I was searching for a sign... and then it came.

A snake in the studio.

Hi. It’s Carissa, and this is going to be a weird one. Three quick things before I begin:

1. My book Breathe Through It, co-written with Vera Kachouh, comes out next week. If you feel moved to share it in any way, it would mean the world to me.

2. Cup of Jo posted an essay I wrote, and I’m still riding the high. From the piece, The Weight and Wonder of Mother’s Day:
   “My therapist gave me one other piece of advice: Hold other people’s babies. I’m not sure if she meant it as a test of my longing or a salve for it, but I’ve decided to treat it as an invitation to live vicariously. To heal by allowing myself to take in the joy of others. To exist in a community where we feel each other’s joy and pain and longing. Why can’t I delight in holding your baby, just for a moment?”

3. It’s the final week to see my show at And Friends in Santa Cruz.

Okay, now for the story:

Lately, I’ve been developing a practice of looking for signs. You could call it a way of seeking reassurance that I’m on the right path—or simply trying to find meaning in the face of uncertainty. Life feels increasingly entropic, and it seems like we have less and less control over anything.

What I want to share feels like a kind of modern fairytale. It’s the kind of thing that, if someone told me, I’m not sure I’d believe them. But here I am, telling you the full felt truth—something I’ve only shared with my therapist. My being still feels shaken, and I don’t want to forget.

For about a year and a half, I’ve been drawing snakes. They’ve shown up in my paintings, ceramics, even in papier-mâché. I told myself it was okay not to know what they meant—maybe I was just riding a visual trend? Maybe it meant nothing at all?

I don’t have a personal history with snakes—other than not liking them. I once read that humans have an evolutionary aversion to snakes, a kind of instinctive fear passed down because enough of us were harmed by them over time. It made sense on a visceral level.

Then, two Wednesdays ago, a snake slithered across my right clog while I was drawing in my studio, next to the heater. A red, black, and white snake—smallish, maybe four feet long, but still very much a snake. I froze. People I’ve told ask, “Did you scream?”

No. I just sat there—silent, frozen—for longer than I’d like to admit. It was one of those moments that confirmed: I am not the person you want in a high-stress situation. My freeze response is tough to defend. But there it was.

The studio is in an old storefront in East Oakland. It has beautiful skylights, a backyard tangled with morning glories, and about 15 neighborhood cats. We once had a mouse—caught red-handed eating our snacks and relocated to a nearby park. That felt logical. A snake, though? What’s the one thing in your space you never expect to see? And what if it shows up?

I decided to avoid it. Took the weekend off. In this fantasy, the snake would disappear—find its way into someone else’s story. I called Oakland Animal Care and Control. They were short-staffed and dealing with more pressing issues (dog bites, missing tigers, etc.). They said it was almost definitely a milk snake—someone’s escaped pet.

I told everyone. On Friday, Julia Rothman suggested I Google “snakes as signs.” So I did.

As a lifelong agnostic, the idea of signs is complicated. They imply a larger meaning in a random universe. But I’ve come to think of meaning as something humans create to make sense of things, to bond, to feel safe. I love making meaning—it’s one of my favorite things to do. Even if it’s, paradoxically, meaningless.

I gave in and Googled. The good news? Across cultures and time, snakes can mean anything. Good, bad, beautiful, dangerous. I wanted clarity. Was this snake a good omen? Life already felt so hard—was this a turning point, or a warning?

"Desire is a language we forget to speak in long relationships."
— Esther Perel

In the ambiguity, I sat—not in the studio, obviously. But I made a decision: if snakes can mean anything, then I can choose what they mean. And I want good things. I want to be happy in my life as it is. I don’t want to spiral about M’s health, my marriage, my longing for a second child, or fears about my business. I want to show up for the people I love. I’m surrounded by so much beauty—I want to see it, to be present in it.

Turtle Wayne said it was definitely lucky. That we’re in the year of the snake, and seeing one is a sure sign of good fortune. I chose to believe him. No what-ifs. No skepticism. Just belief.

The next day, something happened. And this is where it gets even weirder.

My partner and I have been struggling—not dramatically, just the slow-growing distance that often comes with parenting a medically complex child, uncertain work, and deep, ongoing anxiety. This quote from Terry Real captures it well:
“Women are unhappy in their marriages because they want men to be more related than most men know how to be. And men are unhappy in their marriages because their women seem so unhappy with them.”

But that next day after my encounter with the studio snake, something shifted in me—massively. I felt overwhelmed with desire for Josh. It was like something chemical had rewired. For instance: I was driving, and Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead came on, and I had to pull over. I was flooded with this intense longing to be near him. I hadn’t felt that since we first started dating… or maybe when I was pregnant with M. That same hormonal, wild, magnetic pull. It felt new. Exciting. Life-affirming.

Was it the snake? What do snakes mean?

To be continued next week... because things only get stranger.

Love to everyone, all you people trying your best to make sense in this fucked up world. Grateful for you.

XO, Carissa