Author: Clemmie Potvin

I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a local branch last week, clutching my favorite “Keep Going” mug from Lisbon, when I realized something profound. For years, we’ve been fed this dusty myth that libraries are just quiet, stagnant warehouses for aging paper—places where you go to whisper and…

I was sitting in a sun-drenched cafe in a tiny coastal town last month, cradling a ceramic mug I’d just picked up—this darling thing with a hand-painted lighthouse—when I realized something was profoundly missing from my morning ritual. There was no rustle of newsprint, no ink-stained fingertips, and no shared…

I was sitting at my desk yesterday, cradling a hand-painted ceramic mug I picked up in a tiny seaside village, when I realized I hadn’t actually tasted my tea. Instead, I was caught in that familiar, mindless trance—scrolling through endless feeds while my tea went cold. It’s a moment of…

I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a tiny cafe in Lisbon last spring, clutching a hand-painted ceramic mug I’d just discovered, when it hit me: we’ve been sold a very polished, very curated lie about why we flock to these places. The mainstream narrative tries to tell us…

I was sitting at my desk this morning, cradling a particularly chunky ceramic mug I picked up in Portland, staring at my bullet journal and thinking about my first studio apartment ten years ago. Back then, a “small space” just meant you had to be careful where you put your…