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fountain pen on text sheet paper with rose

Original article on Substack: <a title="Poems. Because I have no words..." href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-186328682" data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-186328682">Poems. Because I have no words...</a>I thought I would write something else today. I sat down with the intention to do so.But the thoughts feel heavy. Exhausted. With everything happening in this country, especially Minneapolis, I cannot bring myself to write another piece soaked in doom and despair. I’ve read so many of them lately. They matter. They must exist. We cannot turn away or numb ourselves to what is unfolding.&nbsp; And yet… I don’t have it in me to add another one today.Instead, something quieter asked for space.As all of this is happening out there, something entirely unexpected has been happening in me. During my sabbatical, creative work began arriving without invitation. Painting first. Then sketching. Then poetry. Writing. And now, this Substack.None of it was planned.I never thought of myself as artistic. I hadn’t painted or written creatively since elementary school. The survival mode I learned early in life, the one shaped by trauma, pressed this part of me deep underground. For decades, I didn’t even know it existed.But once the door cracked open, expression poured through.Last week, it finally became clear: I wanted a place to hold it all. A home for what has been emerging. So I built one.👉 https://dorotacastillostudio.com/Everything I’ve created so far lives there.In a strange and quiet way, this feels like resistance.Art is always among the first things threatened under authoritarianism. Expression. Imagination. Education. Anything that allows people to feel, to think, to escape, to question. A disconnected, discouraged, uneducated population is easier to control. History has shown us this again and again.So this, making art, sharing it, refusing to shut down, this is my small act of rebellion.Today, instead of an essay, I want to share a poem.I wrote it for my younger son, who came home from college yesterday for the weekend. He’s the only one in our family with thick, curly hair. For years, haircuts were a source of dread for him. He never liked how he looked afterward. He would retreat, unhappy, waiting weeks for it to grow out.During his junior year of college, I offered to cut his hair myself.I had never cut hair before. I am not a hairstylist. I watched YouTube videos, took a deep breath, and tried. He trusted me—because it couldn’t be worse than what he’d already endured.And somehow, it worked.He loved it. I did too.For three years now, this has been our ritual. I used to pour myself a small drink beforehand to steady my nerves. But last night, something shifted. I didn’t need it. I just… did it. Calm. Present. Trusting my hands.I believe the work I’ve done during this sabbatical, loosening my grip on control, outcomes, fear, made that possible. I no longer need everything to be predictable. I let things unfold.At least, that’s what I choose to believe.Here is the poem.&nbsp; Haircut He arrived with bags Tired from the long drive Walked in and hugged us with his big arms.Towering over us, Tucked us under his chin, Then sigh with relief And allowed himself to breathe.His hair long but still coiled in curls, Ready for seasonal trim to happen today. I no longer hold the anxiety nor fear When I move the shears to shorten his mane.He sits patiently, playing his tunes While I work on his hair to get it to curl. Then he is up, checking the results, And then smiles broadly, loving the style.When my son comes home, The house revives. There is guitar music, laundry and steaks And gentle loving with his warm embrace.His hair now short again Big brown eyes shin on display. This is our ritual of trust, Between mother’s hands and son who feels safe.

Poems. Because I have no words....

Wrote on Substack <a href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093" data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093">https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093</a> I woke up enraged.Angry at the state of the world. Angry at the United States, here and now. I have a pattern. Every once in a while I make the mistake of going online and doom‑scrolling. Then I shut everything down for weeks, because it takes days to calm my nervous system, to rebalance, to return to a life that feels even briefly sheltered from the insanity of this world.&nbsp; Yesterday was one of those days.The image of five‑year‑old Liam being detained is now etched into my brain and my heart. It won’t leave me. And I need to say this plainly: if you are a grown man, dressed in Amazon‑bought camouflage gear, detaining a child, you are not a patriot. You are not a hero. You are a coward participating in cruelty.<figure id="figure-ide9kggao4mkrhf7xq"><img id="ide9kggao4mkrhf7xq" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/23G3M7MNuqqzTMwRSQVQTNSlNyyi1PLTLhCTFfCHtwFsdzZVGwC0D5uEoAsWDjuh.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 25%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionX="50%" data-positionY="25%" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>I will be clear about who I am here, because I don’t want to waste time pretending neutrality for people who won’t hear me anyway. What we are witnessing in this country bears the fingerprints of authoritarianism. We have normalized state violence against civilians. We have normalized fear. These are not the markers of a healthy democracy. These are the tactics used in regimes we once claimed to stand against.I was born and raised in Poland. I grew up studying what led to World War II, the slow erosion of norms, the propaganda, the scapegoating, the way ordinary people convinced themselves that what they were seeing “wasn’t that bad.” I remember learning about the rise of Hitler and thinking, How could anyone have let this happen? I remember believing, naively, fiercely, that if I had been alive then, I would have fought it. That I would have protected people. That I would have stood up.I saw this coming nearly ten years ago. Some people say, “You should have left.” And they’re right. I should have. But life is not that simple when you have young children, roots, obligations, love. It wasn’t just my decision anymore.And now here I am.Sitting in my home. Safe, technically. Watching history rhyme, if not repeat. Feeling small. Feeling helpless. Wondering what it actually means to “fight” when you’re not a revolutionary in a textbook, but a real human with limits, fear, and responsibilities.The anger I feel isn’t just about what’s happening. It’s about my own helplessness. About the version of myself I imagined I would be, the one who would know exactly what to do when the moment came. I am furious at the people who still don’t see it, who dismiss everything as “fake news,” who minimize cruelty because it hasn’t reached them yet.But if I’m honest, I am most angry at myself.For the ways I have been complacent. For how little I know how to mobilize, organize, or meaningfully resist without becoming consumed by rage. For living in the tension between knowing how dangerous this is and not knowing how to stop it.I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. The world is already burning. But I also refuse to numb myself into silence. Writing this is not a solution. It is not activism. It is not resistance in the grand sense. It is a refusal to pretend I am okay.Maybe this is what resistance looks like for me right now: naming the grief, the fear, the anger without turning away. Staying awake. Staying human. Refusing to let cruelty become normal in my own mind, even when I don’t yet know what the next step is.I don’t have answers today. I only know that forgetting is dangerous, denial is lethal, and history does not need monsters to repeat itself only enough people willing to look away.I am not looking away.

I Woke Up Enraged

Pine tree on cliff edge, Huangshan Mountain Range in China

Original post <a href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-185249364">https://substack.com/home/post/p-185249364</a>I know I’m supposed to post here with some regularity, but right now my thoughts are moving faster than structure. For a while, I’m writing simply to unload what’s alive in me. Consistency can come later. Today, I want to write about resilience. Not the motivational kind, but the lived one.Resilience is showing up for me in two very different, very personal ways.The first is through the current state of affairs in the United States.I am an immigrant. I came here years ago, during a time when the U.S. was seen as a land of opportunity. A place to begin again. I arrived on vacation and stayed. I met my now ex-husband, had children, and built a career that rose faster than I ever expected.For a long time, I imagined I would eventually leave. I’ve been traveling since I was ten, and permanence was never part of my original design. But children change your center of gravity. Stability stops being theoretical and becomes essential.So I stayed.And some days, I stay terrified, watching patterns unfold that I was taught, in European classrooms, could never repeat themselves. I feel shame, disbelief, and grief that grown adults can be so consumed by fear and hatred, so willing to strip others of dignity.I read widely. I try to understand. I look for nuance. And often, I find no answers, only more weight.Resilience, here, is not constant engagement.It is knowing when to step back.I take breaks (sometimes for weeks) to protect my nervous system from the relentless flood of outrage and despair. I stay informed, act where I can, and then choose preservation over collapse.But resilience, for me, has also taken a quieter, more radical form.In the face of cruelty, I choose kindness.In the face of division, I choose to try to build community.Connecting to my truest self has made this clear: kindness is not naïve, and community is not passive. They are deliberate acts of resistance. A refusal to become hardened. A rebellion against the fear, isolation, and dehumanization that dominate so much of what we see today.This is how I stay human.The second place resilience has shaped me is in my professional life.For years, I survived and thrived in corporate environments. I moved up in every company by adapting quickly, learning relentlessly, aligning myself and then aligning others. I planned, fixed, solved, and carried what needed carrying.Until one day, I realized that this version of resilience had quietly become self-erasure.The hardest act of resilience I’ve known was stepping away. Not because I failed, but because I succeeded at something that no longer fit. Walking away meant facing uncertainty without armor, without titles, without a plan that impressed anyone but me.It meant returning to a version of myself I had left behind long ago. The creative, brave, unapologetic one who existed before survival became her primary skill.Finding her again has required more strength than climbing any ladder ever did.I don’t know how this chapter unfolds.I don’t have a neat resolution or a five-step framework.But I do know this:Resilience is not endurance at all costs.It is staying soft in a hard world.It is choosing connection over isolation.It is building something good in defiance of what feels broken.Something tells me that in upcoming years we will need this more than ever. And above all it is not giving up.Especially on myself.<figure id="figure-58lk14g5h7mkrhagq3"><img id="58lk14g5h7mkrhagq3" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/2197690679/photo/us-immigration.jpg?b=1&s=2048x2048&w=0&k=20&c=5sAohKs4jFOUvXH4sN62k8lAezWPouNS5c7YQdM6VdY=" alt="US Immigration" title="US Immigration" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>

Resilience in Uncertain Times

Silhouette of a man walking in the airport as the plane takes off during sunset. 3D illustration

This was originally a post on LinkedIn, written ON 12/05/2025. I just had a realization that I absolutely love airports!As I am sitting at the airport bar right now, preflight drink in hand, Chicago-bound to see old friends, I am wrapped in the feeling of anticipation to experience adventure, possibility, movement.Every person here is in transition. Heading somewhere new. Leaving something behind.It strikes me that this is exactly what happens during mergers, acquisitions, and major organizational change.Here’s what I’ve learned working with executives navigating these moments: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. The strategy is usually sound. The vision is compelling. Synergies, efficiencies, market position, real value that can transform organizations.But here’s where most transformations stall: the gap between boardroom vision and what actually happens on the ground. While executives are mapping the destination, hundreds or thousands of people are sitting in their own version of this airport, wondering: Where am I going? What happens to my career? Will I matter there?This isn’t just a “people problem” to manage. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. The organizations that get transformation right do both: they deliver strategic impact while respecting that every person has their own trajectory. Their own growth. Their own potential that shouldn’t be sacrificed for “alignment.”Real alignment doesn’t mean everyone falls in line. It means translating executive vision into frontline reality in a way that makes both the organization and its people stronger.So yeah, I’m heading to Chicago for a personal trip. But I’m thinking about all the executives navigating their own transitions right now.The best leaders don’t just move organizations from point A to point B. They make sure their people arrive better than when they started.

In the Terminal of Change: What Airports Teach Us About Transformation

Extreme skier rushes down the mountain on skis, holding sticks for insurance in his hands

This article was originally created for LinkedIn post on 2/16/2025<a href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/getting-back-skis-after-26-yearsand-what-taught-me-dorota-e4gue/?trackingId=ZU0bL%2B8JSRWMr7v9%2BktNhQ%3D%3D" data-mce-href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/getting-back-skis-after-26-yearsand-what-taught-me-dorota-e4gue/?trackingId=ZU0bL%2B8JSRWMr7v9%2BktNhQ%3D%3D">https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/getting-back-skis-after-26-yearsand-what-taught-me-dorota-e4gue/?trackingId=ZU0bL%2B8JSRWMr7v9%2BktNhQ%3D%3D</a>Last month, I did something both exhilarating and terrifying—I went skiing for the first time in 26 years.It had been so long since I last felt the rush of carving down a slope, the crisp mountain air against my face, the sheer joy of moving effortlessly through the snow. The last time I skied, I was 19 years old—a fearless young woman who had skied since the age of four.For years, I dreamed of going back. But life happened. Responsibilities piled up. There was always something standing in my way. And just like that, 26 years passed without me doing the one physical activity I truly loved.So when I booked this trip, I felt a mix of emotions—excitement, nostalgia, and an overwhelming fear.What if I couldn’t do it anymore? What if I fell and got hurt? What if I had lost that part of myself?But despite the doubts, the anticipation was stronger. I had to go.The Roadblocks That Almost Stopped MeWhen the day finally came, it was as if the universe wanted to see just how badly I wanted this.Atlanta was snowed in. The roads were icy and dangerous. TSA lines were two hours long. My lane took only 30 minutes. Flights were delayed and canceled. Mine somehow stayed on time.Everything around me seemed to be setting up obstacles, but nothing could stop me. I felt like the universe was both testing and pushing me forward—challenging me, yet making sure I got to where I needed to be.And I knew deep down—I was meant to be on that mountain.The Moment of TruthThe next morning, I strapped on my ski boots, feeling the weight of 26 years of anticipation.<figure id="figure-wsvxkkhz1amkrghwm1"><img id="wsvxkkhz1amkrghwm1" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/18VaslfUBe0rx3SyC0iWgsgD6XthwbPk6kro8krvDY74n7GUAIk8BPlgeWL5tJh9.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 30% 15%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="30%" data-positiony="15%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/18VaslfUBe0rx3SyC0iWgsgD6XthwbPk6kro8krvDY74n7GUAIk8BPlgeWL5tJh9.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 30% 15%;"></figure>Ski instructors urged me to take it easy, to start slow, to stick to the beginner slopes for a while.I nodded, but inside, I felt something different.As I reached the top of the mountain and snapped my boots into the bindings, I heard that familiar click—and suddenly, something clicked inside me, too.I took a deep breath. My heart pounded. This was it.<figure id="figure-luimlk4e8emkrgj2wx" class=""><img id="luimlk4e8emkrgj2wx" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/25aDMyzCvRliKPYWJe3DjGnQEUr8Up7RNV0nXGyreG1uMDv6ebzmU3xoKP60nYTx.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 30%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="50%" data-positiony="30%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/25aDMyzCvRliKPYWJe3DjGnQEUr8Up7RNV0nXGyreG1uMDv6ebzmU3xoKP60nYTx.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 30%;"></figure>I pushed off.And within seconds, it all came back.The stance, the movements, the way my body shifted weight between turns—it was all still there. My muscles remembered. My instincts took over.There was no hesitation. No fear. Just joy.The beginner slope wasn’t enough. As soon as a blue run appeared, I took it without a second thought. With every turn, my confidence soared. I laughed out loud, whooping with pure exhilaration as I sped down the mountain.For two days, I skied nonstop—soaking in every second of the freedom, the speed, and the sheer power of remembering who I was.<figure id="figure-ymlausa79emkrgl4kk" class="selected"><img id="ymlausa79emkrgl4kk" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1cY38gpHHgUVOW0CS2x3pdzXxC3q3l7CTWpe17InNdTJbQCxbqd6fhzy40hq6usc.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 60%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="50%" data-positiony="60%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1cY38gpHHgUVOW0CS2x3pdzXxC3q3l7CTWpe17InNdTJbQCxbqd6fhzy40hq6usc.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 60%;"></figure>And that’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just about skiing.What This Taught Me About Leadership and GrowthThat moment reminded me of something powerful—something I see every day in my work.So often, leaders face projects or challenges that feel daunting. A new role, a high-pressure initiative, a struggling department. The fear kicks in.What if I don’t know what I’m doing? What if I fail? What if I’ve lost my edge?But here’s the truth: If you’ve built the skills, your instincts will take over.I’ve spent 20+ years leading complex transformations, fixing broken operations, and guiding executive leaders through high-stakes change. I’ve driven over thousand successful process improvements, saving companies money and increasing revenue.And yet, every new challenge still brings that moment of doubt.But just like skiing, my brain knows what to do. I’ve done this before.And that’s the lesson:When fear creeps in, trust your foundation. When the challenge seems overwhelming, lean into what you already know. When you're faced with uncertainty, remember—you’ve built the skills to handle it.Skiing again after 26 years wasn’t just about rediscovering a sport—it was about rediscovering trust in myself. It reminded me that when you’ve put in the work, your instincts don’t disappear. They’re always there, ready to guide you.Leadership is the same way. When faced with new challenges, uncertainty creeps in. But the truth is, you already have what you need. Your experience, your resilience, your ability to navigate the unknown—it’s all there.And that? That’s freedom.

Getting Back on Skis After 26 Years—and What It Taught Me About Leadership

Christmas present wrapped with craft paper and red ribbon under the Christmas tree in a cozy festive atmosphere with defocused Christmas lights at background

This article was created originally for LinkedIn on 12/21/2024.<a href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/walk-through-christmas-past-future-dorota-castillo-pmp-mba-bxlfe/?trackingId=pRYbroxKRFCvJAxoIfMJcA%3D%3D">https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/walk-through-christmas-past-future-dorota-castillo-pmp-mba-bxlfe/?trackingId=pRYbroxKRFCvJAxoIfMJcA%3D%3D</a>Tonight, as I walked my dogs through the quiet, chilly streets of our neighborhood, I stumbled upon a moment of unexpected magic. One of our neighbors has the most spectacular display of Disney characters, surrounded by a sea of twinkling lights. It’s not just a display; it’s a beacon of joy that draws cars from nearby neighborhoods, filled with families who come to marvel at the beauty. I’ve seen it countless times before, it’s just a short walk from my house, but tonight, I slowed down. I really looked. I noticed every Disney character, every string of lights, every detail lovingly placed. And in that moment, I felt something stir in me: a deep, comforting warmth that wrapped itself around my heart. It made me smile, a smile that lingered long after I passed by.I couldn’t help but think of my children when they were young, their eyes wide with wonder at those very Disney characters and the stories that brought dreams to life. Those tales of hope, magic, and wishes coming true felt so real then. And just like that, my thoughts traveled back even further, to my own childhood in Poland, to memories of Christmases long past.In our home, Christmas wasn’t just a celebration; it was sacred. One tradition in particular stands out so vividly in my mind: the sharing of the wafer, or opłatek. Before we began our Christmas Eve feast, twelve dishes, each symbolizing an apostle, we would pass the wafer around the table. One by one, we’d break a piece and share wishes with each person there. But these weren’t just surface-level well-wishes; they were deeply personal, heartfelt hopes for their happiness, health, and dreams. It wasn’t about us; it was about them. For those few moments, we put ourselves in their shoes, imagining what they needed most, and hoping with all our hearts that those dreams would come true.Over the years, I let that tradition fade. Life got busy, and I forgot how powerful it was. But tonight, as the memories came rushing back, I felt a longing to bring it back, not just for myself, but for my children. They’re older now, almost adults, and they’ve grown into thoughtful, empathetic souls. I want them to experience the beauty of that tradition, to feel what it’s like to truly wish for someone else’s happiness and to connect in such a meaningful way.And as I continued walking, with the cold air biting at my cheeks and the world around me aglow with holiday lights, another idea took root in my heart. I thought about starting something new, something that feels just as special. After Christmas dinner, I want to gather my family in the living room, a warm fire crackling nearby. Each of us will take a piece of paper and write down our dreams and hopes for the coming year. We’ll fold them carefully and tuck them into the toes of our Christmas stockings, keeping them there until next year.When Christmas comes around again, we’ll sit together and pull out those folded pieces of paper. We’ll read them aloud, sharing whether those dreams came true. If they did, we’ll celebrate with gratitude in our hearts. And if they didn’t, we’ll reflect, on how our dreams may have shifted, on the lessons we’ve learned, on the unexpected turns life may have taken. Then, we’ll write down new dreams, planting seeds of hope for the year to come.I imagine this tradition becoming a quiet, sacred moment, a way for us to connect, to dream, and to reflect without pressure or judgment. Writing down our dreams feels like whispering them into the universe, giving them a chance to blossom into something real.Though my children are nearly grown, I hope these two traditions, the breaking of the wafer and the dreaming of future hopes, will keep the magic of Christmas alive for them. The wafer reminds us to put others first, to wish with our whole hearts for their happiness. And the folded dreams tucked into stockings remind us to hold on to hope, to believe in the possibility of magic and transformation.As I walked home, I felt a deep sense of peace and purpose. Christmas isn’t just about the lights or the gifts; it’s about these quiet, meaningful moments that weave us closer together. It’s about hope, love, and the belief that no matter how old we grow, there’s still magic waiting for us—if we’re willing to believe.

A Walk Through Christmas Past and Future

Dorota Castillo Studio

Dorota Castillo Art & Poetry Studio is a personal creative space for intuitive painting and poetic expression. Dorota’s work explores inner transformation, symbolism, and emotion through color and movement, guided by process rather than perfection. Each piece invites reflection, resonance, and a felt connection beyond words.

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Poems. Because I have no words....

I Woke Up Enraged

Resilience in Uncertain Times

In the Terminal of Change: What Airports Teach Us About T...

Getting Back on Skis After 26 Years—and What It Taught Me...

A Walk Through Christmas Past and Future