The Fragile Beauty of Trying, with Isabella Goldman

“Creativity is a mysterious process, whether we're making a person or a beautiful vessel. Usually the reason it's so exquisite is that it’s beyond capture.”

Isabella Goldman and I have never met or hugged in person, and yet still she remains an unwavering pillar of my emotional and spiritual life. We became Internet friends back in 2020, when she was one of the first people to join The Study, a private community I created at the Pretty Decent Internet Café. 

In the years since, I’ve turned to her countless times for wisdom, feedback, and perhaps most potently: Astrology consultations. When I reached my Saturn return, I turned to Isabella. When I feel confused or shaken up, I turn to Isabella. When my friends have pivotal birthdays, I turn to Isabella (or, more plainly, I buy them a gift certificate from her website).

Which explains why when I decided to start this writing experiment and explore all of the ways we “try in public,” Isabella was one of the first people I reached out to for an interview.

What you’ll find below is a transcript of a conversation we had in October 2023. At the time of our call, she had just days before experienced an early pregnancy loss. I was honored then and remain honored now that she was willing to sit and talk about trying in the midst of so much grief, and I am beyond grateful at her generosity in allowing me to share this conversation with you. I cannot overstate how moved I was by her words—her ability to translate an experience of loss into wisdom about creativity is evidence of her supernatural gifts, and in the conversation below she offers lessons any artist can benefit from.

I’m also delighted to share that Isabella and her partner are currently pregnant, with a little one due later this year. 

Content Warning: Pregnancy loss. This is a long read, so you might want to open it in your Substack app or website browser.

LEXI MERRITT

When did you decide to try?

ISABELLA GOLDMAN

I got my social work education from LSU, which I think is quite a good program but hugely lacking a spiritual component. That's when I realized that astrology would support my understanding and bring me closer to a sense of purpose and faith. I started studying with Debra Silverman. She was a psychologist and then became an astrologer, so that felt familiar to me.

I think it was a year into that study that I felt the calling, the purposefulness of becoming a parent.

I've known for a long time that I want to be a parent. When my partner and I got together, we'd been close with one another for a long time, trying on different versions of our relationship. When we decided we wanted to be in a committed partnership, it was clear from the beginning that it meant long-term commitment and working together to be intentionally procreative.

It was probably nine months later, actually—that's interesting—nine months after I’d started school and started astrology that I decided it was like time for us to try.

I didn't know that it was going to be so hard. I remember my gynecologist specifically told me, “You better be careful. You're healthy, you shouldn't take out your IUD until you're really, really ready.” I told her, “I'm really ready.”

We got pregnant quickly after that, within just a couple months. I was really excited. 

Then my mom told me not to tell anyone. 

I felt immediately defiant. My mom and I have a complicated relationship, as so many mothers and daughters do. She's never been supportive of my creative practice in a way I can appreciate. The way she expresses support is super goal-oriented and not interested in the “process.” Making creative things just to make creative things is not as much in her vocabulary as is achieving a particular mission, which she's excellent at.

She's always been able to make the thing that she's imagined materialize, which is where I've always really struggled. I feel like I have a really vibrant imagination and making things come out the way that I envision them is not easy for me at all.

I've always struggled with the question of, “Is that process worth it?” There are some mediums the answer is a hard yes and others a hard no. 

If I keep getting met with negative feedback just because I'm trying, will I be able to survive the cost of all of the negative feedback in the process?

I think that loss is a really big part of the creative process. Things can just slip through your fingers and don’t go the way that you wanted them to. 

As a photographer, I could always handle it—like with losing a roll of film. When you lose a roll of film, it happens before you get to know anything about it. You capture all these amazing things, but you have no idea what you really got. The roll is full of these little hidden secrets, and when you lose it you just never get to see them materialize.

That’s somehow okay with me. I am willing to lose those things. I remember I lost a roll of film when I was in Italy, and that was really upsetting, but it just made me want to try harder.

With ceramics, it wasn't the same. Once, I made a set of 10 pieces I was really proud of. I put so many hours into it, and then somebody didn't put a hole in their work and it exploded in the kiln. It wrecked my project and destroyed everything else in the kiln as well.

I remember at that point that I knew, I cannot. I think because it was so close to being done. Like, I saw it. I saw this work go in beautiful and then come out in shattered pieces. I put in so many hours. I don't handle the loss that comes with that kind of work the way I can with photography.

mysticbaby9

A post shared by @mysticbaby9

So when my mom told me I wasn't supposed to tell anyone I was pregnant, I was defiant. I wanted to be able to celebrate with community. I was excited! This is something that I'm proud of having created with my partner. 

She told me, “It's just not done. We don't do that.” And I know that is what women have been teaching each other. I know that's what mothers are teaching each other, and have been for a really long time.

But we're at a place in history where people are being criminalized for the birth process, for the procreative journey. I'm not about to forsake myself in this. I'm gonna try out loud, because I want people there with me either way.

Then, when I had the early pregnancy release, I felt so alone. I felt like I couldn't talk to her about it, because she’d “told me so.” It felt like she was right. Maybe I shouldn't have told anyone. Maybe it would have been easier if I hadn't.

Because then I did have to go to people and say, “I have failed.” This creative venture that I was on—for whatever mysterious reason, I was not allowed to continue.

MERRITT

I'm curious about when you say, “I wanted to try out loud because I'm going to need people there with me either way.” People are often afraid to share when they have a dream or a desire. There are so many superstitions, so many cultural associations—this idea of jinxes, even—all of these ideas we have about telling people when we want something, especially when we really want it. In that scenario, what was it like to go and tell your community? To have to do the hard thing?

GOLDMAN

It took me a little bit of time because I was afraid of burdening people with something. Especially because it's not something that we usually share.

I was able to tell some people at my work. They are mental health professionals, and so of course some of them asked me, “What the hell are you doing here? Why are you working?”

My response was basically: “The only way I can get away from the swirling nightmare that is my own experience is to talk to other people about their own nightmares.” It was big time dissociation.

That first time, I went into work and led a presentation. It was like I was watching myself. That I would not recommend. I would never encourage a client or friend to do that.

It was an interesting way to be shown my own behaviors and be reminded that this isn't actually how I want to be. But telling those community members was my first experiment in vulnerability about this kind of trying.

With my biological family, it was really challenging. I got feedback from both of my parents that was beyond devastating. There was a lot of language that they used that oriented towards blame. It was an emotional disaster.

That was the moment where I was transitioned. That was the moment I noticed: I am not their kid anymore. I will always be their child, but I'm not parented by them in a way that I'm willing to accept anymore. My practice of boundaries got really serious with them specifically.

I hated what happened with my parents, but it was an interesting moment to say the least. I perceived it as my first lesson in becoming a parent. I became my own parent in the moment that I felt like they had just completely let me down.

With my friends, I believed lots of them were completely unequipped to be there for this type of loss because they are not on the same variety of creative journey that I am.

They also are not used to me being the one crying. It’s an alien experience for people to watch me cry, not for them but for myself. Plenty of people will see me cry for what happens politically in this world. It’s less frequent that my friends hold me as I deal with my stuff.

I think one of my weaknesses is not letting my friends hold me—I hold back because I think a lot of the things that will break me are heavier than maybe they've been trained to manage. I don't have as high of expectations of space holding for my friends as I do for myself.

I think that's a weakness. Because not only do I not allow people to support me, but it's a failure to respect the strengths of my friends.

I am really lucky to have the Pretty Decent community. I think it came up pretty specifically in a conversation we were having about experimenting with vulnerability. I have so much respect for the emotional awareness and the intelligence of the community you have built, Lexi. 

It hit me, like, “Oh, these are some people that you really can practice with. Practice trusting them to hold you, even if they don't know about this. They don't need to know about it to know how to hold space.”

Whether or not everyone in The Study is interested in children or interested in procreating themselves, I was able to share that vulnerability and share: “I am trying. This is something that I dream of. This is something that's important to me. And I'm very aware that I have no guarantee of it.”

As a therapist, I know that you don't need to have lived through it to be compassionate. At the same time, I think that there's a closeness that can grow out of relationships that face hardship.

They have the potential to be a lot stronger than those that don't, because the opportunity to go through something painful or complicated experiences creates strength, in the same way that a broken bone is stronger where it's healed. 

I felt significantly stronger by being able to share. I guess it was also me taking a step closer to me allowing people to hold me, which feels like a muscle I want to exercise. 

MERRITT

What does astrology tell us about that act of trying, or about doing things without a guarantee? Is there any connection there that you can see right now? Does it remind you of a planet?

GOLDMAN

I think all the planets operate as a team to describe potential, and creativity can tap into that to generate something expressive and meaningful. But if I were to take a more narrow view, Mars and Venus embody trying through their archetypal meaning of effort/energy and values/desires respectively. 

I often describe the condition of Mars as “the hill you would die on.” It is the planet that describes our energetic efforts, our assertiveness, and our willpower. So what we’re willing to fight for, what we’re willing to bleed for. 

As for Venus, she describes our creative expression, our values, and our desires. I believe our values and desires indicate a lot about our willingness to try, and our creative expression. I interpret this as what we can’t help but put our generative and purposeful action into. 

For example, Mars is located in the 4th house of my chart, the house associated with family and ancestry—with building a family. Putting real efforts into exploring roots and family connections is personally and professionally extremely important to me. Venus is located in the 5th house of my chart, the house associated with children, play, and creativity. 

I think we can see a theme developing here: Creating a family is deeply important to me. It’s something I value and desire—something I’m willing to try for, knowing I could suffer the vulnerability and loss of the process of trying. 

This isn’t to say these placements are why my values and efforts are expressed the way they are. I don’t enjoy using astrology as a deterministic tool. Instead, I feel validated in the life I am living by exploring the archetypal meaning of the planets, their positions, and my relationship to them. I love to support others with astrology as a tool of compassionate self-actualization, helping them find acceptance and awareness of patterns and themes that can support liberation and self-trust.

MERRITT

Is there any place that you find wonder?

GOLDMAN

My most recent early pregnancy release was on the first day of Scorpio season. My Time Lord this year—which is just a timing technique that we use each birthday to determine your muse for the year—my Time Lord this year is Mercury. Mercury made its ingress into Scorpio really close to the same day the sun did this year.

And the moment that Mercury, my Time Lord, moved into Scorpio—which is my 12th house—I had an early pregnancy release.

I suppose I could have predicted it. I don't use astrology for prediction because I don't think it helps. I really am deeply invested in self-determination because I like trying. I think that if I watched the astrology too closely or if I let astrology determine my actions too much, then I wouldn't try. I would just throw up my hands and say, “It is all going to be whatever it is. I will just get on my hamster wheel.”

My Time Lord moved into my Twelfth House of loss and grief and hidden things. If there's anything that I've learned about early pregnancy releases, it's that they’re deeply mysterious. 

Creativity is a mysterious process, whether we're making a person or a beautiful vessel. Usually the reason it's so exquisite is that it’s beyond capture.

To me, that's what divinity is about: It's the in-breath and the out-breath. There's meaning beyond description, or it describes something beyond what we've been able to evoke before.

I think I find wonder in that: That the astrology keeps making sense. Even if it's desperately painful and horrific, it’s “good astrology.”

When I got pregnant and I knew that I was going to be at a really vulnerable place, creatively, right in the middle of this eclipse—I knew that there was a chance that this was not going to be a pregnancy I could hold. Not only because of my history, but because eclipses are often not well associated with pregnancy.

Which comes back to like the jinxes conversation, right? That was the last thing I wanted to be focusing on. So every time I wasn't bleeding, I was just saying gratitude. I was so full and grateful and fulfilled and inspired in that time.

I guess there's wonder there, too. I got to be really close to my creative practice, my energy and my desire.

MERRITT

And that’s also the trying, I think.

GOLDMAN

Yeah, that inspiration. You’re like, “This is so vulnerable. I'm trying.” Then you start letting people know, and this time I did—I told some friends close to me. I had learned not to tell my mom because that was proven not to be safe for me.

It was a lesson in protecting my creative practice. I was really careful not to not to tell people that I couldn't trust to hold it. I was really protective, but also willing to be celebratory and proud and inspired by how vulnerable it was for me to be in that creative space.

I've actually tried to shift my pregnancy language from “trying” to “receiving,” because my role in this creative process is to be receptive and to be like a vessel.

I'm somebody who is a real try-hard. I’m super willing to fall flat on my face. I think that that's one of my better skills. And I've had a couple opportunities recently where it’s clear that my Aries magick is in being the one that's willing to go first. I don't know what's going to happen, but if I'm the first one to run into battle, at least I can protect the others. They can see what might happen, as long as they can watch me go first.

mysticbaby9

A post shared by @mysticbaby9

Experimentation, the willingness to go first, is important to me. I'm curious if I'm in one of those positions now.

Throughout this creative process, I haven’t found a lot of people that are out there talking about what it's like to try and not necessarily fulfill the creative dream of having a baby. I know that there are communities about it, and I've noticed that they're quite private and sort of secretive. I understand why. This kind of loss is really, really hard to manage and there are a lot of people that aren't going to show up very gracefully for it, especially in this climate where it's literally being criminalized to have this happen in your creative process.

But I think one of the reasons I feel called to try out loud is because I suppose maybe I am willing to be crucified for this. I hope that I'm not, but I really hate how alone I feel in this. I didn't know, for example, that more than 25% of pregnancies don't become a person. A doula taught me that and it made a really big difference.

I think that creatives can talk about this sometimes with similar pain and fear. There’s vulnerability in, like, “Well, what if I don't actually achieve my goals? What if I don't actually create what I thought I was going to create? Or what if I don't love what I was creating? What if I thought I always wanted this and it didn't turn out the way I wanted it?”

I think that if we could have more understanding about the whole process, we could have a lot more forgiveness for ourselves. That's one of the things I'm looking for in my practice. How do I forgive myself in all of this? It's really hard not to come back and blame myself, or wonder what I'm not doing right.

MERRITT

And like you said, it’s a mystery, right?

GOLDMAN

Yeah. I’m collaborating with the divine. I don’t know what makes good art, I don’t know what makes a seed fertile.

MERRITT

And we try, you try anyway.

GOLDMAN

I think that that's when we fuck around to find out. Like, I don't know what the answer is—and that's why I'm going to try. Because I would like to find out.

I suppose I could give up on this project. The grief is really overwhelming. It isn't like anything else I've ever felt. And it's hard because of the context, the politics that it sits in. It's dark.

There are people around me that are being criminalized for seeking to end their creative journey because that's what's right for them, because that's what's necessary and healthy and the kind of relationship with their divine path that they're on. I’ve got family members for whom the pro-creative practice comes so easily. They are just overflowing with that kind of magick, to the point where they're not even able to be as intentional about it.

MERRITT

To draw another parallel, that does sound like something I hear from creatives all the time.

GOLDMAN

There are a lot of people that just fall into it, and it looks like it's easy for them. It may not even be what they want.

MERRITT

I don’t think there’s an artist alive who can’t relate to what’s underneath that experience, you know? Watching someone else get what you want and even sometimes listening to them express discontent with it.

Sometimes I get it with parents, and I think that happens to a lot of us who have lost parents. We’re like “Well, you don’t know how good you have it.” But that’s not fair to everyone’s individual relationship, right? That’s just my pain speaking. It’s just me saying “I miss my Dad.”

Isabella, I want to thank you for doing this. I appreciate how vulnerable you’ve been, and also for saying some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life—just like wildly poetic sentences. You’ve changed my mind forever, just in this hour.

I wanted to ask you one more question. Can you tell me about a time you tried something and felt fulfilled by it? By the process of trying?

GOLDMAN

I created a two-part thesis for my dual undergraduate degree. The first part was linguistics—I studied linguistic anthropology. It was about understanding an environmental relationship through imported and Indigenous languages. I focused on the North American continent and looked at the imported language of English and then a bunch of different Indigenous languages and the differences in how they approach environmental relationships.

By chance I also found a book on Aboriginal language. Which is how I learned that in the Aboriginal language, there's a song that you are taught based on the moment of your quickening—the first time you move in your mother's womb. It's your parent’s responsibility to be aware of what part of the landscape they’re in at the moment of your quickening.

When you're born, the people that also had their quickening at that location will teach you the song about that location. The rhythm, the lyrics, and the melody of the song teach you how to move through that landscape. They tell you where you're gonna find water, where you're gonna find poisonous creatures, what to eat while you're going through the landscape, how fast you should be moving through it so you don't get scorched by the sun.

There is a very literal, rhythmic connection to the environment. When you import a language, it's not going to have any of the context. It's not going to be literally training you about how to move through the space. It can't be coded with the same messages and meaning. It doesn’t reinforce the same spiritual relationship with the context that you're in, the landscape you're in.

So I compared the two environmental languages and relational dynamics and I am deeply proud of the text I created. I also did my own version of it, a photographic work called Intimate Landscapes where I went to the same locations in my hometown for an entire year and I made pictures of those locations. It was a description of what made me fall in love with the landscape that I'm part of, and what makes me truly inspired.

It was a deeply fulfilling process to make that body of work, to describe that relationship. It was also the overachievement of my life. I wrung myself out spiritually, psychologically, everything—in part because I also had to contend with how problematic it was for me to write this thesis in the first place. There's just so many layers to the conflict that it brought up. And then like, printing it out on paper? It felt so gross.

MERRITT

Was there a moment when you crossed the threshold into fulfillment? Or was it the process itself? When you recall that sense of fulfillment that you felt, what moment do you think of?

GOLDMAN

The moment where I was sure that it was a thesis worth writing—which I now relate to a positive pregnancy test—was when my professors told me, “Damn, that's a good idea. Can't wait to read it.”

Then again when all of it was done. I remember all of the seniors running around the library trying to figure out how to properly collate and print our documents and stuff. Everyone had the wrong formatting for one thing or another. But then I had it printed out, and I was holding it in my hand.

Holding it in my hand, knowing it was real, knowing it was finished—the grief of everything that I’d put into it. The realization that I’m not getting to explore the creative process of it anymore, and also the triumph.

Like, “Oh my God, I've cried for this thing. And here it is: Tangible, legible, and real. It’s bound and sits in my college.”

It took me nine months. Which is, you know, a beautiful thing.

mysticbaby9

A post shared by @mysticbaby9