As an adult, my love for libraries has only grown. On my birthday last year, I insisted my dad take a day off from work and spend it with me revisiting places I enjoyed going to as a kid in the city I grew up in. It’s not far from where we live now, but it’s a place we rarely have reason to visit. We walked around the park behind my childhood home, wandered through the same library I spent so many summers at, and concluded with a meal from the McDonald’s my dad would take my brother and I for Happy Meals on Saturdays while my mom worked. It was a day full of nostalgia and waves of emotions remembering running around these places as a child without a single worry in the world.

I still make regular trips to the library, maybe even more than I did as a child. I highly recommend checking out your public library and looking into all the resources offered. You might be surprised by what you find!

Speaking of surprises, last year I read What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. I went in with very few expectations and intentionally avoided reading reviews before picking it up. I’d been wanting to get into Japanese literature and the cover really attracted me. It only felt right to borrow it from the library and that is exactly what I did.

There are a few books I’ve read over the past year or two that have stayed with me long after reading and that I’d like to eventually share my thoughts on here. I’ll start with this one because it really was that special.

What You Are Looking For Is in the Library is a Japanese novel about the magic of libraries, human connection, and hope. It is the perfect book for anyone looking for a little inspiration. The story follows five individuals who each arrive at their community library feeling uncertain about their paths and searching for a sense of purpose. Upon entering, they are greeted by the librarian who asks each of them a simple question:

“What are you looking for?”

The answer doesn’t always come easily to the person whom the question is directed to. Instead, an unexpected book recommendation and interaction sets something in motion. There are no dramatic revelations that occur. Each individual experiences slow, subtle shifts and clarity through these encounters.

At some point the structure of the book did feel a little predictable, and the repeated detailed descriptions of the librarian started to slightly annoy me (I know I sound like a bit of a hater, but I’m leaving this in because I can’t be the only one who felt this way lol). Still, there’s a charm to the book that kept me fully engaged. Perhaps it was a combination of the softness of Aoyama’s writing and the whimsical setting of the book.

I found myself specifically drawn towards one of the characters, Ryo, a 35 year old man who finds his work unfulfilling and dreams of opening a business of his own, but isn’t sure how to go about it. While reading a book about worms, he comes across a metaphor comparing plants to human life. This idea that what grows above ground and below are equally necessary:

“Humans only see what suits them most, and make that their main focus, but for plants …

Both are main.

My mind jumps to the article about parallel careers where each job is complementary, neither is secondary. That’s what Yasuhara had said.

Plants have work to do above and below ground, and their work in one area complements the other. Maybe it’s the same with having an office job and running a store. Is that what Yasuhara is doing? What if I could do it too?”

Reading that inspired me to think about my own life in a way I hadn’t fully allowed myself to before. I’ve spent years building a career within the structure of a 9-5, and while that work has given me stability and fulfillment in many ways, it’s also meant that my creative side was often pushed to the side and unintentionally suppressed, as if it was something I could only return to when there was time left over or when I felt it was “allowed”.

Over the past few years, I’ve slowly realized that I don’t need to choose between the two. Just like the plant, both parts of me need attention and can be balanced. I can do the practical work that sustains my life while also nurturing my creative roots that sustain myself.

That realization has also led me to think about the importance of spaces where our creativity can exist without rules or outcomes attached. Places where we’re not always optimizing or producing. Our society is very good at creating labels and drawing boxes around us (e.g., job titles, timelines, expectations) that insist we stay in one lane. But books like this are reminders that we are much bigger than the roles we occupy. We are creative, curious beings from birth and we are allowed to return to that expansiveness again and again.

Long after finishing the book, I found myself thinking about the subtle ways we help one another without realizing it and how community doesn’t always look grand or obvious. I now find myself coming back to libraries as not only places for books, but as places for possibility. Where curiosity is encouraged and questions are always welcomed.

Additional pulled quotes:

• “In a world where you don’t know what will happen next, I just do what I can right now.”

• “What are you looking for? she had asked me. I think about it. A place for these dreams that I don’t know what to do with?”

• “You may say that it was the book, but it’s how you read a book that is most valuable, rather than any power it might have itself.”

• ‘Everybody is connected. And any one of their connections could be the start of a network that branches in many directions. If you wait for the right time to make connections, it might never happen, but if you show your face around, talk to people, and see enough to give you the confidence that things could work out, then “one day” might turn into “tomorrow”.‘

May I also suggest that the next time you want to get hold of a book—especially if it’s this one, instead of ordering it online from Amazon, check if your public library has a copy. I like having my own copies of books too but saving money and supporting one of the most important resources we still have in our communities today is cool too :)

What is one book that you’ve read that has changed your perspective on something? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!

—Amrita

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Circling Back is a monthly(-ish) round up of books, essays, films, obsessions, and all things I find myself returning to.

Have a look around and stay as long as you like.

Happy March friends,

I’ve begun to really appreciate the winter months: cozy nights in, winter activities, slowing down. I like to remind myself that like plants who need this period of dormancy before they bloom in spring, maybe the same might be true for us.

Still, after weeks of snow and brutally cold days, I’m ready for my favorite time of the year…spring! Fully, wholeheartedly. This past weekend was giving exactly that. Sunlight, fresh fruit, fewer layers, and the joy of reaching for ballet flats after months of boots and sneakers.

However, I usually find this time of the year a little strange because it feels in-between worlds. One part of me wants to lean fully into all that the new season has to offer but another part of me sits with a heaviness that’s difficult to shake. It’s a strange feeling to hold both things at once: hope for renewal while watching unimaginable violence unfold through a glowing screen. If you’ve been feeling similarly, I encourage listening to this message from .

Even when my mind feels crowded with the world’s grief, I find comfort in small rituals. One of them is looking back at the month that just passed. This year, I want to continue documenting my joys more. So here is an assortment of things that I found myself circling back to and helped make the cold days feel warmer in February.

Reading

1. I started Greek Lessons by Han Kang. Ever since reading The Vegetarian last spring, I recommend Han Kang almost reflexively when someone asks for a book suggestion. So far, Greek Lessons hasn’t pulled me in the same way—it’s been a slow reading month for me, but I am enjoying it.

“Greek Lessons tells the story of two ordinary people brought together at a moment of private anguish—the fading light of a man losing his vision meeting the silence of a woman who has lost her language. Yet these are the very things that draw them to each other. Slowly the two discover a profound sense of unity—their voices intersecting with startling beauty, as they move from darkness to light, from silence to breath and expression.”

2. A beautifully written piece, I Love My Mother Too Much to Repeat Her Life by on honoring our mothers. As an eldest daughter, I felt seen reading this.

   “Your mother did not suffer so that you could rehearse her suffering in a different decade. She suffered so that you might have a chance to choose better. To live more fully. To say no where she could not. To walk away where she stayed. To ask for more where she settled.”

Listening

1. I’m not sure whether Olivia Dean or Anuv Jain appeared more frequently in my airpods these past few weeks. Baby Steps by Olivia Dean has been on repeat, and with Anuv Jain, it’s almost impossible to pick favorites but Husn (obviously), Jo Tum Mere Ho, Riha, and Gul have been the ones I keep returning to.

2. This brilliant conversation between Krista Tipett and Katsi Cook. The title alone, “Women are the First Environment” caught my attention. If reproductive health, environmental justice, or Indigenous wisdom interests you, you’ll enjoy this episode.

Watching

1. I binge watched Severance in less than a week (partially because my trial was ending, haha). I’m a little sad I missed out on being a part of all the discussion last year when it seemed like everyone was watching it, but I still enjoyed falling into the internet rabbit holes afterward, reading fan theories and decoding color symbolism. I’m unsure how I feel about a third season but I also know I will absolutely be seated.

   

2. I’m slowly working my way through Hayao Miyazaki’s films and watched Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989) for the first time. It’s such a cozy and heartwarming coming-of-age story. It’s the type of film I can see myself returning to again.

3. Short films deserve more attention too. I’m so glad YouTube recommended The Broken Table (2023) starring Naseeruddin Shah. Beautifully written, it explores Alzheimer’s disease, caregiving, and acceptance through an intimate lens and in just under 25 minutes. You may cry, but I promise it’s not a sad ending.

4. This 14-minute documentary on Kashmiri Pashmina was eye opening. The wool comes from the undercoat of the Changthangi goat in Ladakh and is hand-combed during the spring/summer season. One shawl can take several days or even weeks to just weave alone. No machines, just skill and patience. I have a deeper respect for these artisans and this sacred craft.

   

   Eating

1. Food felt tied to connection in February. For my husband’s birthday, I planned a café crawl and instead of doing everything in one day, we’ve been stretching it over several weeks. It gives us something small to look forward to and has been a lovely way to explore Baltimore. I’m still thinking about the iconic crab dip bagel from La Maison by Café Dear Leon. They’re known for attracting early risers that form lines around the block and I completely understand why. Everything we tried was a perfect ten.

2. We also made it a mission to host more. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that gatherings need a reason but inviting people over “just because” can feel just as meaningful. Not every gathering needs a five course meal every time. Sometimes a simple meal shared around the table is enough. And because I am my mother’s daughter, I always make sure our people are fed. My go-to lately has been tacos. It’s quick, easy to prep, and always a crowd favorite.

Loving

1. February was full of celebrations of love: Galentine’s Day, Valentine’s Day, engagements, and anniversaries. But I also found myself dressing up even when there was no real occasion. WFH can make that feel unnecessary, but layering textures and playing with color reminded me how joyful style can be.

2. Returning to analog joys. Scrabble was one of my favorite board games as a child and at some point I completely stopped playing it. My brother-in-law recently gifted me a vintage bookshelf edition and it reignited my love for the game.

3. I finally visited Planet Word in D.C. The museum features interactive exhibits designed to explore the history of language and the power of words. I felt like a little kid again walking through each exhibit.

4. In the spirit of hosting more often, I’ve been collecting some fun inspiration for invitations. I know we’re trying to make gatherings chill again but I am such a sucker for a proper invite. Not necessarily a formal one, just an intentional one. There’s a popular book called The Art of Gathering by and one of the main points Priya makes is that a host’s role is the prime their guests. An invitation tells people what kind of space they’re entering. It signals energy and expectation. Personally, when I know what I’m walking into, I feel more relaxed.

Looking ahead

A few things I’m hoping to do in the coming weeks:

• Try something new. Maybe Ikebana or pottery. Send tips!

• Invest in good walking shoes because if the sun’s out, I will be outside

• Spring cleaning and rearranging my space (a must)

• Schedule more friend dates

I plan to report back in a month. Until then, I hope this letter reminds you that two things can coexist. You can hold grief for the world and still notice the small joys in your own corner of it. If joy feels far away right now, that’s okay too. I like to believe that like the seasons, joy also has a habit of returning.

-Amrita

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There’s something about spring that brings me so much joy. It feels like a reset, a slow, gentle waking up. I love it. Naturally, I’ve been deep in my annual ritual of cleaning out my closets and dusting off shelves. I used to think of spring cleaning as a cliché, but it’s become an essential practice in clearing out the old and making room for what’s to come each year.

Somewhere between the sweaters I haven’t worn in years and the unused jewelry and knick knacks that once felt necessary, I realized I’ve somehow managed to go months without buying anything new. Not as an intentional challenge, just something that happened. An unplanned no-buy of sorts. I’ve always tried to be mindful of my consumption habits, but I still find myself facing the reality of it, wondering: How much of this was bought in a moment of wanting to feel better? More beautiful? How many of these things did I acquire because I believed they’d change something deeper in me?

Across history and cultures, beauty has always been something chased and captured. We have shaped our lives around the pursuit and preservation of beauty. We want to be surrounded by it, to hold onto it, to be it. Entire industries have thrived on the idea that beauty must be attained, that we can make ourselves more worthy.

Beauty is such a slippery thing. We spend so much time trying to possess and perfect it that we forget to ask ourselves where that desire is really coming from.

We’ve turned beauty into a prize—something to be earned, perfected, and possessed. The perfect body, the curated home, the flawless picture. As if beauty is a thing we can grip tightly enough to keep from slipping away. We scroll through feeds of people online who seem effortlessly radiant and lives that appear untouched by the “messiness.” I’m guilty of this too and of mostly sharing the most polished moments online. It’s tempting to curate our lives in a way that masks the clutter or chaos.

But beauty is also real and often tangled up together with imperfection. Beauty stirs awe. It has the power to make us feel and pull us out of ourselves and into the moment. We consume beauty but it consumes us too. In its truest form, beauty has nothing to do with vanity, it’s about presence and about noticing.

Lately, I’ve been struck by how beauty often reveals itself in the most fleeting and unguarded moments (including the chaos). Like the warmth of a stranger’s kindness on a not-so-great day, an imperfect dish that still tastes like comfort, a newfound closeness with an old acquaintance. These moments that can’t be collected or curated, or even captured; they simply exist and remind us that beauty isn’t something to own but to be experienced.

A reminder:

Be gentle with yourself. So much of what we see online tries to convince us that if we just buy and chase, we’ll finally reach some imagined ideal. I hope you are able to find small ways to reclaim the truth that beauty doesn’t need to be perfect to be experienced or enough because embracing the uniqueness of who you are is an act of resistance.

A few ways I’ve been trying to quiet the noise lately:

• Unfollow or unsubscribe to accounts that constantly push consumption1

• Curate a folder of things that help me feel grounded (a playlist, favorite essays, pictures)

• Set phone-free moments in my day

Lastly, an invitation:

Take a moment to notice something beautiful around you. Not to capture it, but simply to observe. What small, unpolished, overlooked thing catches your eye?

• What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama and Alison Watts (translator)—a heart warming read and a beautiful reminder of the power of community and curiosity

• Our Interfaces Have Lost Their Senses—an interactive and thoughtful reflection on the evolution of digital interfaces (highly recommend viewing on a desktop)

• Better Conversations from On Being—on fostering meaningful and authentic dialogue

• The Art of the Tea Tray—a cozy YouTube video on a simple and intentional ritual

• This screenshot from Fariha Róisín’s Instagram:

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I read this comment under a video recently while scrolling on TikTok, and for some reason it stopped me. I screenshotted the comment and had to jot it down in my commonplace notebook later that evening. I keep this notebook for moments like this, when a simple phrase or idea stops me in my tracks or lingers long in my mind after the moment has passed.

Nostalgia is something I know well. It’s a familiar companion, often slipping quietly in when I least expect it.

What’s interesting about nostalgia is how it edits the past and smooths out the rough edges. Like telling a half truth. Suddenly the past becomes more softer, more romanticized.

Things nostalgia remembers:

• The joy of a family road trip

• The thrill of a first love

• Late-night conversations with friends

• The freedom of college years

Things nostalgia forgets:

• The petty arguments during those same car rides

• The teenage heartbreaks that felt world-ending

• The anxiety and moments of self-doubt

• The long stretches of boredom waiting for something to happen

I fall for it every time. I let nostalgia convince me that those were the days, the best of times, even when those days were just…days. It tells me I was happier then, more carefree, more present, more creative, more me. It suggests I have lost something, even if I can’t quite name what exactly; and when that happens, it’s easy to get lost in looking back, rather than paying attention to what’s unfolding in the present.

It makes me question the present. It makes me wonder if the best parts of life have already happened, if nothing will ever feel quite as magical as it once did. It makes me wonder whether I’ll have the same kind of friendships ever again, laugh as deep, or feel as free as I remember so vividly.

Thinking back to that comment I read earlier, I see more truth in it now. Nostalgia isn’t just about yearning for the past or what we’ve “lost,” but also a way of acknowledging what we’ve experienced. That we lived and endured it.

Nostalgia forgets that I was uncertain then, too. That I worried just as much as I do now. That I spent so many of those “golden” days longing for something—for the next big moment to happen, for proof that I was on the right path. Nostalgia paints the past as if I was always present and carefree. But I wasn’t. I was just living. The same way I am now.

There is a safety in the past that the present does not always offer. We know how those stories end and that’s why we return to it. Because it is known.

In a few years, nostalgia will try to rewrite this season of my life, too. It will tell me that this was the golden time, that this version of me had it all figured out, that I should have appreciated it more. And maybe I’ll believe it (again).

Right now, I am choosing to believe that today, too, is worth remembering. That one day, I’ll look back on this moment with the same glowing filter.

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In the spirit of nostalgia, I’ve been exploring ways to bring back the joy and simplicity I often find myself longing for in the present. Here’s what I’ve been up to :)

• Strolling through parks. The park behind my childhood home holds so many memories—playing tag until dark, sliding down the bright red slide, swinging as high as I could trying to touch the trees above. It’s still frigid here, but I’ve been making it a point to visit parks more often.

• Lingering at the library. As a kid, I would spend hours wandering the aisles at my local library. Lately, I usually just walk in to pick up my holds and leave, but last weekend I decided to linger with no agenda. I spent some time revisiting books I read as a child, browsing cookbooks, and cozying up by the fireplace. I’m always amazed at the hidden treasures that can be found at the library. has also written a beautiful piece sharing some free resources you can access with a library card that’s worth checking out.

• Trivia night. My brother and I were obsessed with Brain Quest as kids, quizzing each other until we had every answer memorized. I recently spotted a set at Barnes & Noble and was surprised to see they’re still around. Inspired by that, my partner and I had a virtual trivia date night. It reminded me of the joy in a little friendly competition.

• Collecting small treasures. I loved collecting stickers and knickknacks from places I visited as a kid. I’ve been leaning into that again, but with more intention. A pressed flower from a gifted bouquet, postcards, a matchbook from a favorite restaurant—small, ordinary things that serve as little reminders of moments I want to remember.

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Media consumed recently that I felt moved to share

• Priya Parker: When gathering becomes a lifeline [newsletter]

• Why Does Posting On Instagram Evoke Existential Dread [essay]

• James Baldwin in Istanbul [document]

• On Being: Mary Oliver—Listening to the World [YouTube]

A Full Circle will always be free, but if you’d like to support further, I welcome you to buy me a coffee or add a book to my shelf!

Find me on Instagram and TikTok

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This past weekend, I felt myself drawn to open it. Maybe it was the pull of nostalgia that winter always brings, or perhaps a quiet nudge urging me to look back before moving forward into the new year. Whatever the reason, I dusted off the lid and opened it.

Buried in between layers of folded letters and random tickets was a note scribbled on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper from an eighth grade friend. The second I unfolded it, I was transported back to my school days. The thrill of passing notes in class and the way we’d tuck them into each other’s palms as we walked by, like some sacred exchange. A small moment, sure, but whatever it was, it was real. An attempt at putting feelings into words and something tangible to hold on to.

I’ve always been the friend who wants to document everything. The one who takes too many photos at gatherings, who pockets receipts from nights out, who keeps letters and notes long after others might have tossed them. For me, these collections are not for show necessarily, but little reminders for where I’ve been, what I learned, who I’ve loved, and what matters to me.

Photos, in particular, have always been my way of holding onto time. I am not a professional photographer by any means, but I am an obsessive observer. I’ve spent years documenting the small, ordinary things: sunlight filters through my window at 3:30 pm, a plate of fruit my dad prepared for me, a random corner of my house, my friend’s laughter when she’s around her boyfriend.

I know a photo can never truly capture the fullness of a moment, but it comes close enough to make me feel like I’m stepping back in time. Sometimes, one glance at an image is all it takes to unlock a flood of memories. I also love how frames preserving memories in The things we do to distract ourselves:

“what a gift it is to be able to capture a moment in time. To look back and remember. To feel what can sometimes be fleeting. To hold onto something that takes up no physical space.

I think about this often—how the things we hold onto are not just objects, but echoes of people, of places, of selves we’ve been. Last year, I designed and printed a magazine for my best friend’s birthday. Conversations with loved ones and photos over the years covered the glossy pages. She later told me she cried, laughed, and cried again flipping through it. That moment reaffirmed what I’ve always believed: the things we create with care and intention, the things we can hold in our hands, hold a weight that no digital exchange ever could.

That’s why I cling so tightly to my memory box. It’s for proof that these moments happened, that they mattered, and that they still exist in some way. Every card, photo, note in that box is a small rebellion against the erasure of time. In a world that moves so quickly, that feels like something worth holding onto.

Media consumed recently that I felt moved to share.

• You should keep a scrapbook in 2025 and start documenting your life (YouTube)

• How to embrace mistakes without romanticizing failure (The Creative Independent)

• It is seldom wise to tell all ( substack)

• On memifying politics (TikTok)

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This winter, something shifted in me. I’ve found myself drawn to the season’s slowness and the way it invites us to rest without asking for explanation. Aside from the holidays, there’s no urgency to fill space with activity, no demand to be anywhere, or do anything—which is also a privilege I recognize.

As I watch the snow fall outside my window, I’m thinking about how deeply we’re taught to believe that rest must be earned. That first we must finish, achieve, prove, and only then relax. Winter reminds me that rest is not a reward for work. It is as integral to the cycle of life as work itself. So, I’ve let myself settle into it and be still without guilt, without the pressure to fill the space with noise.

This winter, I’m not rushing anywhere. I’m resting; and in this rest, I’ve found a love for the season that I never knew I needed.

Inspired by ’s lovely piece, How to Fall in Love with Winter, here are a few small ways I'm leaning in this season and practicing a slower kind of life:

Sleepovers

I’m not a big sleepover person. I love the familiarity of my own space, the comfort of my bed, and the little rituals that make up my evenings. But recently, I had two sleepovers—one with my 7-year old nephew and one with my cousins. Both reminded me of the joy that comes from breaking routine and leaning into play and connection.

Creating by hand

Over the holidays, I decided to bake a pistachio cardamom carrot cake for the first time. If you know me IRL, you know this cake has become a small extension of my personality at this point.

Baking has always helped me to slow down, even though I don’t do it often. This time it felt especially aligned with the season. I was making something new for the people I love, and the process itself felt nourishing.

I grated the carrots by hand instead of buying them pre-shredded, which I did mildly regret halfway through. I peeled the pistachios myself too, even thought it would have been easier not to. Everything took longer than necessary and that was part of the of the point. More! Baking! 2025!

Walking without a destination

This is still something I resist sometimes, especially on the days when staying wrapped in a blanket feels like the only reasonable choice. But every time I manage to get outside anyway, my body thanks me for it.

There’s something freeing about walking without somewhere to be and just letting my feet guide me. It’s a simple way to be present, take in the natural world, and to let go of the pressure to do or accomplish anything. When I’m walking, my only task is to walk.

Reading (and re-reading) slowly

I’ve been finding joy in slowing down while reading, giving my full attention to pieces I might’ve overlooked before, like selecting an article from a section I normally don’t read from, reading and noticing all the fine details of a menu, or reading a passage from a book out loud.

What does “rest” look like for you?

Left on Read

Media consumed recently that I found thought-provoking, amusing, or just moved to share:

• Meet Rachel Seville Tashjian (passerby magazine)

• Read this when you feel like: Adventure is out of your reach (Steeped by blog)

• Laapataa Ladies (film)

• Bobo’s Void: your stuff is making u miserable (podcast)

It’s a strange feeling—

I feel love and loss.

I feel pure joy and despair.

I feel hope and uncertainty.

I feel freedom and constraint.

I feel both connected and disconnected.

Birthdays are marked by celebrating the passage of time and the simple existence of self. But I also find them to be a reminder of what we are shedding. The person I was just a few months ago is now starting to feel like a distant memory. A birth and death of myself, occurring at the same time. It’s interesting how such experiences can co-exist.

There are so many things I want to learn, see, accomplish, but right now I’m enjoying knowing myself more intimately.

If you know me personally, you would know I am someone who would rather not bother with making grand plans to celebrate my birthday. You would also know my friends and family will somehow eventually convince me to pick up the phone and gather my favorite people to celebrate. At least they’ve been able to the last few years.

This year was different. I was set on wanting to have a quiet day to myself. No big party, no balloons. Despite verbalizing that to my close ones, they still managed to surprise me throughout the week with sweet and thoughtful offerings. Balloons included. In those moments, part of me felt silly for feeling reluctant to be the center of attention, which is a very common emotional experience for many on their birthdays I’ve realized.

I feel an immense amount of gratitude for this life and for all the beautiful people both offline and online who make me feel at home and remind me that I am never alone.

It’s difficult to reflect on 26 years of living in a few words or paragraphs; so in the spirit of ending and beginning a new chapter, I’ve compiled a list of 26 reflections gathered from rereading pages in my past journals, my notes app, and scrolling through my camera roll—a fun little activity I recommend for anyone, regardless if you’re beginning a new chapter. You’ll be amazed at much you already understand and have experienced.

1. Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes, the purest form of love is simply being there listening, enjoying a simple moment together like watching a sunset or taking a leisurely walk. Sometimes we forget that it is in the most mundane fragments of life in which love and intimacy can be found.

   If you love anything related to love, you may enjoy reading The Issue With Love by . It features contributions from a diverse group of writers who were given a simple prompt: “love, whatever that may mean to you.”

2. Convenience is destroying us and our sense of community. I mourn the loss of old world knowledge, skills, and wisdom meant to be passed down through generations. Can we please bring back learning from physical media, conversing with our neighbors, rediscovering the joy of crafting things by hand, and asking for favors! Let me cook for you. Let me pick you up from the airport.

3. Living a life of joy and fulfillment requires the courage to break free from fear-based agreements. No one needs to approve of your dreams. I’m still learning this.

4. There is more pleasure that can be found in creating than the end result. The process of creating is the purpose!!!

5. Hugs are healing. No explanation needed.

6. The older we get, the more important play becomes. Let yourself be bored. Those moments of idleness is where creativity sparks and our minds can wander freely. Boredom is an invitation to engage in playfulness. It builds up desire for meaningful engagement with the world.

7. Nature holds a plethora of wisdom. Throughout history, our ancestors have observed the natural world to discover meaning and guidance. I find the cyclical nature of our world (lunar cycle, four seasons, menstrual cycle, circadian rhythm, life cycle, etc) so fascinating and a beautiful reminder of every season’s uniqueness. Fun fact: This is also the inspiration behind my Substack name.

8. Everything passes, even in those moments you feel endlessly stuck. There’s comfort in knowing endings are followed by new beginnings. Sunsets are as beautiful as sunrises.

9. Sensitivity is a gift. Sensitivity is humanity.

10. There is a weird obsession with romantic love in the West. It’s unrealistic for just one individual to fulfill our needs. As a certified lover girl myself, I believe romantic love can undoubtedly bring joy and fulfillment, but it’s also important to recognize that there are many forms of love and meaningful relationships that equally contribute to a rich life. Sharing an excerpt below I haven’t stopped thinking about:

“We are not friends with our friends because we’re lonely. We are not friends with our friends because we need a void to be filled. We are not friends with our friends because we miss — scratch that —need the presence of a man to feel whole. We are friends with our friends because we love them, cherish them, hold them and consider them with every fibre of our being. We are friends with our friends because simply, we love them.” — , On The Tender Power Behind Female Friendships as part of ’s Guest Writer Series for

12. Mornings are for slow moments (a privilege I recognize). There is a unique energy in the early hours when the world is still waking up.

13. Not everything you create or share with the world will be your “best” work and nor does it need to be. It is OKAY! For years my inner critic discouraged me from sharing my words on the internet and I’ve learned to let the process of creation unfold naturally by removing the pressure to make it my “best” and by simply showing up. You will only continue to dislike your craft until you love what it brings you.

14. Let anger reveal what it needs to reveal and let it pass; there is almost always something that lies beneath it. I recently learned that the Latin word emovere, which is the root of the word "emotion", means to "move out, remove, agitate” and it just makes so much sense now. Feelings and emotions aren’t inherently good or bad, I think they just remind us that we are human.

15. Beauty has been on my mind lately. I cringe when I think of the times in the past when I looked at a particular part of my body like my nose or my chin and thought to myself that if I could, I would change it. It feels so shallow to think of beauty in that way now because I can’t help but think of my Nani’s skin when I massage my hands or think of my dad when I look at my eyes. Our bodies are sacred gifts that have been given to us and deserve to be honored.

16. A little bit of sunshine can do wonders. Let it caress you. Touch some grass while you’re at it. It’s free medicine.

17. Some of the most beautiful things in our life exist beyond the reach of our eyes—and are free. Knowledge, love, ideas, a song that can instantly evoke a memory, the mysteries of the cosmos that sustain life.

18. No is a complete sentence.

19. When ‘Kho Gaye Hum Kahan’ was released just days before NYE, I didn’t expect it to affect me so deeply. I say I don’t have favorite movies but this has to be one of my favorite movies I’ve seen. It’s filled with thought-provoking musings on connection and intimacy in today’s digital world that are just so relatable. One of the main ideas in the film is that not everything we see on social media is reality. What is shared online are only the things that can be captured and staged. Many times the highlights we see portrayed on social media are actually not highlights at all. Sometimes our most meaningful highlights are moments that cannot be captured like the feeling of safety when a close friend offers support or the peace that settles over you before you get into bed.

20. Calm and discomfort can co-exist. Discomfort compels us to pause and evaluate. When we flow with the circumstances, we allow ourselves to embrace the full spectrum of experiences. As I type this, I am reminded by a quote I jotted down in my commonplace book on March 13, 2024:

“Plants have no choice oftentimes in where they land, and yet wherever they land they are going to thrive and grow the best that they can.” — Rosemary Gladstar on Thriving Where Planted

21. Career ≠ passion. It is ideal for our work to align with what we love but we can also enjoy our career without it being our passion. Humans are multi-dimensional beings; our identities and sources of fulfillment are not meant to be confined to just one aspect of our lives.

22. Be like water. Flow. Cleanse. Cry. This meditation by photographer and filmmaker Denise Ariana Pérez is a beautiful reminder of our similarities to the rhythm of water and our innate connection.

23. 2023 was the year I got the persistent “Not enough storage. This iPhone cannot be backed up because there is not enough iCloud storage available. You can manage your storage in Settings” notification every month and I ignored it every time lol. It was the year I was taking at least a photo a day. Searching for something to capture in the every-day of life (especially for someone who spends a lot of time at her desk) was often challenging, and other days, not so much. What I learned through this practice was the joy of taking pictures is learning to notice. When you intentionally look for beauty, you begin to find it everywhere.

24. A more recent sentiment that has been on my mind lately, strangers can be cool. Sure, it takes a certain blend of courage and openness to break the ice, but in doing so, there’s a chance for something beautiful to blossom. We often forget that, many of those closest to us were once strangers too.

25. Feed or be fed. When we think of food, we often refer to sustenance—what we eat. Our minds immediately conjure images of nourishment for the body, but food is more than just the nutrients we inhale. It extends to the media we consume, the words we read, the dialogue we engage in, and the thoughts we allow to root in our minds. What we choose to feed our minds is just as important as what we feed our bodies.

26. Perhaps one of the most powerful questions I’ve learned to ask myself more often is how can I make the best of where I am? Because no one knows you better than yourself.

As I conclude this collection of reflections, I am reminded of how every person and experience I have encountered has taught me something valuable or revealed new perspectives—even if I didn’t notice in the moment. My hope is that some of these resonated with you, served as gentle reminders to what you may have needed to hear, or simply offered a moment of reflection.

May we all continue to find meaning in our connectedness,

—Amrita

It was quite frankly a random thought that came to me in the moment and recently, I found myself ruminating on the idea of aging. Ironically when I started writing this in March I came across a podcast episode by Feel Better, Live More with Dr. Rangan Chatterjee featuring Dr. Gabor Maté where they talk through the five regrets of the dying. It’s a beautiful conversation that touches on a variety of topics aside from aging like encouraging children to express their emotions, the connection between emotions and physical health, and happiness.

As a little girl, I often remember daydreaming of the day I would turn 25. I didn’t give much thought or care for any age before that. I’m not exactly sure what I thought 25 would be like, actually. I envisioned it to be some sort of magical threshold of adulthood, where I would have everything figured out, and that I would feel and look my best.

Since reaching this age, I find myself struck by how swiftly time has passed. My current reality has been challenging my earlier perceptions and I am constantly being reminded to embrace the present moment and how quickly life seems to pass by. Along with this, I have found a newfound appreciation for all the past versions of myself.

Twenties are a confusing age period (I am aware this is not a groundbreaking realization). Stray too far from embracing wildness, and you risk overlooking the age of liberation. Yet, it’s a balancing act; a need for responsibility and planning for your future simultaneously, because if you veer too off course, you’ll find yourself labeled as immature.

Societal norms and culturally inherited limiting beliefs influence our perception of aging in more negative ways than not. Aging is often portrayed as a burden to be feared. From our youth, we hear our older relatives make frequent comments saying things like, "look at my greys, I’m getting so old” or “enjoy your 20s, it’s all downhill from there.” More specifically, the fear of aging that society (the patriarchy), has brainwashed women to feel and the way older women are treated is a conversation for another day.

I can understand the fear and empathize with those who fear at the thought of growing older. Along with the wisdom and experience that comes with aging, many also deal with suffering or discomfort.

Sometimes, we have little control over the things that happen to us. What we do have control over is our self-perception. My belief is that if you grow up preparing yourself for the aging process as if it will be a burden, that is exactly how it will feel. I’ve observed, through the experiences of those around me, that fulfillment doesn’t have a timeline. 25 is not the pinnacle of life. Neither is 40, 55, 60, nor 75.

With that said, I’ve decided that I will no longer view aging as a burden or something to fear and release the idea that life is “over” after your 20’s.

I no longer deny the gift of aging. I honor it.

As someone who is approaching their “late 20s”, I’m learning that I actually love growing older and finding unexpected little joys in the subtle nuances of aging. Each year, I unravel new parts of myself and relish in the simple pleasures of knowing what brings me comfort.

It’s not just the tangible things and preferences. There’s something comforting in understanding the complexities of my emotions and understanding why I reacted the way I did when faced with an unexpected experience. Growing older means gaining appreciation for past mistakes and unraveling the mysteries of all the things that had to happen and come together to bring to the present moment.

I find comfort in knowing that the journey of self-discovery and returning to self is endless and has no bounds.

It’s a reminder that countless experiences will continue to add richness to my existence, and that brings me peace.

Have you experienced a shift in perspective on aging over the years? If so, what sparked that change?