Flow Vol. 2

Ponderings, Park Walks, & Peculiar Strangers

Flow is a logbook.

Hello, fellow Substackers, and welcome back to another week of Flow. In this series, I “document the flow of the human experience, logging the authentic and tumultuous time that is my life as a 22-year-old woman.”¹

This is my second official week keeping a log of my life, and so far, it has been rewarding tracking my experiences. After publishing last week’s Flow, I coincidentally came across a 1-year-old picture in my camera roll from when I was a student worker at a Texas medical school. On that June day in 2024, I was tasked with organizing the school’s bookshelf: a task I gratefully accepted as bookshelves always speak to my soul.

While sorting through books, Austin Kleon ‘s Steal Like an Artist stopped me in my tracks; I’m a sucker for handwritten fonts. Within his book, Austin tells readers to keep a logbook.

I smiled, looking back at this, wondering if Austin’s suggestion planted the idea for Flow deep within my subconscious. I cannot say for sure, but I am excited to be here, one year later, with my very own logbook.

So without further ado, here is a peek into my small details that will help me remember the big details.²

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Thursday (September 2025)

Flow: Pondering, Park Walks, and Peculiar Strangers

7:30 am. Woke up naturally to the sun’s rays with my fluffy, teal blanket wrapped around my head. Felt the kind of comfort you feel only after waking; the kind that moves your hand to the snooze button as you whisper 10-more minutes.

7:50 am. Threw my blanket off, reluctantly launching myself out of bed. Arranged my duvet and pillows to put a bandaid on my messy room, filled with baskets of laundry to do and sticky notes everywhere of yet-to-turn-tangible ideas.

9:00 am. Pondering

Headed to a coffee shop with pink walls and rosemary coffee. Sat my computer down and unzipped my flower pouch to uncover that I have yet again forgotten my debit card in my binocular’s case. Sonia (my roommate and best friend) is right, I do need to set up my own Apple Pay. Frantically texted my mom if I could borrow her’s, ordered, and Venmoed. Ok, now time to lock in. Opened up Canva, Notion, and the publication I was to present on Friday.

The presentation would take place during journal club hour, a time when the four labs within our neurodevelopment unit of the med campus come together to share new ideas. My talk was on a progressive mentorship model developed by my old PI and, at the time, undergraduate mentor. I was ecstatic for the opportunity to share this model in a new environment, as it meant so much to me in undergrad.

Outlining my talk, I reminisced on my old research experiences in Texas. Hard to believe it’s been 3 months since my move. Memories flashed back of undergrad: of implementing psychosocial screeners into cancer clinics, of connecting with patients, of conversations that changed the trajectory of my professional goals. I thought about my PI, Dr. Hall, who valued collaboration, team relationships, and teaching over any financial or title promotion. I promised I would be a PI who carried her mentorship values with me. Tomorrow was my first chance to do so!

1:00 PM. Finished the last sip of my rose espresso while typing the final line of my speaker’s notes. Headed home feeling anxious, yet excited about my talk. Driving home, I sat with the radio almost too quiet to hear, so I could hear myself think. Reflected on my new research job: I have been living in the present and the future. It’s nice to think about the past for a moment.

1:15 PM. Stomach grumbled as I headed inside to the kitchen. Microwaved some chicken curry leftovers Sonia made. With newfound brain fuel, I practiced my slides and read through protocols for an upcoming study.

5:00 PM. Park Walks

Clocked out. Let out a breath of fresh air as I exited Workday. Packed my journal, binoculars, and Oala and went out the door.³

Drove a mile and parallel parked along the park near my home. Threw my backpack over my shoulder, locked up, and walked along the main path to the park’s largest pond, where crowds of ducks typically line the edges.

To my surprise, only about six ducks awaited me, jumping in and out of the water to cool themselves from the recent heat wave: a hot spell that transported the whole city from a 70-degree fall last week to a 92-degree summer this week.

I wished I could jump and swim in the pond too, envying the ducks and wishing a pool were nearby. Walked along the path of flowers to admire the lily pads. Wonder who helped them grow, and if I could help volunteer.

As I was sitting and appreciating the pads, an assembly line of geese came marching by. I sat statue-still and grabbed my phone to store the magical moment in time- a bit apprehensive of the short distance between them and me (Click to see the video below:)

handwrittenwithallyjayne

A post shared by @handwrittenwithallyjayne

6:00 PM. Peculiar Strangers

Once the geese had passed, I walked back to the pond and found my perfect place. I lay down my picnic blanket and started writing this entry of Flow. Fell deep into the mediation of writing when all of a sudden a man shouted, “Excuse me!” Silence. “Excuse ME!” I froze. Thought to myself: What does he want? Should I respond? I just had a negative experience with a stranger at a park last month, but I don’t want to be rude. No, wait, retract that thought. I am not rude for doing what makes me feel safe.

I decided not to say a word. “It’s ok, just keep writing. Maybe he will stop.”

5 minutes pass. Anxiety still pacing through my veins.

“Excuse me!” Now with more anger and entitlement to a response: “EXCUSE ME!” I hear the grass rustle as he stands and starts to approach.

Without turning my head or making eye contact, I swiftly pack my pens, journal, binoculars, swing my bag over my left shoulder, and grab my pepper spray with my right hand. With no time to fold up my picnic blanket, I wrap it between my arms and keep moving. I take one step after the other, feeling terrified but knowing I need to calm down and stay logical. I whisper to myself, “It’s ok. You have your pepper spray. There are a lot of families here. Just get somewhere more visible.”

Straight ahead, lots of people gathered around a children’s soccer practice near a cluster of Weeping Willows. Perfect! I sat under the calming vines of the tree and took a deep breath with my pepper spray still in hand. Kids from the soccer game ran towards the tree, grabbing branches, and swinging from side to side. “Yo! Come over here,” a small group of boys from the team yells to the girls. “Try this one! This one is GOATED!” The girls run over, hollering, “Oh my gosh! A Weeping Willow! Guys, it’s a Weeping Willow!”

Watching the kids play, I felt a little calmer and ok to stay at the park. I originally felt like leaving after the man twice my age yelled at me and tried to follow me, but I remembered that I deserve to be at the park too. I deserve to feel safe. I deserve to take up space in third places.

More Pondering

7:00 pm. I drove home and felt reflective; I guess a ruminating spirit was the mood of the day. Here are my ponderings:

The world is ambiguous. Like a line my friend Hanna Kolasinska wrote in her film I Do, Do I?: “Love and relationships are not black and white. People are not just heroes or villains. People are ambiguous.”⁴

A zine I made for an old article I wrote about Hanna’s film :)

There are bad things that happen: like men who demand attention from a woman alone at a park; like men who think it’s ok to get emotionally violent at strangers; like men who cannot accept when a woman says no.

But there are also good things. Like a Weeping Willow that lends her branches for kids to swing, turning her vines into ziplines and rollercoasters; like a best friend who makes leftovers; like a mentor who believes in you.

I guess getting older is being increasingly aware of the world, love, and relationships’ ambiguity; of all the grey scales that have always existed but we didn’t see as children because adults only talked about the blacks and the whites.

I left the park feeling aware of the bad, the what-ifs, and the realization that even in 2025, a young woman cannot visit a park to write without being afraid of male violence.

I also left aware that male violence should not hinder my ability to experience the good in the world: the nature, child-like wonder, grass, trees, and bees. I just have to wrap the good in the armor of female awareness, pepper spray, self-defense classes, and writing as a way of screaming to make male violence visible (Sara Ahmed, 73).⁵

Finishing my ponderings, I parked and walked inside my home, promising myself I will always seek to find the good. I will let the good I see outweigh the bad.

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Thanks for reading my second volume of Flow! I decided that at the end of each of these daily logs, I will also start keeping a life-lesson log. Some days will have lots of lessons, and some days none, but I think all are good to keep track of:

1. You collect past experiences as tools to help build your future.

2. Women do not have access to felt safety when alone in public spaces. This is a result of male violence.

3. My experiences where I feel unsafe need to be documented, even if it feels scary to do so. We have to get loud about these injustices so they can be seen; A problem must be seen to be solved. As I learned from Sara Ahmed: Feminism is acquiring a voice. Feminism can create language to voice feelings that you have or lived experiences

4. Writing is my way of getting loud. Writing is my voice.

5. I need to find more time to write on my feminist blog, Could You Repeat That.

Wishing you love and peace, and see you next time on:

Xoxo,
Ally Jayne

1.

2. Kleon, A. (2012). Steal like an artist: 10 things nobody told you about being creative. Workman Publishing.

3.

4. Kolasinska, H. (Director). (2024). I do. Do I? [Film]. Texas Christian University.

Hanna’s Insta: https://www.instagram.com/hannkolasinska?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet&igsh=ZDNlZDc0MzIxNw==

5. Ahmed, S. (2017). Living a feminist life. Duke University Press.

Quote I’m referencing: “By screaming, I announced my father’s violence. I made it audible. And I learned from this too: becoming a feminist was about becoming audible, feminism as screaming in order to be heard; screaming as making violence visible; feminism as acquiring a voice (Ahmed, 73).”