Matthew McConaughey.

There’s a certain kind of heat that doesn’t break you - it baptizes you. That’s the kind of heat Matthew McConaughey and I were raised in. Texas heat. Emotional heat. That Southern, sandpaper kind of intensity that wears down everything that isn’t real.

And still, somehow, he came out weird. Free. Wild-hearted. Funny. Intuitive. Mythic.

Matthew McConaughey is the next poster on my wall - not because he’s perfect, but because he’s pattern-breaking. Because he took the old blueprint - be a man, be tough, don’t cry, fix it or fight it - and made it something else entirely. He made it greenlights.

This is a man whose father taught him manhood with fists and beer. A man whose brothers roughed him up when he got “too big for his britches.” And somehow he still turned out poetic. Still turned inward. Still trusted his gut. Still packed a bag and chased a dream across Africa with nothing but intuition and a backpack full of soul.

He built himself a treehouse out of stolen lumber behind a Texas lumber yard. Just him, the heat, and a vision. What kid would do that now? What kid could? It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t planned. But it was real. It was his.

And when life got too fancy - Chateau Marmont, the Gatsby years, red carpets and roles - he still knew how to find his way back. Back to God. Back to his family. Back to the part of himself that didn’t need the spotlight to feel seen.

I got to meet him once, in Bastrop, Texas. I asked, "How’s everybody treating you?" And without missing a beat, he said: “All green lights.” I didn’t know then that he was planting the title of his future book in my lap. That’s the kind of man he is. The kind who lets the synchronicities rise.

He reminds me that you can live mythically without being performative. You can follow your inner voice without having to explain it to everyone. You can leave the party and still be the life of it - if your soul says go.

He reminds me that Southern doesn’t mean stuck. That tradition doesn’t cancel transformation. That heat isn’t always something to escape.

And that sometimes, you build your sovereignty the same way you build a treehouse - piece by piece, plank by plank, from whatever the world throws away.

Poster on the wall: Matthew McConaughey.

For every woman who’s learned to sweat less for other people. For every Texan who writes poetry under their breath. For every soul learning how to read the green lights.

Let’s ride.

Bonus Track: The Gumbo Portal

Gumbo starts with the roux.

You stand over heat - low and slow - watching flour and fat transform into something dark and elemental.

If you rush it, it burns.

If you ignore it, it fails.

You learn to listen to the pan.

To smell time.

There’s a reason they say the roux is the heart of the gumbo.

It’s a conversation with your past:

What are you willing to hold over heat without flinching?

What flavors did you inherit?

Which ones did you have to invent?

When I make gumbo now, I’m not just cooking.

I’m choosing.

To stay.

To stir.

To unlearn the silence that was once served with every meal.

I add things in the order they deserve

not based on a recipe,

but on memory.

Filé powder like forgiveness.

Celery like structure.

Okra like the parts of me that were once seen as too much.

Sticky. Bold. Necessary.

Matthew makes gumbo too.

And I can’t help but picture him - barefoot, slow-spoken, stirring with one hand, Lone Star in the other.

But my gumbo isn’t about him.

It’s about me.

It’s about choosing to reclaim every slow, deliberate act of nourishment I once offered without receiving.

Because gumbo isn’t a fast love.

It isn’t performance.

It’s care. It’s built.

Bite by bite.

Green light: when the roux doesn’t burn,

when your hands know what to do,

when you stop asking for permission to be the main course.