ROT 2 BLOOM

The healing magic of a carcass day- for wellness girlies.

Hello darling delighters, and apologies for the late newsletter this month (and entirely absent one last month). Late spring found me in an existential crisis/uplevel of sorts, which required my full life force and 20-hour mental focus (applied mostly to worrying). All is well now.

In lieu of a roundup of delights for May and April, I present you with my findings on The Rot Day. Also known as the Carc day. As a dyed-in-the-wool wellness babe, healing perfectionist, reluctant spiritual girly, I had strong dharmic views on the rot day (blue light = bad, EMFs= terrifying, harmful numbing, third eye blinding, lazy self-indulgence, etc.). And the thing is, there are plenty of scientific musings/spiritual findings to support my concerns. However, if there is one thing I have learned in the last 20 years of trying to heal and/or fix myself, it is to both honor matter (eat vegetables) AND focus more heavily on the energetic, the unique.

What I mean: It is often the energy behind the action/ choice that matters more than the choice itself. For example, as a little one operating with the notion that I had to earn/be perfect to be worthy & loved — add a Capricorn stellium and a slight touch of the masochistic — doing something in present day like, say, a dopamine detox or “raw dogging” (vom) a flight is very much within my comfort zone. This particular brand of white-knuckled wellness jives well with my ingrained belief of no pain, no gain; one must suffer/fight to accomplish anything of true worth. The harder, the more self-punishing, the better.

In a world that encourages you to do one thing that scares you every day — what if the radical act of self-love is * actually * to stay in your comfort zone? At least for one day. One day every week. A religious rot day.

I recently heard a girl on a podcast wondering aloud if her frequent hermit days were an act of self-care or self-coddling. I loved this invitation into self-awareness and then decided — I could do with a bit more self-coddling. For all of my young adult life, I have been optimizing. Upleveling. Setting boundaries. Passing tests. Learning to say no. And you know what? I am POOPED. Bone tired. I want some fluff. Some muggle normalcy. And so, once a week, I pretend to have a hangover and allow myself to do all the things I am not supposed to. It. is. glorious.

After all, when you are constantly preparing the land (healing), turning over the soil (introspection), fertilizing (inputting helpful new ideas and modalities), planting seeds (intentions, wishes, manifestations) — the final step is to wait. To detach. Not to dig up the seedlings to see if they’re blooming, thereby killing them.

And while you’re waiting to bloom… how about a little bit of rot?

So how to rot, for the uninitiated?
(Full disclosure: I have had many failed attempts at rot/carcass days. Mornings and afternoons that I filled with shoulds: apartment resets, too much protein, 10 mil steps… it’s a learning curve.)

Here is my formula for the perfect rot day:

Nº 1: Distill wellness non-negotiables — things that you know make you feel so good and are deeply nourishing. Ideally easy and enjoyable to execute.
Nº 2: Create the space. (lightly refreshed, lots of blankets, candle/ fairy lights, favorite scents)
Nº 3: Gorge on unlimited delicious entertainment. A show, movies, a book. Audiobooks. ASMR.
Nº 4: Rest, baby! Daydreaming, staring out the window. Naps.
Nº 5: Delicious libations: drinks, food— easy: a matcha you love to make + takeout.
Nº 6: Intuitive flow. Ask yourself: what would be the most cozy, fun thing to do next? Do it. Rinse, repeat.

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Sample of my ideal rot day:

Sleep in. Wrapped in the duvet. Mmmm.
10 a.m. (usually) — rise. approach morning routine staples that make me feel good (not a goody-two-shoes to-do list): Tongue scraping and oil pulling, Large room temp mason jar o’ water (no lemon or salt if I don’t want it), Energy cleansing (my own DIY method), A bit of natural light in my eyes (ideally from bed).

That’s it. Then I’ll climb back into/ stay in bed to be cuddled. I know I shouldn't fast, but this is my rest day so I am not force-feeding myself 30 grams of protein. Maybe I’ll fall back asleep. Maybe I’ll remain in bed for another two hours- sleepily lucid.

Next, I’ll change into my one singular set of cotton-soft loungewear. An investment piece. Washed and line dried from the day before. I’ll iceroll my face because it feels so damn nice. IDGAF about puffy. Then, I’ll whip out the sourdough (I am still afraid of bread but allow it twice a week on weekend mornings — this is disordered IKIK xx), make some perfectly fried eggs — firm whites, half-jammy, half-oozy golden orange yolks. Maldon salt. Avocado with lemon. Berries in a milk bath (odd, I know, but preferred to a smoothie or yogurt bowl). Large mug of milky Earl Grey with aforementioned milk (which is actually mylk — recipe below).

Air out bedding in the sun (or grey gloom) and shake out the bed sheets. Make the bed up nicely again.

Then I make a fortress — which means adding lots of decorative pillows, a large white faux rabbit blanket (cloud), a snuggly white chenille throw (90s baby comfort), and a pile of books.

Congrats! To me! I now have full licensing to rot. What I usually end up doing, however, is a mix of deeply nourishing somatic practices, cooking & baking healthy things, watching delicious, delightful comfort shows and movies, napping, pillow talking, and snuggling myself up in comfort.

When the day has ended and early evening falls (my favorite time), I may stumble upon my reflection, unintentionally, moving past a mirror + happen upon a girl with rosy cheeks and brighter eye whites. Dropped shoulders. Pep in her frickin step. Floating. I’ll relish my beauty for a rare moment- the way I always do after a flu — when I’ve been hydrating and sleeping more than I normally would. Moving with more softness, intuition and listening than I suppose I normally believe I deserve. It’s a glow-up sans the pressure of gua sha and scalp oiling.

I’ll find too, that my energy reserves feel replenished, in the way that I have always found a restorative yoga practice does best. And though I may feel I’ve been carrying around a little backpack of dread in my day to day, I feel oddly at peace with those blocks and flaws. Maybe they feel lighter. Maybe I just feel that they are not my entire identity + it’s not that serious or scary — i have been healed in the way that laughter heals me while commiserating with another niche healing girly or watching a standup show that make me feel seen.

No dogmatic wellnessy girly would ever prescribe a rot day, of course. The ascended bbys would not look you deep in the windows of your soul and say, “You know what you probably need? A good long scroll on TikTok and some fast food fries.” But what about the panacea of a Miranda July strawberry milkshake (instead of a high-protein, date-sweetened dessert)? Or the fact that in the depths of my chronic, mystery-symptom-fueled darkness, the only answers and light I found were by accidentally stumbling upon a community after doomscrolling on the toilet for one hour (with numb pins & needled feet and red, bloodshot eyes)?

When we hold such rigid ideas of how healing happens, we close portals to true miracles finding us. Whether gratefully accepting the prescription pills that are covered by our medical insurance (because holistic healing got too fucking expensive), or freely complaining in a conversation instead of censoring ourselves (because words are spells and we must never be negative victims blah la la la ). I think dropping the shoulds of the spiritual/wellnessy/self-healing/esoteric world means actually unblocking limits and leveling up.

It means too, letting go of the moralistic good girl approach to self discovery. The goal is happiness after all! So what if once in a while that happiness comes from allegedly cheap dopamine? I feel we have replaced the male gaze with the ever present watchful eye of the wellness police. No white linen-ed guru is going to give you an F for netflix and resting. Similarly, we don't get an A plus for healing the hard way. There is simply too much nuance to the human experience to boil down lifestyle choices as good or bad.

So, there is my defense of the healing powers of a good rot. If I sound defensive, it’s because every week I have to argue with + convince my Type A, perfectionist, inner shamanic womb-cleansing juice detox qween that actually, softening, indulging and receiving is the best, most ascended, higher-self thing she can do. The opposite is the medicine after all.

TTFN darling delights,
Namaste in bed from now until the rest of the weekend 🫖
Chat next month xx
mimi

P.S. This tiktok helped me fall in love with the cozy self loving guilt-free magic of rotting.

P.P.S. The Mylk:

Cashews, water, vanilla bean paste (scooped from the pod), date, lil bit of himalayan salt. Blended, then coconut cream added. Find the perfect ratio to suit your sweet self. This is a journey of self discovery, intuition and taste preference.

Thicker mylk is delicious drizzled over bowls of berries, thinned out it is delightful in earl grey tea, matcha, earl grey matchas and similar.