Join Us: Why We Walk for March for Babies
I’ve experienced firsthand how difficult having a preemie can be. The long days in the NICU. The exhaustion that seeps into everything. The constant stress, uncertainty, and postpartum challenges that come with it. It’s an experience that changes you—and one no family should have to face without support. That’s why I’m raising funds for March for Babies.
In May, we’re once again participating in March for Babies—a cause that’s deeply personal to me.
I’ve experienced firsthand how difficult having a preemie can be. The long days in the NICU. The exhaustion that seeps into everything. The constant stress, uncertainty, and postpartum challenges that come with it. It’s an experience that changes you—and one no family should have to face without support.
Unfortunately, these stories aren’t rare. Preterm birth and maternal mortality rates are rising in the U.S., and the impact is felt most deeply by families who already face barriers to care. But the good news is this: research, advocacy, and access to better care save lives. They truly do.
That’s why I’m raising funds for March for Babies. Every dollar supports programs, research, and initiatives that help ensure moms and babies get the healthiest possible start—before, during, and after birth.
If you’re able to donate, please know that every contribution matters. No amount is too small, and every gift helps move this mission forward.
And if you’re local (or just love a good walk for a good cause), I’d also love for you to join us on May 17. Walking together is a powerful reminder that families don’t have to go through this alone—and that community matters.
Thank you for reading, supporting, and caring about healthier beginnings for moms and babies everywhere.
Click here if you feel called to give or walk alongside us. 💜
The Sisterhood She Hunted
It’s a jungle out there, so she aligns herself with predators, believing they will provide protection. She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
It’s a jungle out there, so she aligns herself with predators, believing they will provide protection.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
She’s on safari, chasing trophies with a price tag dangling from her own neck, unaware of the irony.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
Entering her hunting grounds, she spots lemurs joyfully leaping from tree to tree, knowing the females decide the troop’s movements. She brings them down one by one.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
She stumbles upon a pride of lions. She pauses to watch them guard the young together. Then she tears them apart, taking the strongest home as her prize.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
She approaches a herd of elephants and witnesses the elder female leading them to water. She gleefully takes down the matriarch.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
She bears the weight of her collection, dragging those magnificent creatures across the jungle floor behind her, leaving destruction in her wake.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
Nearing the end of her expedition, she hopes to return a valiant hero, eager to show off her sacrifices.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
But those leopards, they have always been solitary creatures. Sneaking around in the night, cleverly letting others do their dirty work.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
She believes they will laud her “accomplishments”, reward her with prestige and power, accept her as one of their own.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
But silly girl, she was always the sacrificial lamb. And those leopards? Their hunger is insatiable.
She never believes the leopards will eat her face.
And when they finally do, somehow she is still surprised.
Leopards always eat the faces that trust them.
The Elements of Her: Water
She flew through life, flowing fast and furious. She was abundance personified—her body, her mannerisms, her life. Life seemed effortless to those observing her stream.
She flew through life, flowing fast and furious.
She was abundance personified—her body, her mannerisms, her life.
Life seemed effortless to those observing her stream.
But we know how water journeys, appearing still at the surface but fighting a storm underneath.
She carved her own paths through rock and hard places, violently clearing the way while appearing as if the sun’s sparkle alone illuminated her storm-soaked body.
Some used her in ways small and large to water their own seeds. Others understood her power and respected her beauty knowing she was dangerous too.
Some tried to fight her current, bobbing wildly while trying to save themselves when they knew better than to challenge such a force.
Others understood the weight of water knowing their own composition would determine whether they would sink or swim.
She chooses who she nourishes. She’s not a watery mess. She is power in motion.
They still call her effortless. And she lets them, knowing she commands an entire ecosystem beneath her surface.
Author’s Note: This piece belongs to a four-part series, The Elements of Her.
The Elements of Her: Fire
She burst into the world like a firecracker, lighting up the night like the 4th of July. Small as she was, her flame never dimmed. It danced, it sparkled, it would occasionally flicker when the conditions turned cruel.
She burst into the world like a firecracker, lighting up the night like the 4th of July.
Small as she was, her flame never dimmed. It danced, it sparkled, it would occasionally flicker when the conditions turned cruel.
She moved through life in a controlled burn—keeping things measured, careful to not become the wildfire they feared.
Some weaponized her flame, lighting the fuse and aiming her heat at ghosts of their own making.
Others knew that she could be dangerous but also divine. A visible glow in the darkest hours, lighting the way for those who needed it most.
She will always be the light in the darkness. And when necessary, her blaze devours the oxygen and keeps raging.
They still call her guarded like the eternal flame, but she smiles slyly knowing they could never blow her out.
Author’s Note: This piece belongs to a four-part series, The Elements of Her.
The Elements of Her: Air
She whooshed into the world, full of movement. You would never see her, but her presence was felt. She created tailwinds as she traveled through life. Some lifted by her current, others bracing against it.
She whooshed into the world, full of movement. You would never see her, but her presence was felt.
She created tailwinds as she traveled through life. Some lifted by her current, others bracing against it.
Weightless, yet powerful. She cannot be contained, but can move the world with a single breath.
Some harnessed her wind to power their own ambitions. Others yielded to her, swaying through her warm currents.
She leaves you breathless when she lingers, but gasping for air when she’s gone. She decides who inhales her—the unworthy choke on what they cannot hold.
Her supply is endless. Without her, you would not survive.
They still call her untouchable. She smiles, knowing she was born for the open skies.
Author’s Note: This piece belongs to a four-part series, The Elements of Her.
The Elements of Her: Earth
In the beginning, the gas and dust conspired, collapsing inward until she was forged in stone. Hardened, yes, but not always immovable. She held immense power, yet could still fracture into a million pieces—each shard sharp enough to cut, each fragment capable of becoming something new.
In the beginning, the gas and dust conspired, collapsing inward until she was forged in stone. Hardened, yes, but not always immovable.
She held immense power, yet could still fracture into a million pieces—each shard sharp enough to cut, each fragment capable of becoming something new.
She rolled downward, never up. But wherever she came to rest, she rooted—gathering dust and growing from it. What others called sediment, she called foundation.
Some planted their feet firmly onto her, staking claims across barren lands, mistaking her steadiness for ownership. Others understood that even her fractures, her fault lines could birth mountains.
She chooses what takes root, what strengthens, what erodes. She decides what stands and what returns to dust. She has the power to rock your axis.
They still call her steady, solid, reliable. But she knows when to shift—when to split, when to rupture, when to open and take them back into herself.
Author’s Note: This piece belongs to a four-part series, The Elements of Her.
The Long Way Love Travels
My love of art has been with me for as long as I can remember—and now my toddler shares that same love. Creating has become something we do together, side by side, hands busy and hearts open.
Lately, we’ve been experimenting with collaborative paintings, letting curiosity lead and perfection fall away. One of those pieces felt especially meant to be shared, so we decided to create it for my mom—Nana to her—for Valentine’s Day.
My love of art has been with me for as long as I can remember—and now my toddler shares that same love. Creating has become something we do together, side by side, hands busy and hearts open.
Lately, we’ve been experimenting with collaborative paintings, letting curiosity lead and perfection fall away. One of those pieces felt especially meant to be shared, so we decided to create it for my mom—Nana to her—for Valentine’s Day.
This was inspired by Puff Puff Painting's Valentine's Day painting tutorial.
The Long Way Love Travels: A Mother/Daughter Collab
It starts as a flutter in your heart, then moves to your stomach. Love travels that way. Softly. Slowly.
It grows, as does your body, until one day your heart is suddenly outside of you. A piece of you now roams the Earth alongside you.
Love fills the air, allowing you both to grow strong and tall.
Then one day, that piece of your heart that you would never take back multiplies again. Somehow, your heart grows even bigger.
The fresh love in the air fills your lungs. You breathe freely, knowing the supply of love you give and receive is endless and will be carried forward for all time.
Archetypes: Axis of Evil
Archetypes: Axis of Evil keeps the format: portrait, title. truth. But this time, we’re not looking at the light. My word of the year is duality, so we’re stepping into the shadows. These aren’t individuals. They’re amalgamations—real and imagined.
“You see us as you want to see us. In the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions.”
Last week, I created The Archetypes, digital portraits inspired by modern tarot. Maybe you saw yourselves in them, maybe you sent them to your friends, maybe you even argued over who was who.
Archetypes: Axis of Evil keeps the format: portrait, title. truth. But this time, we’re not looking at the light. My word of the year is duality, so we’re stepping into the shadows. These aren’t individuals. They’re amalgamations—real and imagined.
They may or may not be villains or monsters, but they are mirrors. Sometimes, they’re us.
Tell me in the comments: what’s your shadow self’s archetype?
Not All Men
“Not all men” is a phrase we hear often. It’s used to soften the blow, to let men (and some self-hating women) distance themselves from the harm. But the bar is in hell. Superiority comes in inches, not feet. No, it’s not all men—but it’s always a man.
“Not all men” is a phrase we hear often. It’s used to soften the blow, to let men (and some self-hating women) distance themselves from the harm. But the bar is in hell. Superiority comes in inches, not feet. No, it’s not all men—but it’s always a man.
Originally, this began as a poem I wrote lying beside my daughter while she napped, thinking about the cycle of relationships. The next day, as I created promotional graphics for Instagram, it evolved into something more.
While the imagery speaks for itself, I want to point out a few details and their symbolism. Each image contains one stanza of the poem. The woman is telling the story of her relationship from start to finish as the Polaroids of her life stack up. The happy moments are intentionally blurred because her memory of them is fuzzy. The not-so-happy moments are sharp—she remembers those clearly. They’re the reason she walked away.
At the end of each stanza is the line, “Not all men, but always a man.” It appears in a handwritten font, as if she’s jotting a note to herself—a reminder. As the story progresses, the size of the mantra slowly increases. She grows louder and louder until she reaches her breaking point. But she isn’t broken. She’s resolute—determined to create change for her daughter, to smash the patriarchy. And that starts with refusing to accept the disclaimer.
Not All Men
He sparks up a conversation
Then burns her at the stake
Not all men, but always a man
He arrests her with his charm
Then turns their home into a prison
Not all men, but always a man
He wines and dines
Then sticks her with the check
Not all men, but always a man
He treats her like a princess
Then locks her in a tower
Not all men, but always a man
He flies her out
Then crashes the plane
Not all men, but always a man
He paints the perfect picture
Then hangs her on the wall
Not all men, but always a man
He pays the bills
Then comes up short
Not all men, but always a man
He sells her on the dream
Then manufactures a nightmare
Not all men, but always a man
He worships the ground she walks on
Then sacrifices her at the altar
Not all men, but always a man
He drives the relationship
Then claims it was an accident
Not all men, but always a man
He provides security
Then pulls an inside job
Not all men, but always a man
He gets the water running
Then circles the drain
Not all men, but always a man
He plants the seed
Then poisons the garden
Not all men, but always a man
He hits copy + paste
Then smashes the motherboard
Not all men, but always a man
She makes him a father
Then smashes the patriarchy
Not all women, but always a woman
The Archetypes
Archetypes. Clichés. Labels. So many names for what is often a singular essence. Do we ever fit into just one box? Of course not. But life likes to sort us that way.
“You see us as you want to see us. In the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions.”
Archetypes. Clichés. Labels. So many names for what is often a singular essence. Do we ever fit into just one box? Of course not. But life likes to sort us that way.
Earlier this week, I found myself thinking about the people in my circle and how I might “label” them. Not to confine them, but to reflect on how I see them. To remind myself of the qualities I love most. The patterns in their strength. The threads in their becoming.
That quiet pondering turned into a collaboration with AI to create portraits of some of my nearest and dearest based on my descriptions of them—intentionally loose on physical details (though some came out eerily accurate), and deeply specific about their hearts, their energy, and the elements that feel core to who they are.
Once the images were finished, something clicked. I had recently heard the phrase, “You are not the sacrifice. You are the altar.” So I reached out to my island of misfits and asked them to rewrite it in their own voice.
The result is a series of digital pieces inspired by tarot archetypes—modern, personal, a little irreverent. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Tell me in the comments: what’s your archetype?
Dance of the Sky Dragons
I wasn’t just painting a beautiful night sky—I was, once again, turning to my ancestors for guidance. The lights weren’t the Northern Lights. They were generations watching, guiding, moving nimbly through the sky above me.
That’s what inspired Dance of the Sky Dragons.
Dance of the Sky Dragons is a twist on Puff Puff Painting’s aurora borealis tutorial. I love, love, love her. She makes painting feel accessible and joyful, and she fully embraces the mess—encouraging you to stop over-perfecting your art. Something I need to hear daily, if I’m being honest.
Visually, my painting turned out very similar to the tutorial, but I was able to see beyond that. I wasn’t just painting a beautiful night sky—I was, once again, turning to my ancestors for guidance. The lights weren’t the Northern Lights. They were generations watching, guiding, moving nimbly through the sky above me.
That’s what inspired Dance of the Sky Dragons.
Dance of the Sky Dragons
The light reflects a thousand times, yet appears as one.
The ancestors watch—they're always watching. Moving through the sky, seeing their souls mirrored in the generations they helped shape, and experiencing great joy knowing the light is carried forward.
Always.
Start Here:The Work of Megan A. Stardust
The short version? I’ve always loved art in its many forms. I was once a tech nerd who got laid off—and in the quiet that followed, I found myself. Or perhaps I finally stopped pretending I hadn’t been here all along.
Well hello there, welcome.
If we haven’t met, I’m Megan, a mom, multidisciplinary artist, and dreamer.
I suppose you’re here because you want to know my story.
The short version? I’ve always loved art in its many forms. I was once a tech nerd who got laid off—and in the quiet that followed, I found myself. Or perhaps I finally stopped pretending I hadn’t been here all along.
I have always lived a life with many interests, sometimes intersecting, sometimes at complete opposite ends of the spectrum. I could move from athletics to art to endless hours of reading in a single afternoon seamlessly. Creating has always been central to who I am. The connection to something ancestral was there too—I just didn’t yet know how to name it.
It took my years to understand what tied it all together.
My work isn’t entirely my own. It’s gathered from moonlight and memory, whispered by faeries, drawn from distant realms. When the call arrives, it isn’t subtle. The direction is clear—I am meant to create, and I respond. I reach for the paintbrushes, open the laptop, and make space for whatever wisdom the unseen is ready to move through me.
The words and images carry a frequency meant to be felt, not just seen. They are reminders, signals, invitations—small shifts that nudge us toward our highest timelines. If they resonate, it’s because they were never only mine to begin with.
Collaboration and connection have been central to my being since the beginning, and that hasn’t changed. It’s why I share my art with the world. Sometimes it finds one person. Sometimes it travels further. Either way, it was never meant to stay only with me.
If you’ve found your way here, I trust it wasn’t by accident. Stay awhile. I’ll be here.
P.S. You can read more about the version of me that once lived in spreadsheets and strategy at meganadutta.com.
Family Isn’t Always Forever
A hairline split appeared—small at first, almost imperceptible. One half of the tree grew dark and gnarled, consuming toxins as if they were candy. The other chose the light, embracing the complexity of nature and standing resilient—stronger than the storm.
The split? That is permanent.
A seed was planted and so it began. It broke through the soil as a vulnerable twig dancing in the wind. Growing quietly and steadily, bathed in the the light, it flourished.
With nourishment from Mother Earth, it strengthened. New limbs formed. New life followed. It blossomed with all the goodness its environment offered. The branches moved in unison, swaying together, protecting one another—after all, they shared the same roots, and what was good for one was meant to be good for all.
As the tree grew, its roots grew stronger, anchoring it to Mother Earth as deeply as possible. Its branches expanded too, stretching outward and blooming in all directions. Some reached so high they lost touch with the roots below. They began to absorb the toxins in the air—and discovered they liked the taste of bitterness.
They couldn’t get enough of it, in fact. They breathed it in willingly, deeply, again and again, until the poison spread from branch to branch. Some partook eagerly in the ritual of darkness, greedily gulping up the toxins as if starved for them.
Others, however, remembered the light. They pushed the toxins away and continued to bloom—beautifully, in fact. These branches flourished in the light, forming vibrant new buds. They fully embraced the nourishment Mother Earth provided, carefully protecting what was tender and new, sheltering their delicate growth from the darkness that lived within the tree itself.
As more life bloomed in the light, the ecosystem began to fracture. A hairline split appeared—small at first, almost imperceptible. One half of the tree grew dark and gnarled, ugly in every way, consuming toxins as if they were candy. The other chose the light, believing the world held more good than bad, embracing all the complexity nature offered and standing resilient—stronger than the storm.
The roots remained. They had always been the same, they would always be the same.
But the split? That is permanent. The light could no longer pretend the darkness was harmless. What was growing chose protection over proximity, ensuring the next generation would bloom unbroken.
The Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing
Once upon a time there was a girl, born to be soft but forced to be feral… Slowly, she realized he wasn’t a man at all, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing—promising softness yet preying on her kindness. He was never the wolf. She was.
Once upon a time there was a girl, born to be soft but forced to be feral.
She grew up, as we all do, and time had hardened her. The armor she wore was never meant for her but life insisted she needed protection.
One day, she met a man. He bombed her with love—bursts of devotion, promises wrapped in urgency—slowly chipping away at the walls she had built until she stood stripped bare, like a war-torn city mistaking quiet for peace.
She felt naked. Exposed. And, at first, protected by this metaphorical prince.
As days turned into years, she softened. She set the armor down piece by piece, believing she was finally free from its weight.
Slowly, she realized he wasn’t a man at all, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing—promising softness, yet preying on her kindness.
Looking back, she hears the howl differently.
Funny how we call them wolves but wolves aren’t weak. Wolves protect their pack. Wolves aren’t cruel—they’re loyal.
He was never the wolf.
She was.
And when she bared her teeth, the sheep ran.
