy, and to shine by expressing myself creatively while never daring to be pretty. I radically avoided and even despised the male gaze. I could never understand why a woman would risk herself in those spaces. And yet, it always intrigued me. Are they crazy or smarter than everybody else?

Later, I realized there’s no safe playground as a woman, and in the documentary, I could actually relate to so many things: growing up in a small town, an alcoholic father. And about the washing-the-penis-in-the-sink suspicion — I think you’re right! I never suspected my ex, either, but he cheated badly on me.

And the story in the house with your friend and the other guy — I’m deeply sorry that happened to you. I have a similar story, just with a different outcome.

I went to this big house with a new friend, older than me, I think she was 17. She went upstairs with one guy. I stayed in the living room with another. I was twelve; he was maybe eighteen. I said no, absolutely not, and wanted to leave — I don’t even remember if I actually did. He got pissed, but nothing happened. The next day, his girlfriend wanted to come after me and called me every name possible. I hid and learned two lessons: never put myself in those situations again, and shrink myself into discretion because, apparently, I was still ‘attractive.’

It meant I’d displease my mom. She was a hairdresser and was always telling me to blow-dry my hair, look pretty, and suck in my stomach. But being cute was a dangerous because it blurred my body’s boundaries and made people (men, mostly) assume they had free access.

I wonder if you used your sexy appearance to shield your delicate soul.

I love that you no longer use makeup and let your face age naturally. You look so real and alive. I think when we are full of ourselves, doing what we’re supposed to be doing instead of fighting and grinding, life flows more easily and far more abundantly. I’d love to hear your thoughts on that.

I’m 37, and one side of me says: You’re a writer, not an actress — no need to express your feelings on your forehead; save money for Botox. The other side says: But they’re my story.

I love stories, Pam.

✺ Wednesday, 10 at 18:00 — Our classic Reading Club (Women Who Run with the Wolves)! If you’d like to join, just read the last three chapters — they’re independent, so you’ll be fine.

Continue reading 🪐

There’s a reason so many women are still playing “I always thought it was a do-jo, do-jo, do-jo” in their heads.

I was gossiping with my besties these days, and one of them brightly said something like this:

We were trained to please men. So we perfected ourselves—brains, beauty, behavior. And we did it. We became extraordinary women. The funny part? Men never got the same memo. They’re still boys, waiting for applause they didn’t earn.

Mercury went into a microwave, and apparently opened the manhole.

This conversation started because Mercury retrograde brought a pest from the past: a toxic, shitty ex-boyfriend message a friend, and she forwarded the message. You know, normal things friends do.

She gave us the horror love story we all know too well: an army of red flags and a young woman too naive to walk away. Confidence chipped away piece by piece by shitty men who feed on our shine until we’re left bland, confused, and questioning ourselves. Energy vampires sucking us dry while we’re out here hustling, trying to be the best damn version of ourselves.

This time, we bonded over something I’d never said out loud before: ex-boyfriends who cheat & take your money.

I’d honestly forgotten that I once helped pay my ex’s college tuition because his dad “wouldn’t help,” and poor him would’ve “lost the semester.” It was forever ago, but the audacity still stings.

My friend’s lame not-so-great boyfriend suddenly looked better in comparison — he married his affair (!), and the new wife handled part of his debts. Can you see how insane this loop is? What a plot twist.

I got cheated on, too, but no refund. What a combo. I still remember picking him up from the airport with sushi waiting in the car after his “work trip.” Men don’t just test us—they break us. And then we have to spend more money on therapy just to rebuild trust that they shattered for free.

(I only pay for female therapists to break the loop)

That’s why we are embarrassed about being in a relationship — how come I’m again risking that humiliation? Wasn’t that trauma enough?

Well, at least I’m sure if this diary page ever gets read by a man, it’ll be by a nice one. Not a cheater. A Charlie — the perfect man who knows the world is already a woman’s rival and does what he can to make his woman’s life better, simply because he loves her fiercely and wants her to feel wonderful. Charlie knows he has work to do — and OMG, he does!

Charlie, we love you!

Charlie’s in his forties, I guess, but he gets it: feminism isn’t against men. It’s just women asking for the bare minimum: to have agency over their bodies, control their money, cut their hair, dress how they want, pierce their noses, get paid for their work, and not be raped. Basic. Stuff.

Maybe, deep down, I want this diary page to land in the hands of a trashy man. Would he recognize himself and admit he’s awful? Or would he blame a woman? (Exes or moms, take your pick.)

If that’s you, sweetheart, feel free to comment below.

I still feel a prick of shame for being part of these stories. I don’t blame myself, of course — but there’s a kind of disgust that lingers for having them in my life. So I keep reminding myself: they’re not mine. They belong to the men who caused them. They own that mess. I was just there, collecting trauma as souvenirs.

🎵

“And that’s when I realised — something don’t feel right.”

Dear Diary is where I dive into the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have the answers, but I believe in connecting through words.

🥤Grab a drink, take a 3-minute break, and enjoy the read 🔐
If you find the 🐇 comment it below.

Do I always get sick when I start a new job?

I think it’s the universe telling me to pause and clear my head. Maybe I get sick because that’s the only way to stop my stubborn workaholic brain.

I haven’t changed my LinkedIn yet, but I’m now a full-time writer, even though I don’t know precisely how I’m going to get paid. But I’ll figure it out. I have plenty of ideas.

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Dear Diary is where I dive into the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have the answers, but I believe in connecting through words.

🥤Grab a drink, take a 2-minute break, and enjoy the read 🔐
If you find the 🐇 comment it below.

I get obsessed with things — mushrooms, astrology, tarot, the color green, and so on. Now, I’m on an inception spiral, obsessed with the fact that I’ve been obsessed with journaling my entire life. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. I’ve even started to believe that journaling — along with the other things I loved when I was twelve — holds all the answers to my career questions.

I graduated in Journalism, but I quit my first internship. And not just any internship — it was the hard-to-get, shiny, “you’ll-never-have-a-chance-like-this-again” kind of internship. I resigned because I wasn’t enjoying the writing I was doing, wasn’t feeling creative, and, of course, I was naïve enough to ignore the scarcity of the job market or whatever.
See? Now I wonder — what if all I ever wanted was to jot down my thoughts and emotions out loud, as a way to process them? Maybe I was always meant to be writing this Dear Diary column you’re reading.

Or at least, I really hope so.

I wish I had known it sooner, instead of knocking on so many wrong doors.
But maybe that’s part of it.

On Sunday, I heated the sauna to melt old thoughts I don’t want to keep anymore.

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Dear Diary is where I dive into the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have the answers, but I believe in connecting through words.
That’s why I keep writing.

🥤Grab a drink, take a 4-minute break, and enjoy the read 🔐

I just remembered when this ugly boy from 7th grade asked if I wanted to date him, and I said no. I was 11, he was 13. I had no idea what date meant, but even if I knew, my answer wouldn’t have changed. He started hating me the second before my negative answer and screamed in the school’s patio a loud FUCK YOU, TÁSSIA. It was so scary that I started trying to monitor where he and his friend were because I had to walk alone after school.

I started despising him back, but with a drop of guilt I couldn’t quite understand.

Until this day, whenever I said no to a man, the FUCK YOU, TÁSSIA echoes in my head — and suddenly I’m bending over backwards to soften the edges, trying to sugarcoat the rejection. Making the no as sweet as a no can possibly be. It’s automatic, pure damage control.

I also do my best not to attract the male gaze in the first place, for the same reason: fear of sudden, simmering aggression. Sadly, bleaching eyebrows wasn’t a thing back then. I’d love to try it now, just to see if it really works as a man-repellent.

I never told an adult about this story, but I did write it down in one of my little lock-and-key diaries. That’s how I learned to process things and, eventually, through teen magazines that thought sex tips were as essential as eyeliner tutorials. Not at 11, of course — only when I was 14 (I know, not much better). But it was the 90s tipping into the 2000s, a whole different era of awkward period. Maybe today is even worse with the internet?

My diaries weren’t just an outlet for expression, they were my closest friends — the only ones I trusted with the full truth (and the juiciest secrets). I’d love to flip through them now and laugh at the silly things I wrote as a teen — so naïve, so dramatic, so worried about nothing more than hiding them well so no one would ever find them. Without social media, aesthetics, handwriting, and consistency were never the point.

They’re all gone now, lost to the past, but I can still picture the colorful covers, the glittery stickers, the clumsy doodles. It was therapy before I even knew what therapy was. Turns out, research backs it up: regular journaling can cut cortisol (your stress hormone) levels by up to 23%! Elevated cortisol is linked to depression, anxiety, brain fog, and even a weaker immune system. That messy teenage scribbling was actually an antidote for teenage horrors.

I can’t think of an easier creative therapeutic activity than grabbing a pen and paper to write. You can do it everywhere. You don’t need to sit down straight (highly recommended, though), you don’t even need silence. If you only have your phone, it’s not the same thing, but also fine.

For incredible or awful days, I always had my diary with me.

If you are reading this, comment a 🔐 just to let me know you made it this far.

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Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

🥤Grab a drink, take a 2-minute break, and enjoy the read 🗝️

Something suddenly changed on Monday. I woke up determined and felt surprisingly confident. Nothing substantial happened before it, but I felt done with being in between worlds and decided to cross the finish line. Victorious, as I’m only competing with myself. Was, actually. Not anymore.

It’s been almost five years since career became a triggering word for me. I still remember 2020 so vividly: working from home, stopping in the middle of an afternoon, and begging my tarot cards to tell me to quit. I couldn’t carry it anymore. My job felt like a heavy box I dragged everywhere — a box that didn’t fit into my life, my dreams for the future, or even my sense of ambition. I couldn’t picture any version of myself still holding it.

I didn’t leap and quit in that moment, but I did learn the tarot — and it became one of my favorite hobbies. Since then, I’ve tried on many different roles, hoping I might grow to love something in the same field. I tested, tested, and tested again. I poured energy (and money) into things I never truly felt drawn to (God knows I tried), simply because they were familiar — and felt like the safest way to support myself.

On Monday, I finally left the limbo of career transition. You know how it goes: juggling two paths until you burn out and are forced to choose. Either you follow the one you love most — the one you can’t not do — or the bills get louder, and you go where the money takes you. You risk giving up forever on something your soul once craved but couldn’t afford. Damn life.

I’d been dragging myself for years, torn between my soul’s need to go back home, to be, once again, a person who writes, and the safety of staying where I was.

But I said goodbye, and I meant it. I still have to mourn, say thanks before it let it go. But it’s decided.

I know words are my labor from now on — because something changed on Monday. I felt it, wrote it down, and two minutes later the universe confirmed it, as magically as a paid creative writing gig landing in my inbox.

You know I love the woo-woo side of life and how it balances the blandness of concrete buildings, AI, and all things plastic we swim in. This week, we’re already feeling the eclipse vibes ahead of Sunday, September 7. It’s like the cosmic big toe is hovering over the reset button. Eclipses shut things down, then switch them back on.

I asked my tarot for a card to help me navigate all this — and because my deck is not a strawberry cake, it gave me this:

The Three of Swords. Just looking at it hurts. But sometimes you have to stare pain in the face to move past it. To accept it doesn’t belong anymore, thank it, mourn it, and let it go.

These three swords crossed aren’t just about heartbreak and disappointment — they’re about the truth behind the pain. It’s the goodbye of the transition. Because as much as that old role was in my way, it was also serving me. It’s like finally deleting my ex’s number instead of occasionally replying just to feed my ego. Doesn’t matter if he once bought me my favorite ring — he’s just delaying my new life.

So let the swords help me grieve an identity, a safety net, maybe even old dreams I was tied to. They cut through the heart to remind me: avoiding the pain only keeps me stuck. Feeling it, letting the heartbreak move through me, is what clears space for the future.

Feeling it deeply.
Ouch.

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What if every human being could simply do what they love, nourish their soul, and still be rewarded for it? Would the world naturally fall into balance, like nature does? Or would it collapse into chaos because everyone wants to be an artist?

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Who would plant food? Who would clean? At least, many people genuinely like numbers, order, or systems. And what about those who prefer not to do anything at all — would they still serve a purpose in holding the balance?

In my utopian dream, no greedy man could tip the scales by wanting more than the rest. No VIP sections. All the planes would be filled with business-class beds so we’d all fly long distances comfortably. A bit communist of me, I know. And we know communism failed — maybe because the weak link was always humans. Maybe we’re not wired for equality. Maybe we crave podiums too much.

And why does the currency of “worth” change over the years? I envy people who lived when poetry was hyped (only if you were male and rich, of course). But then it changed to sword-fighting. Then medicine. Then money. Then computers. Now data. Tomorrow, who knows? Please don’t say AI. Okay, robots are the hype, I get that.

Meanwhile, we all bow to this invisible green abstraction, and the aliens watching this reality show must be so intrigued by how we worship money. “Look how they trade their whole existence for it. Even during a pandemic! I’m sure they make it for the show. It can’t be true! Wild and crazy beings, these humans! LOL”

At the very least, if the aliens tuned into a not-so-popular channel, they’d see a misfit woman wishing she could simply make a living by writing. A small rebel, doing what she loves, insisting she’ll be rewarded not only on a soul level but also, eventually, in the material world too.

She’s a naive liar, pretending the world doesn’t demand the opposite (be great first, and only then perhaps get paid). She swears she sees a wandering fairy mecenas in the forest searching for creatives to sponsor — in Helsinki.

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If you made it all the way here, drop a 🗝️ somewhere I can see it (Instagram, WhatsApp, comments) — it truly means the world to me.

Dear Diary is a monthly love letter to the mess and magic of relationships — with others, and with myself. I don’t have answers, just lots of questions, but I believe in connecting through words. That’s why I keep writing.

🥤Grab an iced drink, take a 7-minute break, and enjoy the read. This is a special edition of Dear Diary — the kind you’ll want to save for your next journaling session (and maybe forward to someone you love). 🗝️

Get ready, we’re going on a trip today!

TL;DR
☁️ Is it delusional if someone else already did it? Asking for a friend.
☁️ I made a 10-day delulu prompt challenge — and did it myself.
☁️ Sharing my takeaways, because some of them surprised me.
☁️ Bonus: photos of my journal — yes, it’s chaotic. Yes, it’s honest. Yes, you’ll love it.

Delulu is an internet slang term that exploded in 2023, with people referring to K-pop fans who lose their minds over the artists. It became a meme and was repeatedly used as a synonym of delusional, to say one is imagining crazy “what if” scenarios. It was used to ridicule, but also to encourage crazy, but wonderful, beliefs people have. It can be a distortion of reality, but also a positive, whimsical, and fun manifesting tool.

I’m a radical optimist, yes. But I still choose manifesting whatever I want, without real expectations — I’d never believe manifesting is enough, but it doesn’t hurt — and maybe it can help our brain to guide our attitudes towards what we want.

🦖 Short caveat: The world is problematic, and I don’t believe someone who does not have their basic needs met could just be delulu. I know life can be complex in ways I can’t even picture. This is just a whimsical and fun solulu. So, be aware of toxic positivity and use it just for fun and to inspire you to achieve your goals, or at least get closer to them. And, please don’t spend money you don’t have yet.

Now we are good to go!

I know. Delulu is a bit too 2023, but I didn’t get the hype back then — millennial here, hello. I saw weird memes on Pinterest, but never paid attention until seeing a person selling a delulu “template” on Instagram. It was like a habit/journaling guide, and it got my attention because I thought it was too delulu to be true. I tried to download, but it failed.

After a couple of videos, it clicked: delulu is not that delusional — many times it’s just a young lady being incredibly confident or asking for something big that somebody already has.

Isn’t “delusional” just what the world calls women who dare to dream big and want it all?

Instead of being ashamed of being foolish, delulu ladies allow themselves to manifest what they want, taking a whimsical and fun ride. ‘Cause why not? I think we don’t need permission to dream big, but if it works, I’m in. Let’s go delulu, babe 💋

I couldn’t resist it, so I set a delulu goal, and a 10-day journaling prompt, and I’m sharing it all with you today: the goal, the prompts, photos of my journal, and my takeaways from this process.

DULULU GOAL

First, I found a specific delulu goal, something uncomfortable to say out loud or that people might laugh at. Now that I’m writing this, I’m feeling I could’ve been more delulu.

Here’s mine —

I believe I can reach 1,000 paid subscribers — so I can make this newsletter my full-time thing. I'd be writing more pieces like this one — about being delusional (in the best way) — and inspiring women to live joyfully, loudly, and entirely on their own terms.

I write pretty much to heal myself, and I know it resonates with women around the world. I want my voice to exist, to matter, and yes — to pay me. Specifically: I want at least 1,000 women to say, “Yes, I’ll give you €9.90 for this joy.”

Hope someone is laughing, it’s a good omen!

I love challenges.

To create a list of prompts to delulu-inspire my newsletter growth, I asked ChatGPT for a massive list, and it was easier than starting from a blank page. Then, I took my Sacred Cycled Oracle deck, which has amazing prompts to reshape them. I spent a good time crafting the perfect prompt list you’ll find below.

After the second day, I felt like skipping some of the prompts, but I resisted and chose to trust the process. Worth it. Plus, I have to admit I went through all 10 days, but I didn’t follow it in 10 days; I think it was thirteen days. Some prompts needed more time to simmer (and some just needed a nap in between). Instead of rushing, I stayed with the ones that hit harder, letting them settle into my brain — and my bones.

It’s highly recommended to find a journaling habit for these days — I already journal in the morning, daily, but you can do it whenever you feel like. Maybe it’s a cup of coffee in the afternoon, or with a cup of tea before sleep. Hot beverages love journaling, you can ask them.

I added photos of my journal to the very end of this newsletter for reference, inspiration, and oversharing. Hope you appreciate it.

Here are the prompts! Feel free to download it to your phone, print and share it with your friends!

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🥤Grab an ice drink, take a 5-minute break, and enjoy the read. 🗝

When I said “yes, I do” in front of the Population Agency officer in Finland, I immediately felt a different weight on our relationship’s shoulders — it became stronger, more grounded, and powerful, just because we both decided so by saying “yes, I do.”

Yet I have to admit, this relationship has always carried extra baggage, and it couldn’t be any other way.

Let’s face it — Moving to a new country for someone is a big deal.

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🥤Grab a coffee, take a 4-minute break, and enjoy the read. 🪐

Dear Diary,

I keep telling myself not to perform—that Secret Club is a living manifesto meant to inspire women to live deliciously, blah, blah, blah—and I’ve talked about this in many therapy sessions. But does that mean I’m great at it? Unfortunately not. If I were, I’d probably be so natural I wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just live.

Is it possible to make joyful moments a habit, then? I believe, yeah. I know that’s easier said than done, because life is always bumping and spinning, and people out there (not us, of course) love to clap for struggle. In Finland, maybe someone would compliment me for taking half a sunny weekday off to swim. But in other places, it’s easy to imagine someone being praised for starving themselves to get thinner, or being called “Superwoman” for overdoing it until the edge of burnout. She’s so energetic, she does everything for everyone. But who does something for her?

Being too busy was always the main reason I skipped the delicious things. My ego is easily fooled by the illusion of usefulness. I’m needed, it thinks! But beyond that, there’s another trap: the false image of success that makes us chase without ever asking why.

Oh.

How do I know I’m not being too easy on myself and avoiding what’s actually needed? 🍸 My mom says I always take things too hard—so maybe when I’m feeling just a little lazy, it’s probably healthy?

How do I know I’m not being too hard on myself by convincing myself I need to be successful? 🫀 Are my definitions of success aligned with my soul, or am I being influenced by TikTok?

🪐

I have a story, Diary.

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Grab a coffee, relax for 5 minutes, and enjoy the read. 🌸 Since the Marimekko Day performance, I’m obsessed with “Made of” by Goldielocks.

I’m writing from sunny Amsterdam today. I’m in my hotel room, letting laziness embrace my body instead of rushing around. This city is so beautiful, but resting should always come first when you’re on a holiday. I decided to bring my laptop along when I heard the news that my husband got sick at the last minute. I flew solo to meet a friend and her fiancé.

I was happy on one side, but felt so sad my love couldn’t come, not even having an extra space in the plane comforted me. It got me feeling a bit dramatic and put me in a spiral on hating airports. I do hate them. They are like a limbo, a strange in-between space where stress thrives. At least it's usually worth crossing to reach something gorgeous on the other side.

This time, it truly was. It’s my third time in Amsterdam, but the first time I visited a women’s courtyard community called Begijnhof. It’s a peaceful, well-kept garden surrounded by old houses, dating back to 1307 or so. Women have lived there in a quiet community for centuries — religious, yes, but without taking vows or disappearing from the world. Tourists are allowed in, as long as they stay silent.

Being there made me dream of a world without men. Just calm and safe. The houses felt like a fairytale. I imagined a life where we share strawberry cake, care for one another, and make things together. I’d write stories and host tea afternoons. You’d guide us through meditation or teach us how to dance. We’d nap after lunch. No pressure, no hurry. Life could be soft. Does that sound too hippie? You could still work in IT or finance — just... don’t overload. Come back to creativity. Let’s meet in the garden for a picnic.

.

.

.

Sorry, I fell asleep.

Got it from my mom, she is a nap queen. She naps every day after lunch, and sometimes again if the mood strikes. She’s retired now, but even when I was a teenager, she did it — and I found it boring. I couldn’t stay still long enough to rest. You know, FOMO and too many teens’ thoughts buzzing. Later, it was the inner bossy voice — the work-hard-or-you’re-worthless one — that kept me from napping.

In Italy and Spain, napping is part of the culture — a built-in pause in the rhythm of the day. In Brazil, I once worked for a “modern” company that even had a dedicated nap room. It felt progressive... until they crammed new employees in there and the space disappeared. As children, naps were non-negotiable. Sadly, somewhere along the way, we trade that softness for productivity, and rest becomes an afterthought.

Fortunately, I have a perfect reason to never feel guilty about naps anymore: Tricia Hersey, founder of the Nap Ministry. She reframes rest as resistance — a way to reclaim your time, energy, and worth in a culture that demands far too much. Yes, I know it gets a bit political, but reframing things like this helps me hush the judgmental voice in my head. She’s clever and sharp-tongued. If you saw the face she makes when I nap on the couch, you'd get it. But I’ve learned to talk back.

Tricia is the perfect excuse to fully embrace napping. And for future reference, I’ve got a few secret, rebellious hacks up my sleeve:

The “Meditation Break” Nap — Pop in your headphones, dim the lights, and play a 20-minute body scan. Maybe you drift off, maybe not. It still counts. No one questions “mindfulness.” Bonus points if you keep a yoga mat rolled out.

The “Post-Shower Cocoon” Nap — Wrap yourself in a towel or robe, curl up on the bed, and "accidentally" rest your eyes while scrolling. The warm-to-soft transition is magic.

The “I’m Commuting” Nap — I don’t commute anymore, but sometimes I lie on the sofa and pretend I do. If I were on a tram, I’d close my eyes and catch a few Zs — just set an alarm.

🌷

I came to Amsterdam for tulips, canal walks, and catching up with friends. As a souvenir, I’m bringing the slowness, the reminder of resting, the soft dreams of a life lived gently— one dreamy pause at a time.

Now, I’m off to snooze.

SECRET CLUB HIGHLIGHTS 🐚

MAKE YOUR PERFUME! — We have a few spots open for non-members to join us for a special Perfume Club Helsinki experience. If you’re curious about fragrance, want to explore the world of essences, and create your own signature scent, this is your chance.

A little treat for Dear Diary readers — use the code DEARDIARY to get 15% off + 7 days free on your Secret Club membership. Just a gentle nudge to step into the magic 🐚

7 days free + 15% discount

P.S. If you noticed, we’re sending this email through Substack, no need to create an account. The juicy stuff continues happening in our Secret platform.

Grab a coffee, relax for 4 minutes, and enjoy the read. 🌸 Here’s the White Lotus 3 Playlist

Where is my soul?
Can you see it through my eyes?

When Chelsea told Saxon he was soulless, I felt it. Not in me, but I got her and I felt I wanted to be like her in a way — I think Rick doesn’t deserve her, he doesn’t get that she’s interested in what’s human, authentic, deep. She can see people through, or at least this is how I fanfic her in my dreams. I also crave depth, long conversations that poke you in places you never felt before. I like feeling things and crafting good material for my therapy sessions.

I want to be Chelsea’s friend and tell her she doesn’t need to protect Rick — he can’t be saved from himself.

Sure, we’ll have to wait until the last episode to see if I’m right. But in real life? I’ve been there. Trying to heal the most poisonous guys — the ones who needed professional help — and all they got was my clumsy attempt, and what we got was a chaotic relationship.

The trauma from those experiences (yes — plural, unfortunately) still echoes sometimes. And I have to remind myself to forgive, to embrace who I was.

There, there. It’s not your fault, dear.
They told us it was our job to turn boys into good men. And ever since poor Eva (!), we’ve been blamed for biting the apple from the evil tree — for damaging Adam instead of enlightening him.

But that’s not how it should be.

The thing is, neither Eva nor Chelsea is responsible for male issues. Do men stay in problematic relationships trying to save a woman’s soul? Well, not in the stories I’ve heard — real or fictional. We’re always the martyrs, hurting ourselves over soulless men.
Okay, not always soulless. Sometimes just totally fucked up in their heads and ignoring us when we tell them to go to therapy.

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And when we fail at a mission we were never supposed to be on in the first place, we still get blamed. Does it make sense to fail at something we shouldn’t even be doing?
No — especially when there are actual professionals who study mental health for a reason.

There’s a second topic I want to discuss with Chelsea — and everyone interested in spirits is invited!

Lately, I’ve been having these strange dreams where I’m lying in bed, seeing ghosts that look like funny little E.T.s — somewhere between Casper and and cartoon aliens. It made me feel terrified to use the bathroom — had to turn all the lights on and scan each corner to make sure no ghost was hiding. I prefer to see things clearly so as not to confuse my brain. Lost souls, in the dark, look a lot like towels hanging on the door.

Accordingly to me, so no research, the spirit and the soul are the same thing: an energy print we all have. But as long as our hearts keep pumping blood through our veins, that imprint stays with us — as if our living body carries a magnet that holds it in place. When we die, this magnet loses its power and our print flies away freely, or not so freely. Saxon doesn’t have a soul, he’s shallow as a plate and needs to be attached to what he can touch. It’s all he knows.

I think Chelsea understands how much gets imprinted on our souls — and how that imprint might shape the way our spirit moves, maybe even after we're gone. I’d love to dive into that conversation with her, just for the fantasy of it. To imagine this whimsical soul universe unfolding in some invisible layer of existence.

I’d love to hear Chelsea’s thoughts on that.
And yours, too.

P.S. If this got you thinking about how to untangle from the patriarchal strings that tell us to always be kind, chase, or care for men — I’d love to invite you to our Reading Club for Women Who Run with the Wolves.

It’s my favorite book for breaking free of those old, dusty scripts — and the tales inside are pure magic. 🐺🌸

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Grab a coffee, relax for 3 minutes, and enjoy the read. 💌

I love that Valentine’s Day in Finland is all about friendship. It feels kinda feminist, doesn’t it? The world has changed, sure, but women are still the ones most encouraged to think about marriage and family before themselves. We’re the ones expected to hold things together—raising kids, supporting the elderly, doing all the invisible, unpaid work that keeps life running. Of course, not every woman, not every situation—but statistically speaking, it’s still us.

That’s why I love the Finnish version of Valentine’s Day. Friendship takes the pressure off finding “the one” and instead reminds us of the people who will actually be there as life unfolds. Because, again—statistically speaking—it’s older women who end up taking care of other older women. We outlive men. The so-called “fragile sex” actually holds everything together in the end.

I feel so grateful for my friends—women and men alike (though, unsurprisingly, I have more female friends). Because at the end of the day, this isn’t about romance. It’s about having people who listen, who make you laugh, who bring you soup when you’re sick.

I hope today, everyone has someone they can message just to say thank you for being my friend.

An Open Letter to All My Friends and Future Friends

I’m so glad we met. Truly. Even if we’re not always physically close or perfectly in sync, we have something far more important—this mysterious, magnetic energy that pulls us together, where conversations flow effortlessly, and I feel seen and loved.

Every time we talk and laugh, I feel full—not just happy, but truly alive. My heart doesn’t just beat; it jumps.

I love how, with you, I don’t have to earn my place. You believe I deserve to exist and be loved just because. No pressure to perform, no expectations to achieve. I can be my weird, unfiltered self, and that’s exactly how I feel about you. I want you to chase your dreams, and if you ever get stuck in a loop—repeating old mistakes—I’ll be here to remind you of your strength. I’ll be honest if I get hurt along the way, and I trust you to do the same.

And if one day we change so much that we no longer align, that’s okay too. Friendship isn’t a sentence—it’s freedom. I want you to fly high, with or without me.

But I have no doubt that at some point—in this life or another—our paths will cross again. And when they do, I’ll squeeze you tight and tell you all the things that keep me wanting to bite life off in big, hungry gulps. And I’ll want to hear every single thing about you, too.

I will always love you, my dear friend.

Feel free to share this open letter with all of your friends and future friends!

Speaking of sharing, we’ll be spreading love—literally! Join us at Esplanadi (Helsinki) on Saturday, 15/02, at 13:00 as we share Love Letters with the city. 💌 Learn more.

💌 Drop a letter emoji without saying anything in any of our channels to let me know you read this — it will mean the world to me! Thanks in advance! 🐚

Someone asked me what I meant by "like-minded people” and I had to pause momentarily. Pause is not an action I usually get while my eyes jiggle on Instagram feed, stories, reels, comments, likes, and messages. That’s why I instantly realized two things: one, I probably take it for granted and believe everyone is like-minded because they like posts and comment “love it”. Two, do I make it clear what are our values, interests, and attitudes? What vibe do I want to spread?

I replied with our most obvious values: creativity, joy, and sisterhood which I dare to say all our members believe too. Nevertheless, this question opens an entire door of behind-the-scenes intentions I bring to our like-minded package. There’s much more to the love I put into making the community a cozy space for expression, joy, and connections.

So what exactly does “like-minded” mean here? :)

Our headline proudly declares that we are unapologetically fostering creativity, fun, and friendships. But what does that actually mean? Thinking about the question made me want to break it down and share what each of these means to me—and how they shape the community we’re building.

LET’S START WITH CREATIVITY 🫒

“Are you all creative women there?”, someone could ask.
The answer would be yes and no.

No need to be an artist, but certainly we believe that creativity has power. Even when we don’t know what this power is, we are open to experimenting. The secret behind this is a serious belief that tapping into our creativity is a fire to remind ourselves who we are, what we like, and who we wanna be — which might get forgotten in the stash of daily activities. I hate the word busy, but that’s life in our times.

I f*cking love the metaphors in this book —

In the passage above, she underscores that creativity is a vital force, deeply tied to our true selves and the "wild woman" archetype—the instinctive, untamed, and deeply creative essence within every woman. I believe that keeping our “wild woman” alive is what makes us brave enough to say no, love ourselves despite the beauty industry, stay strong with our values, and not accept less than we deserve.

Yep. That’s where “getting creative” comes from.

NOW LET’S GET TO THE FUN 🫒

And what’s the thing with “having fun”?

If we think about movies that picture women in past years — it could be Little Women or Downton Abbey — we are usually depicted as attached to domestic life. Recently, I read a very interesting point of view on how our hobbies are domestic-friendly and can get interrupted by children, food, and whatever we have to deal with. It doesn’t diminish handcrafts of course, but I like to keep my eyes open. Meanwhile, men go fishing, hunting, playing games with a ball (I don’t love balls), and other things that can get you dirty and are not easy to do with children around. Back to movies, you can also see women playing the piano, singing, or painting — a mix of a hobby and a feature for the delight of people — and hopefully a good husband.

Fast forward from Downton Abbey to 2025—where do we find ourselves? Confused about whether or not to have children, working long hours, spending money on wellness just to catch a breath before the next therapy session—all while trying to figure out what our biggest dreams are. Not everyone feels trapped, however, I know many can relate. In this whirlwind, allowing ourselves to rest, have fun, and savor moments of joy feels nothing short of magical.

But fun isn’t just a break from life—it’s a way of reclaiming ourselves. Whether through creativity, laughter, or doing something for the pure joy of it, fun shows us that we’re more than the roles society has assigned to us. Hopefully, it’s just me, though — I still have a voice inside my head that sometimes conflicts, so doing it with other people helps me to ensure it’s not selfish, it’s not silly.

THAT LEAD US TO FRIENDSHIPS 🫒

Open-hearted to connections

I started the Secret Club because I wanted to make friends, and I know how sad it can feel not to know anyone who shares your vibe—especially when you’re missing the incredible friends you left behind. Over time, I’ve realized this is a shared feeling, which is why our seashell logo feels so fitting. Seashells are moved by the tides, and eventually, they gather together. We are here for a reason, and I trust serendipity to guide us.

If there’s a woman out there willing to connect, I’ll always open my heart and listen to what she has to say. I want to meet more open-hearted women to share experiences with, and I hope this space can be a cozy home for anyone searching for that connection.

And that, Dear Diary, is what “like-minded” means to me.

🫒 Drop an olive emoji without saying anything in any of our channels to let me know you read this — it will mean the world to me! Thanks in advance! 🎀

I fell in love with Florence Given on Instagram. Her words echo things I’ve wanted to say but ended up not, and I won’t try to understand the reason. My best memories of myself show someone who loves life with fierce optimism and never dares to be neutral. Always ready to bite life because life is delicious. It went away for a while, but now it’s bursting again. My blood is getting hotter, and a magical fierce keeps me up. No, I didn’t take any drugs. Oh no, I forgot to take my natural medicines today. OMG, am I ovulating? I certainly am, but not only that. My entire body started again to be passionate about the environment, the city, the snow, the cold, and even this charming grey weather that accentuates the colorful lights hanging around. It’s cozy, it’s enchanting, and it’s even sexy. Can you feel it?

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