Meet our Editor in Chief

The Retreat's secret weapon, Mallory Pendleton

This interview was originally published in our June 2025 Issue, No. 25 Best of Year 2 CELEBRATION.

To read it in its intended analog form, go here. Photography by Laura Buccieri.

After college, I juggled remote jobs as a ghostwriter and copywriter. My husband jokes that whenever someone tells me about their in-office job, my first question is always, “What’s your break room like?” If I worked in an office, I’d be obsessed with what people were bringing for lunch and snacks, what wild office gossip was being swapped at the watercooler, and which behind-the-scenes work moments were turning into inside jokes.

As an Italian Taurus (read: always hungry, loves to cook, eat, and lounge), it might surprise you to hear that I’ve always envied in-office culture. I’ve spent many lonely days at home daydreaming about after-work drinks and having a co-worker to vent to about my non-existent boss—or to bounce brilliant ideas off of.

So you can imagine my excitement when a little piece of that dream came true nearly two years ago, when Mallory Pendleton responded to my post looking for an editor. Back then, The Retreat was still in its baby stages. I thought I was hiring an impressive grammar queen—but I had no idea I’d also be meeting my work wife.

Maybe we don’t stack our lunches in the same fridge or gossip at the watercooler, but we almost always know what each other is eating for dinner and our voice message game crushes the cooler competition.

Thelma and Louise. Batman and Robin. Mario and Luigi. Sonny and Cher (without the divorce).

One could not exist without the other—and that’s exactly how I feel about Mallory and what we’ve built together at The Retreat. She’s been in the background for far too long, and while she’s too humble to admit herself, it’s high time she’s recognized—not just as the insanely talented Editor-in-Chief she is, but as one of the most creative, thoughtful, and quietly powerful humans I know. She’s as rare a gem as they come, and I couldn’t be more excited to share some of her many facets with you in the following interview.

Get your highlighter out—you’re going to need it. Oh, and before you read any further, I have just one request: please don’t steal her from me. —Carley

PERMISSION TO REWRITE OR TURN THE PAGE AT ANYTIME WITH MALLORY PENDLETON

Cosmic profile, go!

Libra Sun, Libra Rising, Scorpio Moon

Last year, for our first birthday, you interviewed me. Now, the tables have turned and I finally get to interview you. The stakes are high—I mean, how do I celebrate and shine a light on someone who quite literally makes The Retreat what it is without taking up the entire 20 pages?!

When I met you via Zoom (and I think it’s important to mention to readers that we have not actually met in person…yet) I was just in the beginning stages of the newspaper—month four. For the first four months of creating, writing, designing (generous word), and doing all the operations and admin, I missed many typos. There finally came a time when I needed an editor and Gaby Azorsky, our September 2023 muse and a generous advocate for the newspaper, shared my contact info with you. I’m paraphrasing, but she described editing as your jam. To my surprise, a ton of people responded to my call for an editor (including my mom). I had a few interviews but a few seconds into yours it was game over. I still laugh thinking about how I shared with you that I really wanted an editor who would also write. You straight up told me that it wasn’t your thing — come to find out you were lying because you truly are one of the best writers I know.

Can you take us back to your first impression of The Retreat? What was it about this unconventional newspaper that made you say yes—despite having a full-time job and no clear idea what you were getting into? What were your expectations going in, and how did those compare to the reality of working on it?

I smiled so wide reading this question—because while we’ve talked before about how we connected (via Gaby, a forever Muse, and the best of friends)—I realized that I’ve never shared how I first found you. As you know, I’m not so good at social media, so I’m not sure how The Retreat appeared on my feed—but I still remember seeing the first photo of it in your lap—with the caption underneath telling your story of how you started the paper: sitting next to Evans as he read the Sunday Times, and realizing that you wanted that screenless experience of diving deep into something you loved….and then you just did it. You had this experience, and this idea, and then you made it happen. You created the thing you needed in the world.

The whole story hit me on so many levels—the first being that, for better or worse, I have always been an analog girl in an increasingly digital world. I don’t understand the need for constant texting back-and-forth, group chats are my personal nightmare, I’m unintentionally quiet (see: overwhelmed) on social media, and I frequently forget my phone in another room for the whole day. If it’s going to be the phone, it’s going to be a minimum hour-long call, or a hefty exchange of voice memos—because that’s the closest I get to it all being real. I just love to be with things: the people I love, food I’m making, a book before bed, music on my speakers, the outdoor air across my body and in my lungs. Phones blur those experiences for me—like a fizz, or a static, or a murky film across the surface. It’s perhaps the main reason that the newspaper has always been a very important part of my life. It’s something I grew up with—my father works in PR, so I can still see the outline of his body, arms outstretched holding the Times on the city-bound train each morning, remarking on the most thrilling stories. My mother has always been equally as devoted—perhaps one of my favorite shapes of her is sitting at the kitchen table, pages spread out next to the largest cup of coffee you can imagine. She’s never skipped a section. The ritual of a paper runs in my blood, and feels primal to me—as soon as we could afford it, Laura (my now wife) and I got a subscription delivered to one of our first tiny NYC apartments, and I sank into my own daily practice of reading. Since then, Saturday mornings have always been my favorite day of the week—walking outside, grabbing the paper from the step, and pouring the coffee.

When I first read your post, I felt an immediate, instinctive pull—like something in me jumped toward the idea. I’ve always been deeply invested in holistic wellness, but I’ve found it deeply frustrating that so much of that conversation lives on social media—because, frankly, I lose the thread. And I need the thread. Many of us do—to feel heard, seen, and hopeful about the future of fuller, more equitable health. But there was also something else about that post—and it was the clarity of your specific vision, Carley. It was just downright inspiring. I remember being like ‘Who is this girl?!’ and then I clicked on your profile and saw you’d also founded and opened Clayton Yoga that year—and again, I was just floored. There was something about those two manifestations becoming realities (which, now I’m also realizing, were both these tangible, in-real-life products) that stuck with me. I remember this thought humming beneath my surface, like I want to know this girl one day. That’s not a normal feeling for me (see: propensity for social media above), so it’s easy to remember.

My first Retreat issue was Heaven on Earth, with Gaby as the muse, and I have such a distinct memory of reading it outside one morning, in California at my mother-in-law’s house. I was enveloped in your Summer fruits piece, and I remember my mother-in-law came outside and was like ‘What are you reading? It’s so beautiful!” And then we sat there for like an hour, she and I, reading the paper aloud. I read her all of the Dear Shiela pieces, and we had this game where I’d ask her what she’d respond with before we read Shiela’s response. We just sat there in the sun having this juicy long conversation—and I couldn’t help but think back to your vision. I realized then that what you’d created was more than just an alternative to the digital—the paper had also birthed this beautiful opportunity for human connection, too. For the record, it still does—anytime the paper’s on the counter or peeking out of my bag, someone always pauses to pick it up, and ask me more.

It was a few weeks later when Gaby sent me your ad for an Editor saying I should do it…and (honestly!) I never do things like this…but I instantly sent you a message. It's wild, looking back on it—because of course there are all these reasons as to why the business and the paper and editing appealed to me, but it was something more than that—because I was also just pulled to you, which now I guess I’d call divine timing. When I started working with you, I didn’t know what to expect, and I truly would’ve been fine with it just being a business exchange; I love editing, and I just wanted to be a part of the experience. But our thing—can I call it our thing? I think I can; we have a thing—ended up being something entirely different: it very quickly became this deeply unique friendship, built on our shared commitment to the paper, but also to beauty, to connection, to humor, and to making the magical things real.

You, above anyone in my life, have shown me the power of true realization—and how bringing things to life actually just begins with the deep belief in yourself, and the people around you. There is no truer representation of that belief than you, Carley. When we first met, I’m not sure you had any reason to believe in me, but you instantly did, and you were so honest about it: I still remember your email after our first interview, where you wrote ‘You are my first choice.’ You hadn’t even seen my writing yet! It’s funny you mentioned that I told you I wasn’t a writer back then—because I wouldn’t say that now. Even if it still makes me uncomfortable, I’d call myself a writer—and I know that I always have been. So much of that conviction has been buoyed by the power of your belief in me.

Your title, Editor-in-Chief, doesn’t do justice to the work you put into each issue. Yes, you edit every columnist’s piece and everything I write—but you also clean up after my design flaws, help organize my chaotic thoughts (see: inside flaps), add mic-drop one-liners to countless pieces, and serve as both a soundboard and a voice of reason for seemingly impossible ideas and projects. As someone who has not spent one millisecond in the corporate world, I rely on you to be my corporate jargon encyclopedia and on-call translator for all kinds of communication.

We often laugh about how different it is to hop on a Zoom call or meet with me compared to the big brands you’ve worked with—and still work with daily. What are some of the most glaring differences between working with The Retreat and your experience with big corporate brands? How has it been balancing the creative chaos with your more structured corporate world? Does the contrast energize you, or give you whiplash? Tell the truth.

My entire life, I have been what people might perceive as ‘an over-achiever’ or a ‘perfectionist’—and that version of me has always been incredibly helpful in my so-called ‘career.’ The phrase ‘corporate structured world’ resonates—because at work, I am structure-obsessed; it’s a main function of my role, to organize cohesive narratives from a ton of dispersed conversations and workstreams. In the world of my work, I am trained to build that structure quickly, and somewhat relentlessly.

It's not exactly what it seems, though. I don’t do the work that I do because I’m interested in structure, or because I am interested in the corporate jargon, or because I’m interested in metrics. I’m not, and I never have been. If someone asks me what I actually get out of my job, I always tell them the same thing: because I like taking something and making it beautiful. I’ve never cared about structure, but I’ve always cared about beauty.

I often joke about how I’m an ‘undercover Type B,’ and no one at any of my jobs would ever know it, because I appear super Type A at work, but that’s just because, in that environment, structure is the form that beauty takes. But at the end of the day, my driving force at work is no different from the feeling I’d get when I’d walk into our empty New York City apartments after move-in day, close my eyes, and instantly see where a painting would hang, or how the curtains would fall, or how, if positioned the couch just so, we’d feel the light on our faces in the morning.

If you look at it that way, it’s easy to understand why our work at The Retreat is so deeply aligned for me—because for me, it’s all about beauty. It’s about taking this incredibly textured group of strong voices and piecing them together, visually and editorially, to create an issue and an experience with a cohesive feeling (and of course, theme) for the reader—so they can feel understood and inspired and informed and held by the whole experience.

But here’s the other truth: the work that we do at The Retreat—and the way we do it—is so much of the reason why I can keep showing up to do the work I do in the “corporate world.” I have been extremely lucky to be able to work alongside some brilliant minds in business, and I continue to learn a ton from each of them. But what I am always looking for is heart. With high-growth companies, there is a certain (and very effective) way of working that asks us to put our hearts—our true, real, scream-able, touchable, feel-able reasons for being who we are—aside, in the pursuit of growth. And I get it—the world being what it is, there are substantial reasons for needing to grow, and make money, and demonstrate your impact on a very large scale.

With The Retreat, we work in the opposite direction. We begin with heart, and we work outwards from there. And the wild thing is: we get just as much done, if not more! As companies grow, there are so many voices in the room—so many perspectives, strategies, and so many meetings. There’s value in that, of course—it’s taught me patience, how to listen more closely, how to negotiate more thoughtfully. Often, though, it also means you can’t just go after what you want.

But you and I can. Our work is so refreshingly direct. We can—and have—planned out whole issues over the course of several voice memos. We’ve built and finalized entire presentations in a couple of hours. We’ve worked into the wee hours of the morning on publishing days, and we’ve never had a hiccup with communication—because it feels like we’re just in this safe bubble of beautiful sensemaking together.

I’ll never forget when we did our editorial special issue for Kara Duval and SOKOI’s Into The Onto The Body launch, because we realized we needed to conceptualize, pitch, build, and design an issue in like four days, during the week of Thanksgiving….and in any other company, accomplishing that would’ve been so much harder. But we had this unshakeable heart and devotion to the process—it not only energized me and kept me going through the late nights, but it’s what made that project, to this day, one of my favorite things I’ve ever completed.

There’s this very pervasive narrative in hustle culture which insists that in order to succeed, you have to harden, and then run yourself into the ground—but with that approach, so much is lost. Our partnership is living proof that there’s another way to build something meaningful—with deep care and effort—without it always being so hard. Sometimes things come easily because they’re meant to come through—and my God, why shouldn’t we be kind enough to ourselves to create from that place? The Retreat is that place. It’s shown me that you can “succeed,” and you create something truly beautiful while doing so.

In a podcast interview, I was once asked to share three words that describe me. I completely blanked—but when I think back to the words I eventually said, I realize they’ve probably always been true. Every version of me, over the years, has embodied those qualities, and I think they’re largely rooted in my childhood.

Miriam Toews writes, “We carry our childhood with us. We become who we were.” I find that undeniably true, from so many angles and for so many reasons.

Something we love to ask our featured guests is: who was little you?

So, Mal, your turn! Two-part question: What would your three words be—the ones that describe you now, and maybe have described you all along? And what experiences or moments from your early years stand out as having shaped you into who you are today?

First, I can’t believe we’ve never talked about this interview; I desperately need to know your 3 words, and I need to find that interview ASAP. Secondly, I sincerely believe in Miriam Toews' perspective here—which, I agree, is a complex experience to sit with. This was a tough one due to my intense love for words and their capaciousness—but I think my three words would be wholehearted, intentional, and hopeful.

Wholehearted, because if you know me, you know I’m not one for the shallow end—with conversations, friends, art, writing, movement, food, and so much more, I like to dive in headfirst. My wife always jokes about how I love someone before I even like them—because to experience the fullness of a person or a moment is just about the best feeling I can possibly imagine. When I’m with my people, I ask relentless questions and want to hear every answer to the last detail. When I eat and cook, I make a mess. When I read good writing, I have audible reactions. When I dance, I nearly break a limb. I don’t know how to play it cool, and I never have, and I’ve rarely ever cared to. We only have so much time here—I’d rather dig in deep.

I was raised in a home where ‘keeping it light’ wasn’t really a thing. My parents were both writers, and taught my two brothers and me how to wonder, and wonder deeply. My mother was a mother to all our friends, who were routinely living in our house, one after another, over the years. My parents always had music playing—Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Carole King, the list goes one—and they taught us to be devoted fans. My brother was a musician, so there was always sound coming up from the basement. Our dinner table was a mosaic of people many nights, small talk was never a thing, and everyone always had an opinion. Our conversations would last long after the meal was finished, and we’ve never ever tired of talking, writing, and playing one more song. My parents and brothers taught me that having a wholehearted and insatiable capacity for art and for people meant always having something to believe in.

Intentional, which speaks to the editor in me, and the lover of beauty in me. I’m apt to believe that there can be an art and a particularity to everything—writing, designing, cooking, decorating a table, organizing a bookshelf, getting dressed. If you know me, you know I love a detail—and it makes me incredibly happy to see how one detail (something as simple as adding a salt shaker to the table or changing your belt, or as complex as using an adjective in an entirely new way or unexpectedly repositioning the camera to catch a certain slant of light) can change absolutely everything. The editorial element of life brings me great, great joy.

There is also a murkier side to it: not all things can be beautiful. Growing up in a family (and a family line) of deep feelers made for some messy and complex moments. Not all feelings have a space to exist, but we have to put them somewhere—so we find a way. At times, those ways took the form of deep sadness, anger, addiction, withholding, and deep silence. It was in those phrases that I most likely learned to edit: I’d try my best to design the moment and insert some ease—with language, or laughter, or music. I learned to cope by reaching for brighter details and putting them together to make light, for myself, and for the ones I loved. Sometimes it worked, sometimes we pretended it worked, and sometimes it didn’t work at all—but it was the trying that counted. I did learn something in the process, and—for better or worse—I was able to create some of my most precious art during those times. Our gifts are always this two-sided coin—given not only to excite and inspire us, but also to buoy and sustain us.

Perhaps hopeful is a synthesis of the two ideas above: when your heart is full and your intentions are clear, hope naturally follows. But I also believe it’s something distinct—another word for optimism, perhaps, though not quite the same. I often consider how grateful I am to instinctively see the glass as half full. It’s a rare and beautiful orientation toward the world, and I don’t take it for granted. Still, I deliberately chose ‘hopeful’ over ‘optimistic’—because to me, there’s a meaningful difference. For me, optimism will always carry a hint of naivete—an unguarded belief that things will work out. Hope, on the other hand, feels grounded. I grew up with a distinctly “New York” level of skepticism (see: too much?)—my dad likes to remind me that even as a kid, I could never leave well enough alone. My favorite word was always “why.” That restless curiosity still defines me; I struggle to accept the status quo as fixed or immovable. So I hold on to hope—hope that change is possible, and that we have the power to shape what comes next.

One of my words for you would be wizard. One of your special talents is being able to edit, clarify, and elevate someone’s writing without ever stripping it of its original voice. You have such a gift for celebrating a writer’s uniqueness — for seeing what’s already strong and helping it shine brighter. Can you walk us through your editing process? I want to know everything: are you listening to music (or total silence)? How do you approach a piece emotionally and technically? And how do you help someone see their own work more clearly?

For me, the most important part of editing is deep listening. Before I touch a piece, I try to understand what the writer is really trying to say—and that process, for me, feels a lot like hearing a song. I pay attention to the rhythm and cadence of the words, but there’s the emotional pull of it, too: similar to listening to a song, there are those moments that happen in a piece where you just feel it in your whole body. I search for those—the most embodied and resonant points—and let them guide the shape of the edit.

Typically, my goal is usually to make those moments louder. So often, we (myself included) can hide behind our writing. But as an editor, I can usually spot where something wants to come through more clearly (it’s a bit like cleaning out your friend’s closet instead of your own: it’s always easier to throw away someone else’s baggage). A lot of the time, creating clarity for me can come down to the specificity of the language, and the precision of its sound. I’ve always been obsessed with how a single word change can shift a piece’s energetic field.

There’s also a side of my editing that can feel a little ruthless. I was raised that way—my dad redlining my essays, challenging me to make every argument sharper—and I was also trained that way, as a poetry student in (somewhat brutal) workshops where my most vulnerable pieces could be torn apart in a single critique. But I still believe that honesty is the best form of care when it comes to editing. Yes, I will cut things—but to me, editing isn’t about being nice. It’s about being kind. Niceness says, “This is great!” Kindness says, “I see you, and I believe you can be stronger—let me help you get there.”

Logistics-wise, my best editing often happens in the evening, usually between 10pm and 1am as my wife sleeps beside me. The windows are always open, and our room backs up to the woods, so all I hear is the night, and—depending on the season—this wild chorus of cicadas, or just a massive expanse of quiet. These days, it feels like the safest and most sacred space to work with other peoples’ writing, as well as my own.

It’s funny—when I was younger, I never imagined I’d love editing as much as I love writing. But now, editing might be my favorite part of the creative process. I think it’s because we’re all more distant from one another than we’ve ever been, and editing feels like this rare kind of conversation, where I can get to know someone: I get to hear them, I get to know them, I get to respond, and then I get to collaborate with them, in this strangely intimate space. In that way, editing has grown into this new unexpected form of community-building for me.

At The Retreat, editing has also become this really powerful source of learning—which is my other favorite part of the listening. We have such an incredible group of columnists, and every time I edit one of their pieces, I learn something new: how to brew a new herbal tea, how to escape my mind in a different way, how to travel with deeper intention, how to reimagine my relationship with the magical, how to speak more kindly to my body. I’d like to think of my role as an act of gratitude to these teachings—in distilling them, my hope is to help them land and stick with readers, just as they’ve stuck with me.

You built your own major for both your Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees at NYU— and after learning that, I’m convinced it should be illegal to go to college any other way. You essentially crafted a degree around what you were most drawn to. For your Bachelor’s, for example, you created a program called The Stories We Tell Ourselves (inspired by Joan Didion), which explored how the narratives we build about ourselves shape the course of our lives. It centered on poetry, creative writing, and creative non-fiction.

I’m desperate to hear more about that experience: What were your most memorable moments, teachings, teachers, pieces of advice, or takeaways?

And more curiously—what is the narrative you’ve built for yourself? And how do you think it has shaped the life you’re living now?

Oh, this question is an impossible question! There were endless experiences. I always say that if I could stay in school forever, I would. I am so insanely lucky to have been able to study art and writing for 4 years.

The first thing that comes to mind when I think back to college is this class called Writing the Essay—it was a required class for freshmen at NYU that everyone notoriously dreaded—so much so that you knew about it before even getting to orientation. I think the class was intended to teach everyone the basic structure of a decent essay—and perhaps that was a load of shit to most people. But I ended up in a section taught by Nicole Callihan, who also happened to be first and foremost a poet—and the course ended up becoming one of the most formative experiences of my life.

It was in that class that I read Joan Didion’s essay ‘Why I Write’ which—at the risk of being a cliche, but whatever—changed my whole framework of reasoning forever. At this one point in the essay, Didion talks about how she writes to make sense of the images in her mind that “shimmer at the edges.” She goes on to explain what that shimmering means—but the moment I read that phrase, I understood what she meant. My whole life, I’ve seen the same shimmer to moments—the same edges quietly glinting at the frame of an experience. Writing taught me I could be honest about those shimmers—I could use language to help sit with them, unfold them, revive them, and keep unfolding them, over and over again.

Nicole was also the one who taught me that form is flexible, and that a piece of writing doesn’t need to arrive at an answer—it can be a journey of questioning, instead. That cracked something open in me: I realized I didn’t have to write from a place of knowing. I could start with a question and let the piece evolve, even if it led me somewhere entirely different by the end. That way of thinking didn’t just reshape how I wrote; it reshaped how I thought, how I created, and ultimately how I’ve lived and loved, ever since.

That’s part of why I built my own major—I was always more interested in the intersections than the silos. I studied poetry, nonfiction, performance, and photography, all at once, so nothing had to be contained in a single form. That freedom to blur boundaries helped me see that art—like life—could be expansive, and hold multitudes.

More than anything, school taught me the power of having a point of view—and that language was my clearest way of expressing it. I’ve always said I’m better on paper, and I think what I really mean is: I’m more honest here. Writing became a space where I could confront things, and be fearless. I found myself making performance pieces that surprised me, photography that felt louder than I was, and poems or essays that revealed truths I hadn’t even yet admitted. Art gave me a place to feel articulated—and to meet versions of myself I didn’t yet know.

It’s weird to be reminded of my thesis title being the Stories We Tell Ourselves, because now I’m most invested in the idea that our narrative can change. Yes, there are these parts of us that are constant—that feel essential and unshakable. But there’s also this vast part of us that can transform, even by the day. I learned that in a real way this year, when I moved out of the city I’d always lived in, and changed what felt like everything in virtually 24 hours. I had no idea if it was the right ‘answer,’ but the move has continued to show me that we have infinite potential to wake up and become something new. That’s not something I’ve always embraced—I’m a creature of habit, I love tradition, and I’m comforted by the experience of holding on tightly. But I think it’s only now that I’m starting to understand the power of the plural “stories.” We have the permission to keep rewriting, or to flip the page entirely.

Let’s talk food, something we initially bonded over and still chat about endlessly in our voice messages and texts. Celebration feels like the perfect theme for you because your home in upstate New York is truly a hub for it. You and your wife, Laura, are always hosting family and friends, making every weekend a celebration of friendship, food, conversation, connection, and the environment you’ve so beautifully created together. How do you and Laura curate these celebrations? Is there a particular ritual or element that makes each gathering feel special or unique? And what role does food play in bringing people together for you both?

I sat thinking about this one for a while—because while I wish that I could say that the celebration always begins with the goal of a meal, I actually think, for our gatherings, my goal has perhaps always been the same: I’ve always had a very strong desire to make my loved ones feel deeply comfortable, held, and safe. I think when you have those things, joy is a natural outcome. (Fun fact: I am perhaps at my happiest when my guests end up falling asleep on the couch towards the end of the evening—because it seems to me the ultimate sign of comfort and safety, when one can doze off in the middle of a party.)

I love Priya Parker’s The Art of Gathering, which outlines how to make gatherings the most meaningful events they can be—but there is one moment I disagree with, which proposes that every gathering must have a very clear and particular purpose (ex: the “purpose” can be as specific as a pizza cook-off or as loose as regular dinner party where each guest simply brings the last dish that inspired them). Reflecting on our many parties over the last decade or so, I feel that over the years, our purpose has been quite consistent and extremely simple: to gather people together, and dive into meaningful conversation with them. I absolutely despise a mingling party. In case it wasn’t obvious before, I want to get into it with people, and I want other people to be able to get into it, too. But I know that it’s not always that easy—some of our guests can be complete strangers to one another—so that’s where comfort is essential. I have actually never sat down to think on it before, but if I had to write out the recipe, I suppose I’d say comfort is:

• Delicious and abundant food – it’s key to never run out, and have refills of quite literally everything, whenever desired

• Ample seating that you can just sink into – I will never ever forget the parties where I couldn’t sit down the entire time…and how in the hell are you supposed to relax?

• Music that’s a vibe, but that isn’t too loud – because no, we’re not 20 anymore, and we’re actually trying to have a conversation. I am too old for a ‘yelling back-and-forth party,’ and frankly, it’s a strange way to get to know someone

• Perhaps the most important: ambient lighting – I am allergic to overhead lighting and yes, I will die on that hill

These four ingredients aren’t always logistically easy to coordinate, but they create this formula that can be endlessly customizable and personal to you, and the group you’re planning for.

That said, on the food note—I would say that’s an ingredient that feels deeply personal and important to Laura and to me. In many ways, we became the couple we are through sharing the experience of cooking and preparing food together—so it’s a ritual that matters to us, and feels natural to share with the people we love. If I have to have a particular theme or purpose to a party other than the (subliminal, never mentioned) theme of comfort, it will always be a food theme. Our longest running tradition (which we’ve recently put on hold since moving, TBD!) is a holiday we’ve hosted for 10 years, called Thanksmas: it happens on the weekend directly in the middle of Thanksgiving and Christmas and takes the best parts from both holidays: the food from Thanksgiving, and the decor/music/vibes from Christmas, so we can have just one big ridiculous gluttonous holiday cheer-filled bash for our closest friends. Everyone brings a dish for the meal, and we cook the mains, and it’s just heartbreakingly delicious. But perhaps my favorite food-related party we ever had was in February 2020, when I decided we should celebrate the new decade with a party themed ‘Decade-ance” (decadance, get it?). Each guest had to bring their favorite decadent dish, and it could be anything. It was insane: there were homemade fist-sized peanut butter cups, four layer cakes, towers of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, huge overflowing cocktails, and so much wine. It was perhaps the wildest party we’ve ever thrown (I blame the sugar highs)—and ironically, it was a month before the world shut down due to Covid, so I felt especially grateful, when that happened, that the final gathering we’d had was so indulgent, and so free.

I’ve always wanted our home, no matter where it was, to be a soft place to land for our community—a place they could come and exhale. Food is a natural component of that, because nourishment, and fullness, feel essential to that opening, loosening and sharing of oneself. To share a meal with others—a real, deep, filling, nourishing meal—is an enormous act of trust. And to be able to make and serve that meal? It’s about the biggest act of love I’ve got.

For fun, imagine you are throwing a dinner party for the Retreat community. What’s on the menu—literally and figuratively?

It’s early summer—the day after the Farmer’s Market—so I’ve spent the morning with a favorite ritual: washing and prepping everything we picked up in town. We begin around 5 p.m., with just enough daytime light left, and space to settle into the evening. We’re outside on the deck, and all the tables are draped in linens and flowers, with a few herbs mixed in (Laura’s developed an outrageous green thumb since we moved to the country, and I get to reap both the aesthetic and flavor benefits.) There’s light music on the speakers, and endless amounts of orange wine. For bites, I lean toward a reflection of the season that surrounds us: olives, berries, fresh nuts, bread, pesto, honey, and pickled vegetables. As we begin, I’ll offer a short toast to welcome everyone in and set the tone for the evening. Then, Carley, I’ll hand it over to you—our fearless leader—to say a few words. A well-placed toast can work wonders in making people feel at ease, especially when it delivers on the jooookes—which I know you’ll nail :)

Growing up, my family was known for our massive cookouts—and to this day, no one can grill for a huge crowd quite like my mother—so this meal is both an ode to her, and my own evolution of that tradition. Plus, there’s truly nothing better than a good old-fashioned summer cookout. For the meal, we’re going with briney chicken on the grill, thick and juicy burgers, and a ridiculous amount of funky ketchup, mustard, and pickles. And of course, we’re leaving lots of room for the vegetables to shine: there’s definitely a grilled carrot situation with dill and raisins, there’s a grilled lemon and asparagus vibe, and there are crispy, smokey Japanese potatoes. Everything’s a little charred, everything has a punch of acid. And then, if you know me at all, you know there’s a big-ass salad at the center of it all—kale, basil, mint, parsley, pistachios, tomato, cucumber, and the juiciest peaches.

As it gets darker, we light a fire—and if I’m really dreaming here, there’s live music. My brother Tyler pulls out his guitar and plays a few songs against the backdrop of the trees. My dear friend Aisha (Badru), another insanely talented musician, follows with a few acoustic songs of her own. If we’re lucky, Tyler and Aisha end with a duet, just as we’re passing around heaping slices of blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream.

We stay up far too late, change into sweats, and talk about our favorite issues, what’s on our minds, what we want to write about next. As the fire dies down, we lean back and take in the deep dark sky and its vast ocean of stars between the treetops, before heading inside to sleep. (Did I mention it’s a sleepover? In my mind it has to be a sleepover.)

Almost exactly a year ago, you moved from Brooklyn to upstate New York. Your voice messages went from honking horns and bustling sidewalks to birdsong and gentle rain. How has living in a small town, surrounded by nature, shifted your understanding of yourself and the world around you? And because I’m a sucker for a day in the life—what did a typical day in the city look like for you, and how does that compare to your rhythm now, in the country?

This question has been on my mind a lot as we approach the end of the first year in our new home—and honestly, I’m only just beginning to process the change. With the exception of a few brief stretches, New York has been the only place I’ve ever truly lived, and its frequency has shaped nearly every part of who I am. I’ve always been very informed by this Thoreau-esque nature of living deeply and sucking all the marrow from life, and the truth is, there is no better place than New York to offer up that experience—it is relentless in both its difficulty and its immense beauty.

A few years ago, though, Laura and I began to sense a shift: we realized we had more energy for dinner parties, Farmer’s Markets, and laying in the park than we had for bars, or big crowds, or late nights. That realization marked the beginning of this internal itch—I felt us start to become more oriented towards something quieter and less frenetic. There was a sense that we both—in our own ways, and together—needed a new kind of space to awaken a version of ourselves, waiting in the wings. No matter how you do it, leaving New York will always be a heartbreaking experience—because there is no city with more heart than New York—but we found ourselves pulled, in a somewhat numinous way, to nature, and we had to follow that instinct.

I could go on for hours—hours!—about how different our life is now. We traded the constant hum of the city for an expansive quiet. We went from being surrounded by people to being surrounded by the endless green of land. We left behind the ease of proximity to our friends, and we now rely, more than ever, on each other. And of course, we went from renting to owning our own home—an enormous privilege that brings deep gratitude, an endless path of daily(!) unpredictable learnings, and an entirely new kind of space: one that allows us to shape memories and experiences, and hold our people, in ways we never could before.

I’m still very much in the midst of understanding how this move has shaped me. I think it might be the biggest shift I’ve ever gone through, and it’s far more complex than I could’ve imagined. You think, ‘Oh, it’ll be quiet, and we’ll build this beautiful home, and spend weekends at the real farmers market, and host dreamy dinners, and chop vegetables to the hum of a perfect soundtrack!’ And in many ways, it is that dream. I feel divinely guided here, and each day, I am brought to my knees with gratitude.

But if I had to name the biggest transformation, it’s that living here has asked me to strip myself down. Because the difference was so stark between our environments, I realized, almost immediately upon getting here, that some of my qualities I believed were fundamental—my urgency, my quickness, my instinctive skepticism—were actually qualities I’d cultivated from a young age in order to move about the city. I’m incredibly grateful for those abilities—but here, I didn’t need them in the same way, and slowly, they began to fall away. It was then that I realized: I truly didn’t know my full self yet. And what a strange, thrilling thing to confront! It’s a simple concept in the end: the classic ‘nature versus nurture’ question—but it hits differently in adulthood, when so much of your identity has felt firmly defined. Now, I get to ask: Who do I want to become without all of that?

That’s a question I’m still unfolding each and every day, and I’m sure I’ll continue to explore it for years to come. But at the heart of it all, I feel an unshakable sense that we are exactly where we’re meant to be. About two days after we moved, Laura and I were taking an evening walk and I said to her something like, “This might sound silly, but I think I’m happier here than I ever imagined I could be.” I was scared to tell her that, because I thought it might burst the bubble—but it was just true. It’s still true. And what a wildly beautiful thing—to be able to get to know myself here.

When it comes to routine, I have to smile, because it’s in those daily rhythms where you really learn what is fundamental to you—and for me, so many of my rituals have stayed the same. I still wake up to stretch and sit with my coffee in the mornings. I still spend long stretches of time on walks to clear my head during the day. I still unwind from work by chopping vegetables for dinner at the kitchen counter. But the magic, I suppose, has been in understanding how my surroundings have informed the small subtle shifts, which have allowed me to pause more, and listen more—this time, to myself.

I now take time each morning to go out and walk the land with my coffee, even if just for a few minutes, to be alone with the trees. It’s something of a reaffirmation each day, and a thank-you to our home, for continuing to hold me. I spend longer stretches between meetings to step outside and turn my face to the sky. We start yawning laughably earlier here—in the country, 8pm feels like 12am—and I’ve fully leaned into a more sleep-friendly life. It’s also been one of the wildest, most beautiful things to see how our circadian rhythm just reset, within nearly a week of leaving the city: now, invariably, Laura and I both wake with the sun each morning.

In the city, there was an inescapable movement—from my desk to dinner, from indoors to out—it was like this invisible current constantly pushing me forward. Here, you’re so much more reliant on your own energy, which is good for me—it’s allowed me to tap into my own needs and desires in a way I never allowed myself to do. Still what’s perhaps been most comforting is the realization that, in many ways, the ground of my spirit remains the same, no matter where I am.

Speaking of home…let’s talk design. You are a woman of endless talents, one of them being interior design. You are currently (actually, I pray it has ended by now) undergoing a major renovation with a motley team of contractors: painting and wallpapering, putting up beams in the living room, and redoing aspects of literally every room. When you sent me your deck of designs, I thought seriously, what can she not do, and then immediately screenshotted color ideas for my new home. After I went through the deck I texted you that I think interior home design is your calling (spoiler: so is podcasting) and that it might be your next career venture (but you’re also never leaving The Retreat…). I don’t take it back—but I do want to hear your take on turning passions into careers. I have a minor problem where I think that every passion can and should be turned into a career, but I am slowly *attempting* to release that. How do you think about the line between passion and profession? Do you believe every creative outlet has to be something we monetize—or is there value in keeping some things just for ourselves, for joy?

It’s funny—despite how often I talk about the blur between the personal and professional, I’ve always held tightly to this sort of ‘never meet your heroes’ ethos. I’ve always believed in keeping my purest pleasures untouched by the sterile, transactional nature of “work.” That’s meant—intentionally—not pursuing writing as a career, not launching a podcast, not building a life centered around design, even though I’ve always been deeply drawn to all of those things. So many of my greatest joys—pairing textures and light, reading cookbooks, diving into novels, groaning aloud at the beauty of a poem, dancing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, singing, and having deep, soul-stretching conversations with friends—have lived in a private sphere, reserved for where I felt the most free, most myself.

In many moments, I’ve described this as living somewhat of a double-life: my friends can’t quite explain what I do for work, and my colleagues have little idea how I spend my time outside of it. But that separation has served me, on the whole: it allows me to be fully immersed in each space when I’m in it.

For instance, I love that my work rarely comes up in conversation with friends—because that’s simply not the thing that matters most to us.

But your question arrives at an interesting time—because recently, I’ve begun to feel something shift. I’ve started to feel less protective, more open—maybe even more curious—about letting my personal passions enter the realm of my professional life. And honestly, I think working with The Retreat—and with you—has had so much to do with that. It’s made me think: What would my life look like—and what would my mind feel like—if I just allowed myself to actually sink into my passions, and swim around there? What would emerge? If we only get this one precious life, why not fill as many corners of it as possible with what we love?

I’ll admit, the idea of mixing passion and commerce still makes me shudder—I’ve always resisted the idea of putting a price tag on something that feels sacred—but I’m starting to believe that might just be something I need to unlearn. The people I’m most inspired by (like you, Carley, and so many of the people we’ve interviewed in these pages) are the ones who genuinely love what they do, and who’ve blurred the line between the personal and professional—not to their detriment, but to their expansion. Rather than being drained by that overlap, they seem energized by it. For a long time, that kind of blending felt scary to me, but now, it feels brave, and maybe even necessary. For now it’s an unraveling thought…but we’ll see where it takes me.

Now, speaking of passion…let’s talk about Laura. Your relationship with your wife is truly one of my favorites! How you met is still one of the best stories I’ve ever heard, and I stand by the fact that it should absolutely be turned into a movie. (No, I’m not being dramatic.)

Laura is an artist, a poet, and a photographer (Reader, you’ve seen her work grace these pages—and she photographed our muse, Mal, this month). You’ve said more than once how much you love working and creating with her, and how you’d love to do that more one day. Honestly, I don’t think many people would say the same about working with their partner and mean it.

What is it like being married to an artist, as an artist yourself? How does that dynamic play out in your day-to-day life, creatively and personally? And how has your relationship inspired or encouraged your creativity? What does celebration look like in your relationship with Laura—both in big, marked moments and in the quiet, everyday ones?

Laura and I were formed, and fell for each other, in the smallest moments—but those moments were absolutely extraordinary, and so many of them had to do with our shared connection to art. I mean, we were eighteen when we met, and just so in love with the world—in the way that you are only at that point in your life. I’d often burst through the door of our apartment, screaming about a poem I just read, immediately shoving the book in Laura’s lap to read it over again with me. We’d lay in her bed with the window open talking through our favorite songs, or watching live concerts with our feet dangling on the floor. We let art break our hearts, and we were unafraid to feel its heaviness. That fearless, full-hearted way of being in the world is what always I hope still guides us—nearly fifteen years later—on both our best and hardest days.

Laura and I are very different people, which also makes us very different kinds of artists. She could write a poem every day if asked, and she frequently captures the perfect photograph mid-walk without a second thought. I, on the other hand, need to be shut away for days just to finish one piece of writing. We’re embodied very differently when creating, and when receiving art—she’s quiet with it, and I’m effusive. It’s not unlike how we show up at dinner parties: Laura is a grounded and steady presence, while I’m always wilder and louder, flitting about.

But what’s always run in parallel between us is our reverence—for art, and for the making of it. We push each other, in small but strong ways, to create. I’m especially grateful to Laura for this, because I can easily compartmentalize, and forget myself. Laura reminds me. She is always there, reminding me of what I can make, and who I can become.

I suppose that’s the essential nature of our partnership: yes, it’s a shared commitment to creation, but even more than that, it’s a shared dedication to seeing each other—to reminding one another of who we are and what we’re capable of. That is not always easy or perfect or even beautiful, but it is what grounds us, time and again.

When Laura and I were planning our wedding, I remember sitting outside in Brooklyn at our favorite restaurant and thinking through the guests and the food (of course) and whatever else, and we had this phrase come up for what we wanted it to feel like: intimate, yet abundant. That phrase ended up being the driving vision of the entire celebration—but it’s a phrase that’s stuck with me ever since, because really, it’s just the truest expression of our entire relationship. Our most formative moments have always been the quietest ones—the ones where we don’t have to be anything other than ourselves, yet feel completely connected. In those small, unremarkable moments, the world feels infinite. When I think about celebration, I think about how we might take that feeling—of deep presence, of quiet joy—and bottle it, to offer it to everyone we love. It’s our way of holding space, but it’s also one more reminder: you, too, are infinite. You, too, are extraordinary. You, too, are so, so deeply loved.

RAPID FIRE

Favorite Retreat moments from year 2: Ugh, so many. But if I had to choose? Creating our editorial issue with Soko Park and Kara Duval, for the launch of Into The Body Onto the Body—that opened up this whole new level of imagination and joy for us as a creative team, and it felt totally magical to feel that shift as it was happening. Also, a moment we just had a couple weeks ago, when we added a brilliant mind, and a very dear friend of mine, to our team. More to come on that :)

Favorite way to celebrate after a....

• Big career win: Orange wine in my kitchen with dinner roasting in the oven, windows open, a candle lit, and Joni Mitchell on the speakers.

• Long annoying day (with a ton of contractors (; – Absolute silence, sitting outside in our rocking chair, listening to the trees.

• Long long pub day – Sleeping in and being deeply kind to my body (but damn, do I love those late night pushes).

Fuck marry kill: poetry, memoir, fiction – Jeez, this is just rude, but: Fuck poetry, marry memoir, kill fiction.

Favorite celebration memory from childhood? Oh, wow. I think coming down on the mornings of my birthday to find the entire house decorated. My mom was that mom, and I am still totally in awe of how much energy and time and (raw talent?!) she spent on blowing up balloons and hanging them in all these formations and making custom banners and decorations. I mean, damn—being a parent is an artform.

Currently reading? I just finished All Fours by Miranda July and it was downright perfect. I’m just starting We Can Do Hard Things, by Glennon Doyle, Abby Wambach, and Amanda Doyle, and it’s blowing my mind already. Form-wise, it’s like nothing I’ve ever read before, and knowledge-wise…damn. Every fourth line, I yell over to Laura, “Can I read you something out loud??!!”

If you could have dinner with someone dead or alive, who would it be, where are you, what are you eating, and what are you talking about? I think it’d be my two grandmothers. One passed about 15 years ago, and one passed recently—and she was my best friend. (They’re both my fashion icons, and always have been.) We’re on my grandmother’s covered porch, and it’s early Summer, and we’re eating fresh mint ice cream with chocolate, and drinking iced tea. There’s a formality to the table that doesn’t at all match our conversation—they were both outspoken women, full of firsts. I think we’re talking about those firsts. I think I’m asking them exactly how and when they became the woman they wanted to be, and how I might follow in their footsteps.

Unsubscribing to: Noise, both internal and external.

Subscribing to: Stillness without discomfort, flexibility, deep breaths, long meals, phone calls with friends, the oncoming summer, silence, the next year of The Retreat, and my next cup of coffee.

Connect with Mallory on IG @mall_oh_ree