The Art of Being Curious

Kalimera means "good morning" in Greece, where I am currently overlooking the caldera and feeling inspired to talk about shrooms.

I've always said I grow like a mushroom. Things shift quickly for me, almost overnight. Out of nowhere, I'll make a decision, start something new, or step into a version of myself I hadn't been living in the day before. Friends watch this and call it sudden, impulsive, even mysterious.

Recently, curiosity pushed me to actually look into whether mushrooms really do grow in six hours, the way I'd always heard.

Turns out, in a way, they do. The part we see, that little mushroom pushing through the soil, really can happen that fast.

But it isn't magic. It's the finale of something deeper: the mycelium. For weeks, even months, these invisible threads have been building strength underground, creating a whole network, waiting. The mushroom we see is just the final act.

Our own growth feels so sudden to the outside world for the same reason. It isn't sudden at all. It's the accumulation of work no one sees. For me, it's hypnosis sessions where I unpack old patterns. EMDR appointments that help me rewire trauma responses. Yoga where I learn to be in my body differently. Pilates, building strength from the inside out.

Even the smallest practices become part of this underground network. The quiet, repetitive work that eventually erupts into change so sudden it looks impossible.

This isn't only true for beginnings. Endings follow the same underground logic. When someone leaves (a relationship dissolves, a friendship fades), it can feel like they vanished overnight.

But more often, the departure began months or years before. A slow accumulation of small resentments. Moments when something felt off. The decision to leave looks instant from the outside, but underneath, the mycelium of ending was spreading quietly all along.

We all have these hidden root systems running beneath our lives: networks of growth, change, and sometimes dissolution. But when something finally bursts through the surface, when we make that leap or close that door, it looks like it happened in six hours.

The truth is: we're always in the process of becoming and unbecoming, building and releasing, even when we can't see it happening.

So here's my invitation: Name your mycelium. Write down three things you're tending to beneath the surface right now. Maybe it's a creative project. Maybe it's a relationship. Maybe it's a new way of being you're testing out in private.

And if you're navigating an ending, notice what's been building quietly in the background.

What have you been ignoring? There's wisdom in seeing these threads clearly.

Because nothing (not growth, not change, not even the most shocking departure) is ever as sudden as it seems.

We're all mushrooms, and we're all mycelium.

A meditation technique to try (from my hypnotherapist Herb, rooted in Eckhart Tolle):

Most of us think meditation means forcing our mind to be quiet. But here's a different approach: sit comfortably, close your eyes, and ask yourself: I wonder what my next thought will be?

Then wait. Stay alert and curious, like you're a cat waiting by a mouse hole, completely present and attentive.

Because you're watching so intently for the next thought, there's often a pause. A gap. Your mind gets caught in this weird loop. It can't think while it's busy watching for thoughts.

In that gap, even if it's just a second or two, you experience something different. You're not your thoughts. You're the awareness watching them. You're the space they move through, not the thoughts themselves.

The point isn't to make this gap last forever or to "win" at meditation. It's just to notice: there's a you that exists separate from the constant stream of thinking. And sometimes, in those brief pauses, you get to meet that part of yourself.

Try it. Even for a minute. See what happens when you stop trying to silence your mind and instead just watch it like you're genuinely curious about what it'll do next.