Mark Evans Studio

Grief is often described as something we move through, as though it were a tunnel with a visible exit. But in reality, grief is less like a tunnel and more like weather. It rolls in unexpectedly. It changes temperature without warning. Some days it is a quiet fog; other days it is a sudden storm that soaks everything in sight. At its core, grief is love with nowhere to go. When we lose someone or something that mattered deeply to us - a person, a relationship, a version of ourselves, even a dream - the attachment does not disappear simply because its object has. The routines remain in our muscle memory. The reflex to text them, to share news, to seek comfort, lingers long after the possibility is gone. Grief is the space between what was and what will never be again. On Saturday our beloved little dog died. It wasn’t a surprise - he had been navigating health issues for the past few months and we had arranged for the Vet to come to our home to put him to his final sleep before his disc...

  On Thursday, right at the beginning of teaching my class, I got violently sick. Not much warning. No graceful fade-out. Just that hot, dizzy wave that tells you your body has other plans. I excused myself to throw up in the bathroom and returned feeling a little better. I managed to power through the three hour class because sometimes adrenaline is stronger than nausea. But once I left and made it to Penn Station, my body clocked out. I was vomiting into a brown paper bag I had to buy from Walgreens. There is something particularly humbling about paying for the bag you know you’re about to throw up in. I had tucked myself into a hallway that was very quiet but a few people were still walking by.  We all know vomiting is awful. Doing it in public feels like a total stripping of dignity. You become hyper-aware of your body, your vulnerability, the way people avert their eyes. I wasn’t dangerous. I wasn’t loud. I was just a sick human being trying to get through the night. Most...

It’s surprisingly easy to forget that I’m carrying more than one version of myself. Most days, I move through the world as a hustling 41-year-old: managing responsibilities, making decisions, solving problems, and trying to keep things moving forward. I’m proud of that and fully embrace that. But every now and then, I’m reminded that the 41-year-old version of me is still inseparable from the 10-year-old version of me. He didn’t go anywhere. He’s just not always in focus - cuz duh, “I’ve got shit to do!” As humans, we tend to give our attention to the version of ourselves that feels most useful in the moment. The adult gets the spotlight because he’s efficient, capable, and knows how to navigate the world. The child fades into the background - not because he’s gone, but because we stop checking in with him. And when that happens, something subtle shifts. Life can become more controlled, more deliberate, and a little too serious. For actors, that shift matters. Acting doesn’t benefit fr...

Lately, I’ve been noticing how easy it is to treat joy like a reward instead of a necessity. How often rest, play, and pleasure get postponed until the work is done - or until it feels “earned.” The problem, of course, is that the work is never really done. There’s always another email, another decision, another thing that could be improved or handled better. I’m good at showing up. I’m good at taking responsibility. I’m good at staying in motion. What I’m less practiced at is stopping long enough to ask what I need that has nothing to do with productivity. Being mindful of that was a goal of mine for 2026 and it’s already something I’m bumping up against. Somewhere along the way, enjoyment became conditional. I’d relax after the deadline. I’d take a break once things calmed down. I’d prioritize myself when everything else was taken care of. Except those moments rarely arrive. And even when they do, I’m often too depleted to fully enjoy them. When I strip it back, what I miss most i...

Over the holidays, I was caught off guard by several waves of sadness that seemed to arrive out of nowhere. The kind that hits like a ton of bricks and leaves you wondering what just happened. One morning, at the end of a high-heat yoga class , lying in a sweaty puddle in shavasana , a simple thought floated up: I miss my mum. My mother has been living with dementia for almost a decade now. At Christmas especially, I’m reminded of all the years when she ran the show - the planning, the warmth, the magic she created. She made Christmas feel safe and joyful. I miss that version of her deeply. As I lay there, letting the sadness move through me, something else became clear. Sitting right alongside the grief was an overwhelming amount of love. The reason I feel this ache is because I love her so much. And in that moment, connecting to the fact that I’ve had so many years of being loved in that way softened everything. Gratitude crept in. I smiled. My nervous system relaxed. The sadness di...

As the year draws to a close, there’s a natural pause that arrives with it - a collective exhale. The days grow shorter, the pace softens (even if only a little), and we’re given a rare invitation to reflect. Not in a rushed, goal-setting way, but in a quieter, more honest one. Those of you who have worked with me a lot know that I love to ask thought (and feeling) provoking questions, such as “What do I really want?” etc. So, this holiday season I encourage you to ask this simple but powerful question: ‘ How am I really doing?’   For many of us, the answer may feel complicated. Maybe you did everything you were “supposed” to do this year, yet something still feels misaligned. Maybe you worked harder than ever and didn’t see the results you hoped for. Or maybe you grew - but not in the ways you expected. Whatever the case, let this be a reminder: your experience is valid, and it matters. The holidays can be a beautiful opportunity to care for yourself in ways that often get sidelin...