More specifically, I had woken up at Keble College at the University of Oxford. I had landed to a heat wave in the UK and while I’d arrived at the tail end of said heat wave, the conditions were primed to teach me an invaluable lesson. One that I will carry with me henceforth. A lesson in architecture, if you will.

An interesting fact about the architecture of some of these older buildings is that they’re designed to trap the heat in. Which meant that during a heat wave, you felt every single degree of heat while inside any of these buildings. I slept on top of my covers that first night and was surprised to wake up not having melted from the heat. This could work, I thought to myself.

It was so blissfully quiet. There’d been quite a hullabaloo right outside my window throughout the night so I was up from midnight to around 4am. When I finally did fall asleep, I thought I’d just dozed off for an hour or two, certain that I’d woken up to the calm, quiet, and stillness of a 6am Saturday morning.

We had a one-hour window blocked off from 6:30am-7:30am (‘Early morning boot camp: Wake up and write!’) for those of us who wanted some extra writing time. I have all the time in the world, I thought to myself. That is, until I looked at my phone and realized it was around 7:30am. Breakfast had already started and our first masterclass was scheduled for 9am. I still had to meditate, do my skincare, and feed myself.

I opted for a shorter 15 minute meditation rather than my usual 30 minutes and was in the dining hall by 8:30am-ish. There was only one other workshop attendee still on the table so I made quick work of getting some fruit, eggs, and Cocoa Puffs before finding a seat. Still a little weary of my upset tummy, I made some peppermint tea to go. The time was 8:51am as I made my way back to my dorm to grab my bag.

I ran into another workshop attendee on my walk over to the seminar room and I was very glad I did because a few minutes later, we realized we were lost. At least it was a we were lost and not an I was lost by myself. Apparently the seminar room’s location had changed last minute, and because of spotty reception, we didn’t find out until after a few minutes of wandering around. But we made it, better late than never!

Our first morning together started with a brief intro followed by our first master class (“Once Upon a Time”). We were all still strangers in a room. We were all still getting a feel for each other, but the ice was thawing with every passing minute and every degree of heat rising along with the sun. At 10am, we took a break for coffee and pastries. My tummy was relatively okay after breakfast, not too great but not too bad either. Okay enough that I decided to take my chances. I had a chocolate croissant and my first sip of coffee and I came alive. If I were to paint a picture of how I imagine that feeling of coming alive looks like, it’d be a scene straight out of a Disney movie.

At 10:30am we started our second masterclass (“Understanding Genre”), followed by a daily writing review, and by noon, it was time for lunch. We were allotted a specific time for our daily one-on-one mentor sessions and mine was from 1:15pm-2pm so I enjoyed a leisurely lunch break. Cocoa Puffs were my breakfast dessert and a slice of cheesecake became my lunchtime dessert. The dining hall was phenomenal. It made my brain feel like it had more space and breathing room whenever I was within that hall.

By 1:15pm, it was time for my first mentor session. We found a seat in the shade and went on so many different tangents that before we knew it, our 45 minutes were up. Each tangent was necessary though as we got better acquainted not only with each other as human beings, but with each other’s roles as mentor and mentee.

We had a tour of Oxford Colleges scheduled for 3pm which left with me a little less than an hour of free time. To write or to explore? Seeing as the Oxford University Museum of Natural History was right across the street from my dorm, I couldn’t not go explore.

So many exhibits, so many people, so little time. But again, it was right across the street so I could always come back. I did wish I had someone along to capture this memory for me, but instead, two options lay before me: ask a stranger for a picture or take a selfie. Somehow, asking a stranger felt more daunting than take a selfie which already feels cringey. But it was a prime opportunity for exposure therapy, to not let my feelings of self-consciousness get in my way. I felt awkward, cringey, and I rushed through it because I wanted it done and over with. But I did get a few pictures and videos of myself in, convincing myself that I was pleased with them before moving on.

It was time to meet the rest of the group for our college tour so I got a second cup of coffee and off we went to tour St. John’s College. It was breezy in some places and scorching in others so I was clinging to both my jacket and iced coffee for dear life.

“Did you just smell the library?”. Of course I did. As one does. And the libraries smelled, looked, and felt phenomenal. After The Chapel, we were set to tour another college (I can’t seem to remember which one), but I was on the verge of collapse and needed a moment to myself.

I made my way back to my dorm intending to nap. I called my parents to check in and by the time I walked back to the dorm and had a snack, it was already time to meet for our second writers’ salon. We met at what we would later pen the prosecco room, and a few of us took turns reading our works out loud. Two of us, if I’m not mistaken. Some had arrived to Oxford having already finalized their drafts, while others were halfway through writing them. Mine was still unwritten.

Mine was still being conceptualized. I knew how I wanted it to end and was intent on reverse engineering the story from there. I had some sort of an opening and a general idea of what I didn’t want and what I was amenable to. That was the extent of my body of work. In the weeks leading up to the workshop, I did my best to not get carried away with thoughts of incompetence at not having a solid piece of work ready. In that one hour of hearing others read their works aloud, I was surprised, and a little suspicious if I’m being honest, at the absolute lack of any feelings of incompetence, unworthiness, and imposter syndrome. I was so focused on being a sponge; on seeing, hearing, learning, and experiencing as much as I could, that there was little room to focus on anything. Let me not jinx it, I thought to myself and didn’t dwell too long on it.

Dinner was a 6pm. Mouthwatering courses, a little more laughter in the air, and a little more comfort and ease amongst ourselves. We were set to wrap up dinner early to head over to Oxford Castle for the Oxford Shakespeare Festival’s Romeo and Juliet, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

I decided to call it an early night and made my way back to my room. Shower, skincare, and a quick FaceTime to check in on Merlin, and I was passed out by a little after 8pm. For a few hours at least, until I awoke around midnight. Again. It was Saturday night and people were out and about and causing quite a hullabaloo. Again. I was in and out of sleep over the next few hours, more awake than fully asleep. My phone kept buzzing with notifications from the pet camera I kept on back home. Last I checked, it was a little after 5am when I picked up my phone and saw Merlin loafed up on my bed. And then I finally fell asleep.

A few hours later, between 7.30am and 8am, I opened my eyes and mentally prepared myself for a condensed version of my morning routine (again!) before breakfast and the start of day two of ’s Oxford Writers’ Workshop 2026.

To be continued…

Till next we meet,
C

Born out of fear of wasting time, I feel the pressure to hit the ground running. To take everything I’ve learned and put it all to good use. If not now, then never. Otherwise, the essence of those learnings and experiences will wane over time. Otherwise, the significance of their impact will be lost to time. Otherwise, I’ll have wasted my time.

In the spirit of keeping their essence alive, I’ve decided to retrace my steps to have something concrete to come back to. Something tangible to tap back into when my compass needs recalibrating. So we’ll start at T-minus 12 hours to departure.

I woke up at 6am, thankful that Merlin either skipped his 2am-5am zoomies or I slept through the entire thing. All that mattered was that I’d had a good night’s sleep ahead of my flight that afternoon, especially after being bedridden the last few days with a terrible case of food poisoning. As if an upset tummy wasn’t enough, the thought of flying while sick made me even more anxious which upset my tummy further. Because flying while sick, the thing I was worrying about, has happened to me before.

It was the summer of 2010 and I was travelling to New York with my family. We were onboard a 2am (maybe 5am?) flight to CDG for a layover en route to New York, and I fell sick during our decent. Long story short, we were stuck in CDG for a whopping 13 hours and missed 4 flights to NY all while I was escorted to an airport hospital with my dad in tow. Finally, we were told that if we weren’t on the fifth flight out to New York, we’d have to go back home. Unpleasant details aside, I was able to muster up enough energy for the flight and we made it to New York. But it was hell. I would not wish that sort of incapacitation on anyone. At least not openly…

That memory consumed me and it was all I could do to remind myself that it occurred many, many moons ago and that the worst was behind me. So I got out of bed and watched the sunrise on my balcony. One moment I was hopeful and excited, looking forward to the trip ahead. And the next, I was crying my eyes, and soul, out to my sister, feeling the weight of all that physical and emotional exhaustion come crashing down.

All this and I hadn’t finished packing yet!

That too had passed so I made breakfast and got to packing. A banana in one hand and a rice cake in the other, I looked to the stovetop clock and it was almost 3pm. It was time. We had to leave for the airport. I hugged Merlin, took a deep breath, and set off on my adventure. Knowing that the person who was leaving would not be the same one returning.

For all my talk about how long I’ve been writing and how much joy it brings me, this was my first writers’ workshop ever. This was also my first time travelling since moving to Vancouver. This was my first time at Oxford, which in and of itself triggered the shit out of my imposter syndrome. So many firsts, all of which were so beyond my comfort zone I couldn’t tell where my comfort zone was anymore.

I sat at my gate nibbling on a few more rice cakes and remembered just how much I enjoyed traveling. Just how alive I felt navigating my way in and out of airports. It soothed my nerves, which were already sensitive and on high alert, long enough for me to remind myself that I can do this.

Long enough to remind myself that I have done this before and I have survived. I can do scary things. I can do the things that feel hard. I can do the things that feel impossible to do. Because I have done it all before. Many times over. I have done it before and here I am, on the other side, living proof that I am capable of growing through what I go through. Capable of navigating the unknown and any discomfort that tags along. Capable in and of myself.

We boarded, took off, and before I knew it, dinner was served. The memory of food poisoning still fresh in my mind, I decided to pass on airplane food. Until I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, with the exception of a banana and a rice cake or two. The flight attendant asked if I was sure about skipping diner and I mentioned I’m recovering from being sick and would rather be safe than sorry. She showed up a little while later with some bread and crackers. My hero. I nibbled on them and some more rice cakes throughout the flight.

I had never been more glad about skipping a meal as I was on this flight when things started to get bumpy. With every bit of turbulence we encountered, my heart and stomach dropped all the way down to earth and back. I dozed off when and where I could, but at this point, my nerves were past fried.

We landed. I survived. Thank GOD. Mind you, it had been a while since my last flight and I’d forgotten how to regulate myself through a bumpy flight. There was a heat wave in London so baggage claim greeted flyers with a tasty, cold treat while we waited for our suitcases. I made my way out and called my parents to let them know I had landed safely (and with all the contents of my stomach still within my stomach LOL).

Next stop, Oxford!

I ordered an Uber and convinced myself I’ll survive the drive because another fun fact about me is that I get carsick. And because of traffic, the drive was going to take a little over an hour. I told my dad to call me every 15 minutes in case I dozed off as a way to keep me distracted and break the drive down into increments of 15 minutes. Thankfully, I was able to doze off with no nausea in sight. That is, until the final 15 minutes of the drive. I rolled down the window, stuck my head out, and prayed to any God who was listening to keep upright and conscious until I could shower and sleep it off.

I had arrived to the University of Oxford. It took a minute to identify Keble College’s entrance and I found one of the organizers waiting to meet me as I had texted I would be arriving earlier than expected. Fully aware of how disheveled I looked but without an ounce of awareness left in me to feel self-conscious about it, I made my way over and greeted him. Introductions were made and a few minutes later, I was in my room.

We had a college tour scheduled followed by our first writers’ salon and then dinner. But first, survive the nausea. I called my parents, told them my good old friend carsickness decided to be my plus one on the drive over, and they stayed on the line with me while I ordered and waited for my groceries. We use dark humour to cope so in between every wave of nausea, I was the butt of jokes, both theirs and my own. My groceries arrived shortly after. All the bland basics that I know from experience work. I had some saltines, a banana, and a sprite, at least however much I could stomach, then showered and collapsed on top of my bed.

I expected to sleep till morning, but instead, woke up a little after 4pm and a little before the writers’ salon at 5pm. I was so tired and yet, couldn’t seem to fall back asleep. It took a bit of mental back and forth and I was up, dressed, and heading down to the salon, or the prosecco room as we grew to refer to it. I reminded myself that if at any point I felt that nausea and exhaustion creeping back in, I could excuse myself and head back to the comforts and safety of my bed. I needed that reminder. I could find myself able to breathe again because of that reminder.

Our first writers’ salon was titled Writing Oxford: A City of Rebels, Visionaries, and Occasional Scholars and it felt surreal to be in that room. Even more so when I saw Babel by R.F. Kuang on the screen. For context, I absolutely LOVE Babel and will not shut up about what a masterpiece has created. It all felt unbelievably surreal.

Still weary of my tummy, I avoided eating anything until dinner time, fully aware that my body needed me to eat something because rice cakes and saltines did not count as sustenance. Dinner was delectable. And so were the conversations and glass of red wine I had to make sure I would pass the f*ck out when I went to bed. I took a lap around Liddon Quadrangle as my version of a digestif and made my way back up to my dorm.

A quick check in with my parents to laugh off all that went down in the last 24 hours later and I collapsed, yet again. It was still bright out but no sooner did I lay my head on the pillow than I fell into unconsciousness. For a few hours at least, until I awoke around midnight. It was Friday night and people were out and about and causing quite a hullabaloo (inside joke!) right outside my window. A combination of noise, excitement, and jet lag kept me awake and unable to drift back to sleep, at least until the clock struck 4am.

A few hours later, around 7am-ish, I opened my eyes and realized I woke up in Oxford. And it was officially day one of ’s Oxford Writers’ Workshop 2026.

To be continued…

Till next we meet,
C

I put into the below letter the different dots that I had identified for myself, before then connecting those dots in a way that made sense to and felt right for me. And thus, “do you like the reason that you’re tired?” became my unofficial theme for the month of July.

A veil had been lifted and I started seeing everything through the lens of “do I like the reason I’m tired?”. When everything was going right and I felt fulfilled, overjoyed, aligned, and light, it was easy for my answer to be a resounding yes. Not a shred of doubt about it. When everything was going not right and there were unpredictable, unexpected, inconvenient mishaps that felt like the entire universe was hellbent on getting in my way, there was no way in any of the nine circles of hell that I could confidently answer yes. I would be consumed by all the doubts in the world about it.

Except the thing is, I’ve learned how to pause.

I meditate.

I’m a Chopra Meditation Instructor. I started meditating in 2020 during the pandemic. Sometimes two, even three times a day. I had joined a daily meditation WhatsApp group and we were cycling through the different 21-day meditation challenges. I loved it, became certified, and to this day, still meditate for 30 minutes every morning. (More on my journey with meditation at a later date!)

I look at meditation as a workout. When you workout, you reap the benefits of your weight training, run, swim, or yoga practice outside of the one hour session or class. In how you move, sleep, eat, feel. In your energy levels, cognitive capacity, emotional regulation.

You feel the benefits of your workout not while you’re working out, but when you’re done working out. You do your workout even when sometimes you’d rather be anywhere else in the world. You still do it because you know it’s good for you.

Because you have felt firsthand the good that it does for you.

Meditation is a workout and the primary muscle being targeted is your awareness muscle. Oscillating back and forth between mental activity and your mantra works on your muscle’s mobility, strength, and stamina. It’s not about not having any thoughts. You’d be dead if you had zero thoughts.

It’s about the ability to switch away from some thoughts, towards others. It’s about having thoughts and having the muscle strength to not let those thoughts weigh you down. Some days a bodyweight squat feels like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Other days, a 50kg back squat feels light as a feather. Your muscles are working on getting you into and out of the squat regardless. How well they perform and recover is contingent upon how well you train them.

Meditation trains my awareness muscle to stay sharp and in shape. And because my muscle is in shape, I’m able to pause right after the stimulus. The pause allows me to create just enough wiggle room for little ol’ awareness to scooch in.

One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. And instead of reacting instinctively to said stimulus, I’m now able to respond and decide how I want to proceed accordingly.

When everything is going not right, when there are unpredictable, unexpected, inconvenient mishaps that feel like the entire universe is hellbent on getting in my way, there’s no way in any of the nine circles of hell that I could confidently answer “yes, I like the reason that I’m tired”.

So I pause.

And one of the first observations I’ve made in the space between is feeling like I’m not allowed to complain even if I do like the reason that I’m tired. Otherwise I’m spoiled, ungrateful, and inconsiderate. Otherwise I don’t deserve to have that thing that’s making me tired even if I do like the reason I’m tired. Otherwise I’m unworthy of this, and all my other dreams, visions, desires, and aspirations. As if this one thing dictates it all. As if this one thing sets the tone for all the rest.

Thank heavens for the power of the pause because if I hadn’t paused, if I had let that feeling consume me and cloud the way I see myself and everything around me, my world would be a barren wasteland. Not exactly a hospitable environment for planting the seeds of my dreams, visions, desires, and aspirations now is it? Not my cup of tea, thank you very much.

Then what’s the alternative?

When I’m teaching, around 15 minutes into the practice, we take a pause. Whether in a child’s pose or tadasana, we close our eyes, turn our attention within, and:

Another way the body responds when exerting effort is sweating, to cool down and stay safe. Sweating is your body’s way of acknowledging the movement and responding in a way that keeps it safe. Sweating is a response. Sweating is a sensation.

Observing these sensations (of complaining, feeling tired, not feeling like doing the thing, I’d rather do anything else) as the mental body’s response to movement (towards my goals, visions, and aspirations). These sensations are the equivalent of mentally sweating.

When I complain, even if I like the subject of my complaints, it’s my mental body’s way of acknowledging and responding in a way the keeps it safe. Releasing pressure from the proverbial pressure cooker. No need to be attaching any meaning to these sensations. No need to be creating a mental story about what these sensations say about me, my worth, or value in regard to my dreams, visions, goals, and aspirations.

I’m not any less worthy of them or any less capable of bringing them to fruition and preserving their integrity if I complain when I feel tired while I move through and for them.

Looking at those moments during which I really just could not be bothered and everything feels inconvenient, and letting the moment come and go without being consumed by it has proven something incredibly vital to me.

I have proven something incredibly vital to myself.

In allowing myself to mentally sweat without making a big deal out of it, I’m proving to myself that I can handle it and do what needs to be done, even when I don’t feel like it. Especially when I don’t feel like it.

I’m proving to myself that it’s safe for me to have my desires and visions come to fruition because I have a successful track record of doing what needs to be done when it needs to be done. Not just on the good days when it feels effortless to do the things that need to be done. But on the harder days when it’s easier to throw in the towel (“what’s the point? what are the odds?”), procrastinate (“just one more episode”), talk myself out of it (“you’re too tired. you can’t do it right so just don’t do it at all when you’re in this state or mood cause it won’t be perfect so don't bother”), or distract myself from it (“I know I need to focus on myself, but wait let me quickly check in with my friends I haven’t spoken to in a while and let’s catch up first”). When thinking about doing the thing (or not doing the thing) becomes so loud and disruptive, it’s near deafening and debilitating.

Pausing for the split second it takes to redirect my awareness from thinking about doing the thing to actually doing the thing.

A split second. A few of those appropriately placed at the right place, at the right time, is all of I need to prove to myself that whether it’s a bodyweight squat or a 50kg back squat, I am capable of seeing it through. Some days, that bodyweight squat feels like I’m carrying the weight of the world and I’m drenched. Other days, a 50kg back squat feels light as a feather and it isn’t until my last set that I break a sweat.

Two things can be true.

I like the reasons that I’m tired and that doesn’t change when I complain about the tired part. Because I need to complain. If I’m doing the movement, my (mental) body needs to sweat to keep itself safe and strong.

And I like the reasons that I’m tired even more when I’m allowed to complain. When I allow myself to complain. When I allow myself to sweat, wipe it off, and take a water break before getting back into my next set.

“Do you like the reasons that you’re tired?” Hell yes I do. Even more so when I’m sweating through them because I’m proving to myself just how much I like them. Actions speak louder than words and I can say I like the reasons, but if I never prove to myself that I do, then that trust between me and myself is broken. If that trust is broken, I’m no better off than a soul wondering in limbo.

What’s a teensy mental workout compared to a lifetime wandering around aimlessly?

It’s often said that you will never regret a workout. I almost always feel better and lighter after I workout. Even if I don't, at least I don’t feel worse for it.

Because sometimes, all you need is a good sweat session. Physically or mentally. So when in doubt, sweat it out.

Till next we meet,
C

Objectively speaking, we do all have the same 24 hours in day. All 8.3 billion of us, including fellow Virgo, Mrs. Knowles-Carter. After my initial shock had subsided, the overthinking and overanalyzing parts of me came out to play. “If I have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyoncé, then I must be doing something wrong with my allotted 24 hours”. I must be playing the game wrong if we both have the same blank canvas at our disposal only to end up creating masterpieces that are worlds apart.

At the time, hustle culture was prominent. At the time, hustle culture was glorified and praised. To be hustling was to wear a badge of honour, as if the harder you hustled, the more admirable you were. The more respect you earned. As if the scale weighing your soul at the end of your mortal life would tip considerably, deeming you worthy of all the glories of the afterlife if you were a hustler.

To hustle meant to milk every single one of those 24 hours for all it was worth. There was no room for rest. There was no time to rest. Rest only existed as a footnote and even then, only in reference to what not to do because it wasn’t very hustle-esque of you. I bought into it and I loved every minute of it because I wanted my badge of honour. I wanted to achieve great heights. To achieve success. To have my dreams all come true. To be recognized and acknowledged throughout it all. And I believed that the only way to do so was to wear myself out, spread myself too thin, and burn out entirely all in the name of the hustle. All because Beyoncé and I had the same 24 hours in the day and I wanted my 24 hours to bring me as close to success as hers had brought her.

Hustle would pave my way to a life of meaning and purpose, or so I had convinced myself because I didn’t know any better. Because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. At some point, I couldn’t continue turning a blind eye to it. I couldn’t continue pretending that it was acceptable to be so exhausted and hopeless. I couldn’t accept that such a thing was admirable.

I was at odds with myself. One part of me was saying, “everyone else is doing it. Everyone else is hustling and you don’t see them complaining about it. They continue to show up and they’re more successful than you so you need to do what they’re doing because it’s clearly working.” While the other part of me, gasping for air while an invisible weight kept dragging her below the water’s surface, “this cannot be the only way. I don’t like this. I don’t want this. this cannot be the only way. there’s something wrong with this. this cannot be the only way. I cannot survive like this.”

I was caught between a rock (the self-preservation parts of me) and a hard place (the parts of me that believed no cost was too steep for the sake of the hustle, success, and recognition). I resigned to my fate. I accepted that there must be something wrong with me for not being able to sustain the hustle and as such, accepted I’m not worthy of my dreams. That I’m not worthy of success and recognition. That I’m not worthy.

“I have the same 24 hours in the day as Beyoncé, but I’m not Beyoncé” was my admission of defeat.

“I have the same 24 hours in the day as Beyoncé, but I’m not Beyoncé” was my beacon towards the illusion shattering. As I said earlier, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I didn’t know what only life experience could teach me. What only exercising my free will to choose survival over the hustle would open my eyes to and that is:

And so little of it has to do with our worthiness. So much of it has to do with circumstances we were born into. We are all dealt different cards at birth and throughout life. You either accept your lot and accept that life has happened to you. Or you take the cards you’re dealt and make life happen for you.

A deck of cards has 52 cards in it. The same 52 cards in every single deck on the planet. One deck = 52 cards just like 1 day = 24 hours. What those 52 cards are capable of will blow your mind. It’s incomprehensible. Statistically speaking, the number of possible combinations from those 52 cards is in the millions. There are millions of possible combinations (of cards) from those simple 52 cards. Technically speaking, it’s 52 factorial (52!) which means multiplying 52 by all the numbers preceding it. So 52 factorial (also known as 52!) is 52 x 51 x 50 x 49 x … x 3 x 2 x 1 (52!=8.0658×10⁶⁷). That’s a f*ckton of possibilities. Near infinite.

There’s so much more to the statement “take the cards you’re dealt and make life happen for you” because in reality there really is so much outside of your control. That you’re born into, instantly putting you at an advantage or disadvantage. Instantly either giving you a head start or pouring cement around your feet and good luck figuring out how to free yourself once it hardens to concrete.

Geography, race, ethnicity, religion, socioeconomic and political landscape are all (plus or minus) predetermined when you take your first breath. All these cards are dealt to you fresh out the womb and you spend your entire life figuring out how to play your hand. It can feel discouraging if you’re dealt a hand that’s at a competitive disadvantage. It can feel hopeless if you’re dealt a hand that has very little resources within reach. It can feel impossible if you’re dealt a hand that is focused on surviving that there’s no room for dreaming, envisioning, or thriving.

You do not have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyoncé or any of the other 8.3 billion people on this planet. You do not have the same background, life experiences, dreams, goals, aspirations, values, resources as any of the other 8.3 billion people on this planet. And not a single one of those 8.3 billion have yours either.

That can either be terrifying or freeing.

It’s your play.

Till next we meet,
C

If I’m being honest, I kinda just want to sit and talk. BUT, I heard that voice come at me with “that’s not what vlogs are” and I convinced myself there’s only one way for vlogs to be created. That way or the highway. I let myself procrastinate and instead of being driven by excitement, curiosity, and potential, I let my creativity get drowned out by the noise of my intrusive thoughts.

I recorded a few vlogs earlier in the year and found that the typical vlog is not as tiresome as I thought it would be to prepare. It did require a certain amount of effort, but not as terrible as I’d anticipated. And somehow, I still naturally wound up recording a “sitting down and talking” type of vlog right before my recent bout of procrastination. I liked it. A lot. I enjoyed recording, editing, and rewatching it.

So I followed my own lead and decided to sit down and talk yet again, before giving myself the chance to criticize myself for not doing vlogs the right way. Except when I recorded this video and was rewatching it, I was (as referred to it) “fangirling over myself” and it felt so damn good. It felt electric. I felt electric!!!

And toward the end, after following the lead of the part of me that wanted to just sit and talk, I discovered that my right way of vlogging is stream of consciousness vlogging! Talk about a eureka moment!

There’s a lot more context within the actual video, but I wanted to note it here as well for me to come back to and feel the energy within these words on days when I find myself a little short on energy.

Note to self: how sustainable would it be to record these weekly? Or would it be best to start off monthly or every other week? Also, I’d want to create a new section for these videos, a name that aligns with my publication ecosystem! Hmm…I’ve got quite a bit to sleep on!

Till next we meet,
C

In conversation with a friend about their experience with gratitude, I came to see gratitude through the lens of “liking the reason I’m tired”, and realized gratitude doesn’t accommodate “tired”. If you were to express annoyance, frustration, or tiredness in any way, shape, or form, then you’re not really “in the frequency of gratitude”. Falling into the trap of toxic positivity, we villainize those emotional experiences, force ourselves out of them, and sprint toward gratitude even if we don’t feel emotionally connected to it.

In doing so, we’re separating ourselves from the parts of ourselves that are having those emotional experiences. We’re alienating ourselves from the parts of ourselves that feel heavy under the weight of those emotions. We’re essentially telling those parts of ourselves “you’re on your own kid” because we need to keep it “good (and grateful) vibes only” over here.

In refusing to acknowledge the tired, annoyed, frustrated parts of ourselves, we’re invalidating those parts of ourselves as if they cannot exist in the same space as gratitude. As if their mere presence would taint gratitude.

That couldn’t be further from the truth because as I see it, their presence is integral to the practice of gratitude.

Complaining when you’re tired, annoyed, or frustrated is gratitude in a different font.

‘Complaining’ here is within the context of “do you like the reason that you’re tired?”. For example: I love to write, but on some days, I complain that I don’t feel like it because I just don’t feel like it. It just means in that moment, I feel like complaining and that’s my way of releasing pressure from my proverbial pressure cooker.

Think of it this way: when you work out, you sweat. It’s a natural part of the experience because it’s the body’s response to the effort being required of it. There’s no reason to assign any other meaning to it or unnecessarily create a mental story about what that says about you. You workout, and as a result, you expect to sweat.

Think of complaining as emotional sweating. As your emotional body’s response to the efforts being required of it. There’s no reason to assign any other meaning to it (for example: I’m complaining so it means I don’t have what it takes to do this thing which means I’m not enough and I’m unworthy). There’s no reason to unnecessarily create a mental story about what that says about you (for example: So many other people have it worse and here I am complaining about XYZ. I’m so spoiled I should just be happy with what I have. Why am I this way? What’s wrong with me?”. You workout (emotionally), you sweat (emotionally).

Allowing myself to emotionally sweat has shifted my relationship with gratitude. Being grateful for something entails acknowledging that I GET to experience the things I’m complaining. Because it means the thing exists in my experience to begin with! I have this thing and that’s a prerequisite to my complaining about it.

“I have this thing in my hands and I get to be tired in the name of this thing that I’ve been wanting for so long. Except I’ve been so preoccupied with the parts of it I’m complaining about that I didn’t even take a moment to acknowledge and celebrate that I finally have this thing in my hands. I finally have this thing in my reality!”

Fulfillment exists on one side of the coin that is gratitude while complaining exists on the other. If you’re grateful only when things are going well, that’s not gratitude. Try as you might to force it, gratitude will perpetually elude you. Being truly, wholistically grateful is allowing yourself to feel the tired, annoyed, and frustrated parts. To experience them and validate them, without being terrified or feeling threatened that they’ll dilute any sense of gratitude you’re holding onto for dear life.

A common piece of advice I come across on the topic of manifesting is the idea of “being the type of person who can handle it”. The ‘it’ being the desire, dream, vision you’re holding in your mind’s eye. I think we pick and choose what dimensions of that person we perceive based on our mindsets, biases, and levels of consciousness we’re operating from in that particular moment of perception.

Because I’m looking at that person from my vantage point of navigating the tired while enjoying the reason that I’m tired, I can’t help but think that the version of me who has brought those desires, dreams, and visions to life is also dealing with their respective versions of things worth complaining about. If I can’t enjoy the reason I’m tired now, with what I have in my hands now and this now version of my dreams, then how do I expect myself to handle the tired that comes with the future versions of my dreams? If I can’t handle what’s in my hands, how do I expect myself to handle the more that I want and that I’m working towards?

“Be the type of person who can handle it” and from my vantage point today, that type of person is someone who can flip the coin of gratitude and accept what side it lands on because it means the coin is in my hand to begin with.

Till next we meet,
C

Immediately upon reading this sentence, I felt at odds with myself.

The first half of the sentence states, “I’m a bit introverted and socially anxious”. Over the last few years of immersing myself in myself, I’ve come to learn and understand a few things about how my software operates. When my cup runneth over, I’m extroverted and capable of carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders without barely flinching. When my cup runneth dry, I cannot be bothered with a single soul, barely even my own. It takes every ounce of my will to keep myself fed, hydrated, bathed, and moisturized. I’ve existed at each extreme and have learned how unsustainable it is for me to oscillate between one and the other. So instead, I’m learning to speak the language of my cup. To understand how dynamic in size it can be depending on the different seasons of life and their respective volume requirements. To understand solitude as my way of replenishing my cup and how to tread the line carefully so as not to mosey on over into the territory of self-isolation. In short, I would say I’m somewhere between an ambivert and extroverted introvert.

I would also say that this has made identifying my social anxiety a lot more challenging because for the longest time, I had no idea that what I felt in certain social situations was in fact anxiety. I genuinely thought there was something wrong with me because I genuinely did not understand what on earth was going on with me. I could not for the life of me understand why my body was reacting the way it did. Why I felt mentally and emotionally drained during and long after certain situations. I hated not knowing because I felt flaky, unreliable, and isolated. If I couldn’t understand, I couldn’t expect those around me to understand and it impacted the quality and depth of my relationships. Thankfully, I’ve got some badass villagers in my village who held on to our relationships even tighter when I had lost all strength in my grip and were compassionate, patient, and understanding as I was figuring my sh*t out.

The second half of the sentence states, “particularly in large group settings like conferences, cocktail parties, and crowded events”. This half of the sentence got me thinking about the different settings that stir up my social anxiety because a funny characteristic of my social anxiety is that she’s selective. She’s got standards, ladies and gentlemen. She will keep you on your toes because she’s constantly changing her mind about when and where to make her grand appearance. Often times when I find myself in a particularly stressful situation which warrants social anxiety, I end up thriving and having the time of my life. Other times when I find myself in situations where it makes no sense to have social anxiety, you’ll find me having a full blown panic attack. It is what it is?

I scribbled this (⬆️) at the bottom of the page because I realized that I’m actually in my element in conferences, trainings, networking events, etc. because everyone there is in the same boat. It’s new, uncharted territory for us all, and there’s very little room to be perceived and judged too harshly. As opposed to being in a social setting where people already know each other and I feel caught between not trying enough and trying too hard to exist in a space that already feels overcrowded. Where I’m lacking context and could seem “stupid” for not knowing what I don’t know or not knowing what to do or say as if there’s a right and wrong way to do and say. In those settings, I feel more isolated because I feel more at risk of being left out, perceived, and judged. And out of fear of being judged, I overthink, overanalyze, and overwhelm myself straight into a panic state.

However, it’s not just within the context of preexisting relationships that I feel nervous about. It’s any social setting with its own inherent modus operandi which I’m unfamiliar with. The first time I was conscious of this happening was a few years ago when a new grocery store had opened up nearby. I, having never been in there, wasn’t familiar with its layout when I was asked by my mom to pass by and pick up some lettuce (it might’ve been spinach, but that’s neither here nor there because essentially, it was something very simple and unmistakable). I got nervous, panicked, and went into fight or flight while going through a mental list of excuses as to why I couldn’t make that pit stop to the grocery store that I was 30 seconds away from.

This is what happened next, objectively: I went in, didn’t know where the greens were, asked for help, was redirected towards them, went up to the cashier to pay, and then left. What happened subjectively though is an entirely different story: I went in, didn’t know where the greens were (felt stupid and useless), asked for help (felt judged for lacking common sense and felt as though the staff was thinking “this girl must be stupid because how could you not know where they are?”), paid, and did my walk of shame back to my car while counting down the seconds until I could drive off and never step foot in that place again. I felt exposed, naked, and vulnerable. After the adrenaline wore off, I was EXHAUSTED, started bawling, and resented being forced to do something I didn’t want to do.

Understanding what happened and why it happened was my first official introduction to the socially anxious parts of myself. Now where this all stemmed from and how deeply into my childhood I had to dig is a whole other story, but it’s safe to say that I’ve come a long way since then, thoroughly enjoy going grocery shopping, and have since raised the bar on what I allow to make me feel stupid. As I’m typing this, I’m reminded of an incident in my microeconomics class my first year in university where I stood up to the professor for calling this one student stupid, and I’m realizing my relationship with and aversion to “stupid” encompasses a wider territory than I may have originally been aware of. Hmm. Interesting.

All this time I thought my social anxiety was black or white. Either flipped on or off. Instead, she seems to enjoy the feel of her fingers on the dimmer switch.

Noted for future reference 📝

Still reading,
C

My body vividly remembers how it feels to run as fast as it has been. My body vividly remembers how tired, sore, and depleted it’s felt. How discouraged, disappointed, and frustrated it’s felt in having put all that effort in while barely nudging the needle. My body is haunted by that feeling and in the name of self-preservation, my body wants to avoid continuously doing the same thing and expecting different results.

But then what do I do? Where do I start?

“Knowing where to start” is the other side of the coin. I find myself standing at a crossroads with infinitely forked paths and wanting to walk down each and every single one of them. As a result, I end up walking down neither. As a result, I inadvertently dig my heels in deeper, further cementing myself in that one particular spot. That one vantage point from where I see all the possibilities that lay ahead, fully cognizant of all the different steps I can be taking, but perpetually unable to lift one foot even an inch off the ground to actually take any step forward.

My mind reached for “knowing where to start” during my morning mediation earlier and I felt the weight of my proverbial feet as they stood unmoving. Challenging itself, my mind met that self-destructive thread of a thought with “you need to be able to handle it now, like this, so you can handle it later when it feels bigger than this”. Because I want this, and most importantly, I want bigger than this. Bigger in respect to the ‘this’ that exists now and that’s why bigger feels scarier. Maybe that’s why although I want bigger, it’s also too scary from ‘this’ vantage point when just the prospect of ‘this’ feels overwhelming and overstimulating. Maybe bigger (that’ll come at a later time) is what’s weighing my feet down now.

But bigger doesn’t have to mean badder than this because my current ‘this’ is some past version of me’s bigger. My current ‘this’ which has become a normal of sorts, used to be the big, bad in the eyes of some past version of me. But I got from there and then to here and now. I made it to ‘this’, where ‘this’ feels steady enough to serve as a stepping stone for the next ‘this’.

Maybe (my fear of) bigger is what’s weighing my feet down, but I need to trust that I can handle it, like I’ve handled it before. I need to prove to myself that I can handle it, like I’ve handled it before. Otherwise, in standing still for too long, that time and energy I’m so worried about wasting, is actually being wasted because of my inaction. No decision is still a decision and in my inability to decide what my next steps could be, I’m deciding to stay in the in-between. Aware enough of what I want, but not fully taking any strides forward. Maybe the temptation of the in-between is how idyllic it feels here. Where potential and possibility can still feel holy, untainted by the touch of reality.

Any step is a step. Any decision in either direction is a decision toward the right decision because I can, at any point in time, course correct. I made the right choice? Great! That was easy! I made the wrong choice? Great! Because it means I eliminated one of those forked paths and can move on to the rest without ever having to worry about that specific direction again.

Having that aha! moment feels like a weight off because it reminds me that I’m not stuck and I don’t have to accept my fate. I always have a choice. I just needed to be reminded of that so I can actually start choosing. Just now, I felt inclined to write “so I can actually start choosing wisely”, but I could feel the tightness in my chest from the pressure behind the word “wisely”. And I was this close to falling back into the trap of staying put keeping myself put because I needed to decide which step would be the wise one.

So instead of “choosing wisely”, I’m learning to simply choose. Because the time will pass anyway, so I might as well actually do something instead of thinking about doing something.

Wish me luck!

Till next we meet,
C

Anne Hathaway was asked on the red carpet how she stays grounded when she’s traveling as much as she is, and her response was, “do you like the reason that you’re tired? I’m really into the reason that I’m tired, and it’s not gonna be this forever.”

It was the proverbial slap to the face that had my jaw dropping to the floor. I was shocked. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Not because of what she said, but because of how obvious it was.

My plate is filling up. Or rather, I’ve switched out my plate for one with a bigger surface area and I’m slowly, but surely, adding things, both old and new, onto my new plate. Learning how best to carry this plate without compromising any of the items it’s carrying or spreading myself too thin hasn’t been easy to navigate because it’s required me to take a good and honest look at myself where it concerns my time, energy, and will. How to do them, and myself, justice so that I no longer feel as though I’m perpetually running twice as fast and barely nudging the needle.

And because of that, I’ve started to resent the same things I’m running fast for. I’ve started questioning whether the things on my plate are worth it. Whether they ever were to begin with. Were the hands that placed them mine or were they others’? Were they placed carefully, with intention or haphazardly, without a second thought? Everything has started feeling like a chore. Everything has felt suffocating. Everything has felt discouraging, frustrating, and disappointing.

Anne Hathaway: Do you like the reason that you’re tired?
Christine: Yes.

One word and three letters to realize that I do in fact like the reason that I’m tired. To realize that my hands have been doing the placing all along. That these items are on my plate by design. Because I want them to be.

In clarifying the “liking the reason” part, I wanted to address the “tired” because that’s the aspect I haven’t been able to come to terms with. Because all this time, I was under the misconception that there only ever is one way to be tired. And if I’m not walking that exact, gruelling path, then I’m doing it wrong, don’t want it enough, or haven’t earned it. As if how tired something makes you is a direct measure of how much you want something. Except that tired comes in different fonts. Something that tires and completely wears one person out only mildly tires another. Sometimes, if your cup runneth dry, even the smallest, most inconsequential task feels like an enormous mountain to climb.

So why have I been putting so much emphasis on tiring myself out for the things I want? Why have I been subtly and subconsciously convincing myself that if I’m not too tired and worn out then I’m being too lazy in my approach to those things I’m tiring myself for?

I have a bone to pick with tired. Because I like the reasons I’m tired and I don’t want to grow to resent them, how can I be tired in a way that counts? How can I be tired in a way that’s not wasteful? How can I tire smart, not hard? If I’m going to be tired anyway, I might as well be tired and do it right. In a way that’s right for me. In a way that works for me. In a way that’s specific to the items on the plate that I’m carrying.

I’m currently reading The 5 Types of Wealth by Sahil Bloom, and in the chapter on time wealth, he introduces different time and energy management tools. I was introduced to the concept of energy management a few years ago and it’s given me some much-needed clarity and reprieve from self-imposed shaming and gaslighting. Some tools I already have in my toolbox, albeit they’ve been accumulating dust. Others I’d heard of in passing but never paid any mind to while others felt like the Holy Grail. As I read through the chapter, I noticed the instinct to rush through them all as if the faster I run, the further ahead I’ll be. Integrating even one of these tools would take some getting used to so as a start, I’ve been keeping an eye out for time and energy patterns throughout my week to see which tool I’d have an immediate need for. I don’t want to go to the nurse’s office for a headache and be handed a Band-Aid.

(I actually want to expand on these tools in a separate post because I have a lot of thoughts upon reading them and I’m sure I’ll have a few more upon implementing and experimenting with them so I’ll plant this little note here as both a reminder and an accountability anchor.)

I don’t have the answers I need. Not yet, at least. But raising those questions is my first step in what I hope will be the right direction.

So for now, I’ll take my win where I can and happily declare that “I like the reason that I’m tired” while I nip and tuck the tired portion of it all.

Till next we meet,
C

One hundred subscribers. Now if I were to imagine myself speaking to a room of 100 people, with 200 eyes looking and 200 ears hanging on my every word, I would probably have a panic attack. The number ‘one hundred’ seems inconsequential online when the measure is in the hundreds of thousands and millions. However, one hundred people in a room is a pretty significant number. It’s the same numeric ‘one’ followed by the same two ‘zeroes’ and yet contextually, their values are worlds apart.

When I was still at 96 subscribers, I started exploring the idea of what my paid subscriptions could look like. Primarily because I felt that as I was approaching my first 100 subscribers, the milestone would come with more responsibilities. There would be more “work” I would be required to do so I could feel like I deserved the first 100. To feel like I’m earning the next 100 by doubling down on my efforts and output (a little more about this in my most recent letter below).

So while I started exploring the idea of doing more, I made sure to tread carefully. I reminded myself of how excited I felt when building the ecosystem of Letters from Christine and how important it is for me to maintain the integrity of that excitement. I didn’t want to taint the ecosystem by rushing and forcing my way through it. And so I took some of that pressure off by reminding myself to continue what I’m doing and building my community. Nurture the seed as what it is before nurturing it as the flower it has yet to become.

In focusing on the seed in front of me, an idea came to me! Turns out, in taking some of that pressure off, I gave my creative seedling a little breathing room and in turn, got nudged toward what I needed to do to bring it to life.

A little backstory to make the idea make sense. When I used to work in corporate, we ran quarterly talent audits called Pulse Checks to see what to start, stop, continue, and improve regarding people and culture. Even though that was many moons ago, I still think highly of pulse checks and do my own to gauge the direction I’m going in, recalibrate when needed, and course correct as necessary. I usually ‘pulse check’ my life around my birthday because that’s my ‘new year new me’ resolution period. However, since I started the practice of my Morning Pages (3 pages of daily stream-of-consciousness writing in longhand), I’ve noticed myself checking the proverbial pulse of my being more regularly, albeit unconsciously so.

In flipping through past pages, I noticed a pattern emerging. Every few weeks or so, a new theme would serve as the undertone of my pages. And each theme would follow a similar life cycle.

The initial ‘Aha!’ moment
This is where disbelief enters the chat. When I gasp so loudly that my sister comes running thinking something bad has happened. And in a way, something bad has happened. The illusion has been shattered. The veil has been lifted. The blindspot is blind no more. Dots begin to connect and so many seemingly unrelated pieces start to fall into place. At this stage, it’s just about sitting with the awe and letting it settle.

For example: “I self-sabotage because I want to be liked” is a recent realization I’ve been journaling through. I want to grow my community on Instagram which means I need to be active throughout the week. BUT, if I’m active and posting on socials during the work week while others are at work, this will give them reasons to not like me. They’ll think “we’re working hard while she’s just goofing around” and they’ll judge me as lazy and won’t like me. So I don’t post on social media. Which impacts my content which in turn reeaaaallyy f*cks up my momentum. And then I start to complain that no matter how hard I’m “working” on my content, it’s not taking off. And the same people I’m worried about judging me will continue to like me because that’s something they can relate to: working hard but feeling like you’re getting no results. I’m likeable now because I’m relatable.

A new pair of sunglasses
You’d think that after the initial shock the novelty would wear off with time. You’d be sorely mistaken because instead, what time does is further cement that realization into my awareness. All of a sudden I start to see life through the filter of that realization. Think of it this way: imagine that for all your life, you’ve been wearing sunglasses that are tinted a soft, yellow shade. And then one day, you take them off and instead put on a pair tinted a berry hue. You look out at the world around you and see the exact same things, people, and places you always see, except this time, you see them through a berry filter. They’re the same they’ve always been, but it’s you who has changed. It’s how you are now perceiving and experiencing them that’s now different. That’s the next part of the cycle: putting on my new pair of sunglasses tinted a shade and colour different from what I’ve grown accustomed to and getting to re-experience my world through this new lens. Seeing the same things I’ve always seen, differently.

For example: It might have started with something as simple as “I don’t feel comfortable posting a story during the week because I want to be liked”, but this is where I start to notice all the other ways I’ve been limiting myself out of fear of being disliked.

My new, berry-tinted normal
As I’m breaking in my new pair of glasses, it’s easy to unconsciously reach for my older pair, that I’ve spent my entire life using. They’re comfortable and the world through them is familiar and that familiarity feels safe. It takes some effort to consciously stop myself from reaching for that old pair and remind myself that I got this new pair for a reason — because I want to experience the world, and myself, differently.

For example: The next time I notice myself approaching a boundary, knowing I’m about to let the other person cross it because I want them to like me, I will 3, 2, 1 my way into drawing the line of that boundary. I notice myself wanting to over explain and practically write an entire essay to explain why that line exists, but I remind myself that I don’t owe anyone that explanation. So I respectfully draw that line and funnily enough, once they reply with “okay”, we move on from the topic so quickly, I forget I was nervous in the first place. That’s how anticlimactic the entire experience turns out to be. Where I thought 10/10 people would dislike me, so far, no one has spared a moment because they have other things to concern themselves with. Ironic isn’t it.

When I’m teaching a yoga class, I incorporate a check in halfway through the flow. I invite the class to close their eyes and take a moment to check in with their breath. I remind them that their body already knows how to breathe so there’s no effort required of them. So instead, to simply observe the breath as it moves through the body. To notice as the belly expands and softens. To notice as the shoulders lift ever so slightly with every inhale and relax with every exhale. To notice the subtlety of the breath through the nostrils; cold air in and slightly warmer air out. I remind them that although the body knows how to breathe, when we’re aware of our breath, we can contribute to our breath. In taking deep breaths in and long breaths out, we signal to the nervous system that our body is safe. So although the body is doing the breathing, with or without us, being aware of our breath and thus, collaborating with the body by breathing intentionally, we do the whole breathing thing a little bit better. We change the entire experience of it, not just for the body, but for the mind.

Noticing these patterns as I journal through them has been akin to breathing with my body. My mind already knows what to do, that much is clear because it’s been doing the noticing and processing with or without me. So if I were to breathe with my mind, I could alter my entire (mental) breathing experience. If my mind is already conducting pulse checks unconsciously, let me be an active participant in those pulse checks and maybe I could get the takeaways sooner rather than later.

And that, gentle readers, is how the idea for this letter came to be.

So without further ado, welcome to Letters from Christine’s June Pulse Check.

This is part of The Study, a paid feature, because it’s a longer format and is more thoughtfully curated. My intention is to leave you with not just food for thought, but some utensils of your own that you could use to make sure you take digestible, tasty bites out of this treat of a letter (I went with the food imagery rather than the “tools in your toolbox” imagery and I kinda like it?).

Pulse Checks explore what to start, stop, continue, and improve. And how I’ll be doing this is in exploring some of the themes that have come up for me in June. There is no right or wrong way to practice this. And what works now might not work later. Usually, I just prepare a list with bullet points, but this time, I feel more inclined to start with the themes and patterns, and within them to check the pulse of what’s working and what isn’t. At the end of each theme you’ll find self-study opportunities of your own!

Theme 1: “I was so afraid of whether or not I deserved to be in that room that I failed to realize that I made it into that room”

An opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime experience presented itself to me in June: a seven-day writing workshop in the UK. And while I was initially excited, the more I explored the idea of that opportunity, the more reluctant I was.

My teaching momentum is finally picking up and I don’t want to do anything that gets in the way of that momentum. (I was afraid that I would be perceived as not-a-team-player or lazy because “I should be working instead of flying off to a writer’s workshop”).

It’s a waste of money at this moment in time and I’m sure there will be other opportunities like it. (I was afraid that it would be a reckless waste of money, even if I am working towards earning an income from writing and becoming a published author; I didn’t see it as an investment into my future, rather as a leakage from the here and now).

My dad called me out and said I’m afraid because it would mean getting out of my comfort zone. I disagreed because I couldn’t see what my comfort zone had anything to do with me flying out for a week. If anything, I thought I was being responsible and logical. And then it hit me. I was keeping myself in my comfort zone, but not in the comforts of my routine like he’d initially accused me of. I was keeping myself in the comfort zone of my potential.

If I went to the writing workshop, I’d be surrounded by others who live, breathe, and sleep the readings of the greats. I don't.

What if I went to the writing workshop and realized I’m not as good or talented as I thought I was? What if all this time, it’s been a waste of time, hopes, dreams, energy, and money? How devastating. To realize I’ve wasted so much of my life only to end up being average at best and terrible at worst. Maybe it’s better to live my life holding on to the potential that I might be great, instead of actually taking the necessary steps and realizing I fall short. Maybe it’s better to hold onto the idea of my potential than face the reality of it.

Continue - instead of keeping this to heaviness to myself, I lightened my load by talking through it. First with my dad who, after a long, validating talk over FaceTime basically told me “Well stop it” (‘it’ being feeling like an imposter). Secondly, with my sister who, after a long, validating cry session, basically told me I’m being stupid. Thirdly, with a friend who, after a long, validating phone call, hit me with “congratulations you’ve unlocked a new level of imposter syndrome which means you’re levelling up”. I was so afraid of whether or not I deserved to be in that room that I failed to realize that I made it into that room. Talking it through made me feel safe, held, and supported. I realized that I have people in my corner who have such faith in me that even if mine is wavering, theirs is enough to carry me through. And I feel more capable to power through that imposter syndrome because it’s like a video game. I’ve unlocked a new level of growth because of it. And if I want this thing I keep saying I want, then I need to be the kind of person who shows up for it, especially when she’s afraid. I made it into that room and now it’s about what I can do in there and take from it to make it into the next room.

Theme 2: “I’ve been so consumed by comparison that I’ve been confused by it”

Two specific people (influencers) have been frustrating me when I see their content online. One significantly more than the other and yet I continue to follow them because the anger I feel is a tool I’m using to do something about it.

The first is an influencer I’ve been following for a minute who, out of nowhere, got offered a book deal last year. When I say out of nowhere, I mean out of nowhere because she herself, when announcing it, was shocked about getting a deal because she does not even read (respect for admitting that). She’s more than halfway to a million followers so I understand why the opportunity was presented to her. She has a platform she’s used to build a community over time and the sales and buzz would practically handle themselves. It’s a hell of an opportunity and I would’ve thought she’d be silly not to take it. From this, I took away the “if she can, then I can. why her (and others) and NOT me” and it fuelled me to take myself seriously and focus on the work and let the work speak for itself.

The second is someone who has been changing personas online based on what’s trending. And recently, they’ve stepped into their ‘writer era’ because I guess that’s what’s trending? They started their new page a few months ago and migrated their community onto this new page as a starting point. And what (and how) they’ve been posting is a little too similar to another creator who’s been creating content a little bit longer. And when I say similar, I’m being generous because if you were to put their two pages side by side, you’d think they’re practically the same person. There’s a fine line between being inspired by someone and imitating them and this second creator behaves as if the line is just for show. This person bothers me significantly because although they might be trying to find themselves by trying on these different personas or they really have been secretly dreaming of being a writer, there’s something shady about them and I can’t quite put my finger on it without flailing what could be perceived as false accusations. The way they’re going about it feels deeply inauthentic and lazy because they’re essentially plagiarizing their way into finding themselves. In the world of writing, plagiarizing is BIG NO. In the world of Christine, it’s an even bigger no because I’ve had people steal my words in the past and pass it off as their own. I’ve had people who had more seniority than me or more followers or opportunities available to them, steal my ideas and words, pass them off as their own (without giving me any credit), and shamelessly receive praise and step into newly-opened doors because of me. And this girl reminds me of all that’s wrong with people who want to take shortcuts and piggyback off other people.

I started comparing my writing to hers. She had just started creating content online and all of a sudden has tens of thousands of followers who have now become her X number of subscribers on Substack. And I would not be surprised if by the end of the year she gets a book deal because of the number of followers she has. Why her and not me? I’ve been showing up as a writer for years, not for an era. So what’s wrong with me that I have to continue seeing other people who lack my talent, skills, experience, perspective succeed, and not me? Am I not as good as I thought I was? Am I doing something wrong just because I don’t want to take a shortcut or copy other people? Is my integrity getting in the way? What about all the work I’ve been putting all these years? Not just with the writing itself but the mental and emotional work to feel safe in putting myself out there. To not only dive deep into my shadow and healing journey, but to let others in on it. I got angry because it felt unfair. Because it felt like the same pattern repeating itself, perpetually.

Improve - So I journaled about it. I talked about it. I cried about it. Until I realized I’ve been so consumed by comparison that I’ve been confused by it. I (thought I) was comparing the writing itself. But instead, I was angry at their courage and audacity. They’ve had the courage and audacity to put themselves out there, regardless of whether or not they’re skilled at it. Whereas I’ve been playing it safe all this time and for every one step forward I took, I leap back ten steps into my comfort zone. Realizing the subject of the comparison felt like being hit by a ton of bricks. And was immediately followed with “well I need to double down and be courageous because I have to catch up to theirs”. That’s not how it works. Now that I’ve been made aware that it’s the courage and audacity I’ve been triggered by because it’s my own I need to improve, forcing or rushing through it won’t do much for my momentum in the long-run. Instead, it’s about working smart, not hard. I don’t need to be switched on all the time. I just need to be smart about the right time and right moments to tap into my courage and be audacious and act on it. Right doses at the right moment will compound over time.

Stop - I won’t say I’ll stop comparing myself because that’s unrealistic. It’s part of human nature and it’s part of personal growth. You need something to measure yourself against whether it’s yourself or others. So instead, under ‘stop’ it’s “stop taking comparison at face value”. There’s more to comparison than meets the eye so stop assuming that the first thing that comes up (in this example, comparing my writing) is the only thing on the table. Dig a little deeper because the writing is just the closest thing to the surface; it’s the spokesperson, not the person in charge.

Theme 3: “I don’t want them to think I’m not a team player”

We all people please to some extent. Some significantly more than others, but we all do because we all want to be liked. Humans are social creatures and being accepted by others ensures our survival. We also all have our boundaries, some are soft and malleable while others are hard and off-limits. I’ve been navigating my boundaries over the years because they change with time. So not only have I been learning what they are with each season of my life, but how to express them and advocate for them.

One such boundary over the years has been “Sunday is rest day”. And this is one that although I claim is a hard boundary, I’ve been guilty of crossing myself. By scheduling errands and chores, making plans, working, etc. So when others get used to me being available on Sundays (because they don’t know I don’t want to be and that it’s a boundary for me), I get burnt out and it impacts my energy levels for the rest of the week. All because I didn’t give myself that one day of breathing room and time to recharge.

With friends, I’ve started to advocate for that boundary and say that I need my Sunday. But because I also want to enjoy time with my village, I’ll make myself available on Sundays as long as it’s not two Sundays in a row. I have a big cup I pour out of and I need my hermit time to refill it. So now that they know what to expect, I feel lighter in my relationships. I don’t feel like I need to people please or I’ll be resented if I say ‘no’ to plans because I’ve expressed this boundary and why it’s important to me.

With work, it’s another story. I don’t want to hear “you’re not being a team player” if I ever say I’m unavailable, because it has happened before and I’ve been gaslit and made to feel guilty about setting a boundary when I was already spreading myself too thin. That left a deep cut even after all these years. So anytime I’d get presented an opportunity to teach on Sundays, I’d say yes. I’d convince myself that work is work and it would be foolish of me to pass it up and although there is some logic to it, I know it’s an excuse. A spokesperson for the person behind the scenes really running the show. So I’d continue saying yes and set the precedent that I’d be available on Sundays which set the expectation that I will always be available on Sundays as a rule (not an exception). Recently, another Sunday opportunity came up and I could feel the inner turmoil. It was a struggle between the me who says “work is work” and the me who says “you keep saying one thing and acting differently”. I knew if I said yes, that I would resent myself over time. But I was afraid of saying no because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, lazy, or like I’m “not a team player” and so, don’t deserve the opportunity (the past experiences really did a number on me huh!). I didn’t want the resentment more than I was afraid of being judged, so I started to draft an unnecessarily long response, overly explaining my decision when I realized that 1) I don’t owe them an explanation, I’m doing it so I feel better about myself and 2) they don’t care why, they just want an answer so they know how to go about running the business. So I politely responded with “I’m unavailable on Sundays” (it was a longer reply because there were other topics to be discussed, but I didn’t want you to think that that short reply was my only reply!) and was met with “Okay, noted moving forward”. They needed to know so that they filter me out of Sundays and can make better decisions moving forward. I needed to express it so that I can show up as my best self on the six other days of the week because I’ve had my Sunday to recharge, in however way I deem fit. It was THAT simple. No muss, no fuss. And I can’t believe how anticlimactic it was. How quickly the conversation moved on from that one moment in time. I felt SO GOOD afterwards because I did that for me and because I feel even more appreciative of that business.

Start - Practicing what I preach, not just in some areas, but as best as I can in all areas. When I know from past experience how something will likely turn out, in this case if I don’t recharge on Sundays, I burn out within 1-2 weeks, then why am I turning a blind eye to it? There’s no moral virtue in martyring myself. That keeps me from showing up as my best self for me and for those around me, whether personally or professionally. Start doing the things I say I’m going to do instead of stalling, dragging my feet, coming up with all sorts of excuses, taking my time to make a decision, or waiting for the “right time”. If I say I’m going to do something, then I need to do that thing (within the realm of reason obviously). Either stop preaching or start practicing.

That was a lot. It was a lot for me to unpack, again. It was a lot for me to write and figure out how to write. It was also a lot of information for you to go through.

I’m a believer in “to know better is to do better” and better is less about doing your best and more about feeling your best. Even when we say “I did my best”, the sentiment that follows ought to be “and I feel my best”. That’s the winning combination. In my book at least.

So if you’ve made it this far, then some part of you wants different. Some part of you wants to do better and that starts with knowing better.

At least, that’s how I do it.

Till next we self-study
C

I was starting to see the fruits of my labor and it gave me hope. And because labor is what I’ve been focusing on and measuring, labor is exactly the (false) North Star my mind course corrected to after that brief deviation towards hope.

All of a sudden, it was no longer an acknowledgment of all the mental and emotional mountains I’ve been climbing towards feeling safe. It was no longer a celebration of the courage I’ve been wrestling to summon. The courage to coax myself out of hiding and take (appropriately paced and timed) leaps of faith from the shadows and into the open. The courage to be seen, even if doing so leaves me vulnerable to judgement, criticism, and ridicule. The courage to explore, accept, and champion my Self.

All of a sudden, it became about deserving it. All of a sudden, it became about deserving the right to keep them while earning the next 100 and then the next and then the next.

I need to post more than once a week.
I need to post twice a week, every week.
I need to post longer, more valuable posts.

I need to be using all the different features.
I need to utilize the Notes, podcasts, and paid features.

I need to find a way to balance it with everything else.
I need to because it’s the only way that I’ll be worthy of it.

Basically, what I did was “I need to X, Y, and Z” my way into a freeze state until I didn’t want it anymore.

Because it feels too scary. Too demanding. Too suffocating. And all I wanted to do was scurry away to my little corner where I’d be safe. Where I could go back to hiding myself away from the world, my desires, and the courage required to bring them to life.

If I want something, I need to be the kind of person who can handle it.

The kind of person who creates the space for it, intentionally.
The kind of person who develops the strength and skillset for it.
The kind of person who would honour, value, appreciate, and nurture it.

If I want something, I need to be the kind of person who holds it without dropping it.

And I need to trust that I can. I need to trust that I will do whatever I need to do to handle it. I need to trust my lived experience. Most importantly, I need to trust myself.

If I can’t handle my first 100 subscribers, then how do I expect myself to handle my first 100,000? Every 100 will come with its own version of “I need to X, Y, and Z”. And even better still, every 100 will also come with its own version of “I caught that thought before it could snowball”.

I just need to take it one 100 at a time.

And to the first 100 reading this, thank you for the existential crisis! I hope we share many more together.

Till next we meet,
C

P.S.: we’re at 106 subscribers as I’m posting this!!! To many more 0s!!!

I just started reading “The 5 Types of Wealth” by Sahil Bloom, and if I’m being honest, I judged this book by its cover. What I mean by that is that the cover of the book was clean, simple, and clear about what its contents would be, and it scratched an itch in my Virgo perfectionist brain.

The first few pages of a new book are similar to the small talk you engage in upon first meeting someone new. You’re still getting a feel for the person behind the words; their style of writing, views of the world, how they convey a message, how they connect certain dots and bridge certain gaps, etc. Writing and reading are a deeply subjective experience and sometimes it takes me a few chapters to get the hang of the author and their writing. But not with this book. I could tell from the first page that I did the right thing when I judged this book by its cover because I could practically taste all the juicy, delicious nuggets held within the pages ahead.

I read this passage and immediately heard the click of the pieces as they fell into place in my mind.

When we talk about the state of our mental body, we use the term ‘mental health’ and it wasn’t until I read this passage that it dawned on me that the term ‘health’ has a negative connotation. It implies the lack of health. It implies dis-ease or dis-comfort. It implies something that needs to be remedied before it can be considered whole. It implies a ‘less than favourable’ state. It feels abstract. It feels heavy. It feels like ‘something is wrong’ is the starting point and ‘nothing is wrong’ is the end point, but we’re still using ‘wrong’ as the measurable variable.

For whatever reason, even when putting the words ‘health’ and ‘healthy’ side by side, the sheer absence of the letter ‘y’ changes the energy of the word. ‘Healthy’ feels healthy, good, and joyful whereas ‘health’ feels like it’s carrying the energy of anything but health. At least that’s what it sounds and feels like to me.

When I read this passage and was re-introduced to the mental body from the perspective of mental wealth, something in me shifted. ‘Wealth’ implies a state of lightness. It implies a state of hope. It’s aspirational. There’s a concrete, positive, not-taboo air to it. It implies safety, security, and a sense of self-assuredness.

Why don’t we refer to our mental state as mental wealth? Stay with me!

When talking about financial wealth, we measure that wealth in terms of (financial) security. We measure stability, safety, and sustainability. Whether you’re investing in cash, commodities, or property, you have a starting point and if you’re smart, you keep a diverse portfolio. You keep your eyes on the prize and play the long game. That (in short and non-technical terms) is how you build financial wealth. AKA, financial security, stability, and safety.

Maybe because when I think of health, I picture a weed-infested garden in my mind’s eye. I see all the work that is yet required of me to nurture said garden back to life and that feels daunting, overwhelming, and often times hopeless. Whereas when I think of wealth, I picture an oasis in my mind’s eye. I see all that is already bountiful and all the possibilities that could follow should I choose to tend to it.

Why can’t we approach our mental security, stability, and safety from that perspective? Instead of mental health, why not look at it as mental wealth?

Wealth is built over time and it’s a conscious, deliberate decision. It’s something that you make happen for you instead of resigning yourself to life and saying it happened to you. With mental wealth, you’re building your portfolio with time, patience, and life experience. You’re able to curate your portfolio, picking and choosing which investments and assets make the most sense to your season of life, overall goals, and risk tolerance.

We typically refer to it as the ‘tools in your toolbox’ that you can reach for and tap into, and the concept is still the same here, except the font is a little different.

I’m noticing the shift from ‘mental health’ to ‘mental wealth’ felt like untapped potential in how we approach the topic and the energy with which we navigate the territory of our dynamic mental states.

I feel like there’s more to unpack in following this thread and although this passage has been on my mind since I read it the other day, and I talked about this realization with a friend earlier, I still feel like the idea needs to simmer in my mind a little more.

Still reading,
C

“Strong opinions loosely held” (shoutout Tinx) has become one of my favourite disclaimers when expressing an opinion because let’s face it, we live in a “quick to attack, cancel, and shame” digital world, and because of that, people don’t have original opinions anymore. Or if they do, no one expresses them as comfortably.

An opinion is an opinion, not an absolute fact. Opinions molded through lived experience exist for a reason. It’s because of precedence that those opinions exist in the first place and it’s because of repeated experience that they’ve solidified into place. That’s my definition when using the word ‘opinion’. What is not included in this definition are “opinions” that are held with no experience whatsoever, but rather simply because they’re what you’re “supposed to believe” or what “everyone else believes so it must be true”.

When I’m sharing my strong opinion that’s been formed through my lived experience time and time again, this is a (subjective) truth to me. It’s not an absolute truth. I could be wrong, but in my experience, I’ve been proven right because time, people, and circumstances have reinforced my strong opinion, even if it’s (not too) loosely held.

Now that my disclaimers are out of the way, my opinion is: not everyone is a writer.

I believe (almost) anyone can learn how to write, but not everyone is a writer.

I believe writing, like any other skill, can be honed with time, will, and experience. And because writing is deeply subjective and personal, one person’s “that didn’t do anything for me” could be another person’s “that moved me so deeply I forgot about life outside the pages”. And yet, I still believe that not everyone is a writer.

My original intention was to rant about how these days, everyone is “stepping into their writer/author era”. How the trend (let’s be honest…) is that all of a sudden, everyone’s childhood dream is of becoming a writer. That’s the secret they’ve kept close to their person all along. That every line written in every diary and journal over the years has paved the way and they’re finally ready to wear the (self-proclaimed) title of writer. Now that they’ve amassed a big following from positioning themselves online as whatever is trending, now is the time to come clean about always wanting to be a writer. Talk about fortuitous timing!

(Is it easier to pivot when you already have a following this way you migrate the followers or is it an excuse because what if you had to start from scratch and build a following by letting the work speak for itself only to realize the work speaks in intermittent, hushed tones and not the projections you thought they’d be? hmm…)

I’m well aware that I sound slightly frustrated and sarcastic, but stay with me because what started as me getting triggered and angry at yet another matcha influencer turned runner turned Pilates girly turned writer, ended up becoming an opportunity to uncover a blindspot I didn’t think I was this blind to.

It has taken me decades to come to terms with my writing. To accept my writing. To not be fearful or ashamed of it. To get excited about it. To nurture it. Protect it. Encourage it. And do my damnedest to fight for it.

It has taken me decades and it has been unnervingly slow because I’ve unfortunately been passive about my writing. And while I’ve been idle, others have thrown caution to the wind and themselves into the deep end. Those are the ones, I’ve come to realize, I’ve been comparing myself to.

Not the talented writers, but the ones with the courage and audacity to put themselves out there. Whether or not they actually have the skill is a whole other topic of conversation.

I realized that all this time, I’ve been measuring myself against the wrong variable. I thought I was comparing my writing, but it was my “shortcoming”, “weakness”, and “area of improvement” that was under the microscope: my courage and audacity.

It wasn’t the writing because I already have faith in my writing. I have spent an entire lifetime planting its seeds. Making sure it’s deeply rooted; steady, solid, and secure. I trust it. I trust in its presence. I trust that it’s always there for me in between life’s ebbs and flows.

Instead, I’ve been focusing on that which has yet to take root in my life: courage and audacity. That’s the path my anger has been leading me towards. Because in my hesitation to act with courage and act with audacity, I feel as though I’m “wasting” my talent and I’m “wasting” opportunities that others are jumping on because they’d be fools not to. Because I’ve been the fool. And this is my Fool’s journey.

I didn’t expect my (not so) little rant to take me on such a detour, but it’s a scenic route I wouldn’t have known about if I hadn’t been curious about my anger. If I didn’t listen to my anger. Anger speaks up when there’s hurt underneath the surface. Hurt at certain needs having gone unmet. And for the writer in me, the need I’ve been falling short in meeting has been to just go for it.

Instead of getting too caught up in thinking about doing or in planning and perfecting the “best way” to do something, I need to see the self-sabotage for what (and when) it is and not let it weigh me down.

A dash of courage here and a sprinkle of audacity there, at the right place and at the right time is all the writer in me needs.

And you know what? I can definitely give that to her.

I owe it to her.

Till next we meet,
C

When I read this passage the other day, for some reason I was reminded of Richard Gilmore from Gilmore Girls. I was reminded of when the Gilmores were at Rory’s coming out party and Richard announced to both Emily and Lorelai that his company was essentially forcing him into retirement. Seeing the devastation on Richard’s face (masterfully portrayed by the late Edward Herrmann) breaks my heart every time I rewatch that scene.

After spending an entire lifetime working and achieving his way towards a sense of worth, societal standing, and acceptance, being faced with the reality of retirement meant being faced with the reality of being rendered essentially obsolete overnight.

From the moment we’re born, the hands that mold us do so with a specific image in mind of what they want the end product to look like. From the moment we’re born, we’re conditioned to follow, and measure ourselves against, a specific trajectory in life.

We spend an entire lifetime slowly and undeniably morphing into a human doing, and then one day, when you hit a certain age, you’re expected to stop. Just like that. To quit an entire lifetime’s worth of your identity and sense of self revolving around how much you’re producing and doing, cold turkey. The kicker? No one’s holding your hand for this one. No one is mapping you out a five-year plan or trajectory for the most efficient and effective ways for you to move forward. You’re on your own kid.

You’re on your own after you’ve spent an entire lifetime nurturing, reinforcing, and solidifying one specific way of doing that was dictated guided by others’ opinions, advice, and judgements. Everyone has an opinion when it comes to the ‘doing’. They always have something to say about doing things the right way and the wrong way. But their silence speaks volumes when it comes to ‘being’.

That negligence is complete and utter cruelty.

Richard Gilmore did not go quietly into retirement. He picked up a few hobbies, drove his wife crazy in the process, and ultimately decided to start his own business — a very successful one at that. He got back into doing on his own terms because doing is all he’d ever known. However, this time around, he did not let the doing consume his entire life.

Richard Gilmore learned that lesson late in life. The price he paid was high, but better late than never. Others go their entire life never learning that lesson. Of the importance of accepting yourself outside of the achievements, status, assets, reputation, and connections you accrue. Of the importance of allowing yourself to exist in moments of being, not just through acts of doing.

Instead of taking my morning coffee to go, I’d much rather wake up a few minutes earlier and have my morning coffee on the balcony without a book, phone, or journal at hand. Just sipping on my coffee and having that be the main focus.

Not every moment is meant to be optimized.
Not every moment is meant to be efficient.
Not every moment is meant to be curated.

Moments are for living in, not just producing from.

Still reading,
C

I don’t have any children — yet. But I do have a cat, and a very needy one at that. (This letter isn’t about my cat, so just trust the process and stay with me here!)

A little over a month ago when I was moving apartments, Merlin (my fur baby) was a little (gross understatement) under the weather on the day of the move. Tending to him while juggling the movers was something I didn’t know how I would manage. I probably could, but it was going to fry my nervous system. Thankfully, I have a friend who loves Merlin and had the day off, so I called her and asked if she could come keep an eye on him while my sister and I were with the movers. She immediately said yes. She came over to the new apartment, sat in my empty room with the door closed, and just stayed with Merlin so he wasn’t alone while keeping an eye on him in case he felt physically unwell again.

First of all, I’m not someone who asks for help. It’s not my first instinct and if I’m being honest, it’s not my second or third either (that’s a whole other topic for another time). But I felt safe with this friend — enough to ask for a favour without feeling like I’ll have to “pay for it later”.

A little while later, I was journaling and remembered the incident and how her showing up for me and Merlin really made me feel supported and held. It made me feel safe and at home.

I’ve been thinking about my village recently. I have a few people I’ve been allowing myself to lean on every once in a while. A few people who make me feel lighter when I do. And last night, I was reminded of the other people I’d forgotten were in my corner — because of distance, time zones, and different seasons of life.

I had a friend come over, and for three hours, the three of us (my sister included) lost ourselves in reminiscing, hyping ourselves up, and just stuffing our faces with all sorts of Lebanese delicacies.

Afterwards, I got on a video call with another friend for 40 minutes and we just talked about a little bit of everything, just like we used to. Just like we haven’t in a really long time.

In between, I was messaging back one friend about her updates. Another friend to catch up on the reels we send back and forth. Another friend about random trips down memory lane. Another friend about memes we send to each other as our love language even though we haven’t seen each other in 6 years (?).

As I got into bed, I was beaming. I was high off of gratitude. For these people. For the memories we shared. And for the fact that they’re still in my life, even if that looks a little different from seasons past.

Some are old and some are new, but regardless, these are the handful of people who I feel safe with. Who have never made me feel judged or criticized. Who when they say they’re proud of me, actually mean it.

The people who are my village.

And when I lose myself in the thoughts of “it’s me against the world and no one cares or has time for me and I’m alone because no one understands and everyone is focused on their own lives and have forgotten about me”, I lose sight of those people. I forget that the population of my village is not in fact a measly 1. It takes me some uncomfortable, challenging, deliberate attempts to claw my way out of my self-imposed isolation long enough to see my village on the horizon. To reach out for them.

And the thing about a village is, you’re a villager too. Anytime any one of them needs me to show up in my villager role, I lunge at the opportunity to be there for them. To show them that they’re not alone and how much I care and am in their corner come hell or high water.

So why am I giving as a villager, but not allowing myself to receive from the village? That’s the realization I had when journaling about how “in not asking, I’ve been depriving them of the choice to show up. It takes two, but I’ve been taking that choice away from them and in giving it back, I feel closer to them.”

A part of me will always feel like I’m burdening others when I ask for help or lean on them, and I don’t think that part will ever go away. I just need to trust myself enough to know I’ll navigate the territory accordingly. Without taking anything personally. Because the thing is, people’s cups don’t always carry the same volume. And the size of their cups changes from one day to the next. It is not personal. There are days when I don’t have enough in my cup to pour into others or days when my cup size is too small for me to be able to focus on anything other than refilling or managing the contents of my cup. It doesn’t mean I care any less about others, it’s just that in the particular moment, my focus is temporarily tunnel vision.

And I’m still part of my village.

It takes a village.
So let it.

Till next we meet,
C

P.S: I’m sending this to my village so if you’re reading this, yes it’s about you!

I read this passage a few minutes ago and immediately put the book down and reached for my laptop before losing my train of thought. And by immediately I mean “immediately after highlighting the passage and pausing for a moment in disbelief” — as one does.

Initially, I took a picture of the passage to share with a friend because it reminded me of a recurring conversation we've had about my feeling odd about receiving compliments, specifically when it comes to me just being me. Or, as it's called these days, "holding space for others."

I'd confided in that friend that when I lend an ear or a shoulder to someone, I'm not really "doing" anything. I'm just being me. I'm simply existing in that moment with the other person, and I find it hard to believe that I can "earn" appreciation and gratitude without really doing anything.

As I’m annotating, I’ve just realized that my being and doing aren’t separate from one another. They’re two sides of the same coin. One cannot exist without the other. Because in being the me who has the ear or shoulder to lend to others, well, there was a lot of doing behind the scenes to become that person. Whether I refer to it as “healing work” or “homecoming” (which I personally prefer), there’s been a lot of doing in the process of being.

Doing by being. Huh. That’s something.

Okay, I know this might be getting confusing, especially if you’re not literally in my mind right now to see the different dots and how they are (or aren’t) connecting, but stay with me if you can.

‘Now me’ exists because past versions of ‘now me’ took part in doing things. Those past versions of me did the hard things and the comfortable thing. The right things and the wrong things. The past versions of me (the ‘now me’ that existed in different moments of my life) did the different things that were a part of that life. And in all that doing, they amassed knowledge and lived experience that went straight into my ‘inventory of being’.

And so, at any moment in time, I’m the sum of all my past being and doing. Because in order to do anything, there has to be something that exists to do the doing. So being is a prerequisite of doing. They’re enmeshed. Being is implied in the doing, and doing is implied in the being.

And so, when someone is grateful for me simply for existing and for being me, it’s not that I didn’t do anything to earn that gratitude. Rather, my being is an act of doing in and of itself.

Even though, as I’m writing this, I can’t help but feel suspicious because it’s as though I’ve just created an elaborate workaround to convince myself that I have in fact “earned” it by linking being to doing. As if I’ve created a loophole to (forcefully) find the doing in the being.

But it really is there, if you think about it.

They can't really be separated because they're the sun and the moon.
The yin and the yang.

Hmm.

Still reading (and reflecting),
C

I’m currently reading “The Courage To Be Disliked” by Ichiro Kishimi and Fumitake Koga which follows a dialogue between a philosopher and a young man.

A few weeks ago, I read this passage and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. At the time, I was going through another one of my regularly scheduled existential crises, namely about figuring my “identity” online and how I wanted to show up as a content creator.

For a long time, I’ve kept forcing myself to fit into the “wellness” box because I thought that’s where yogis are supposed to go. So I would show up and create what I thought was supposed to be creating from within the confines of this box. There’s a certain way for to show up as a wellness creator and that’s that. Which was fine for me at first as I was learning the science and art of putting myself out there and navigating the ups and downs of what it meant to create content. But at some point, I started to subconsciously feel suffocated and restrained.

There were other parts of myself that I wanted to share with others as well, but felt as though I couldn’t because they didn’t fit within my niche or content pillars. All the more reason for me to feel alienated by content and social media. I started to feel like there was something wrong with me. Like I was incompetent and was doing something wrong because how is it possible that ALL these other wellness creators are doing the work and getting the results, but it’s not working for ME?

So I would pivot. Experiment. Try some more. Try a little differently. And for a little while, it would feel lighter. Until it didn’t. Until it felt tight again.

Some part of me was seeking that sense of freedom; of expression and showing up as me — as ALL parts of me. Some part of me felt like I didn’t fit within the box of wellness creator or fit in with what other yogis and creators within the industry were doing. They had found their voice and I was struggling to find mine because all this time, I’ve been matching their pitch instead.

Moments before I read the above passage, I had seen a TikTok about different career options for multi-passionate individuals, and one the suggestions read Lifestyle Writer or Editor. That made me pause and think: “huh, I see that for myself, but I don’t know if I would necessarily fit within the lifestyle box or category”.

And then I read the passage I shared above.
The following page continues on saying:

All of the dots had been setting themselves up for this one moment that gave me the clarity to be able to pick up my pen and draw the squiggly line that would connect these dots together.

All this time, I’ve been forcing myself to fit within the ‘wellness creator’ box, but what if all this time, I’ve just been standing in the wrong room?

If lifestyle is how one sees the world and oneself, the style through which one is experiencing life, then that territory has more than enough room for me to show up as all parts of myself, and then some. All parts of myself — past, present, and future. With grace, compassion, and freedom.

I don’t have to worry that sharing my books, writing, reflections aren’t “wellness” or “yoga” content. Or worry that sharing my daily routines, random and fun parts of my days, isn’t giving “value” to people. That if I go a few days without posting a yoga flow or some sort of tutorial, then I’m not “operating within my content pillars”.

Or that the curious, whimsical parts of me who get excited about new and different things and wants to talk about all the things she finds cool and interesting, that I need to silence or censor her because “this is not the place for it”.

I’ve been playing small and keeping those parts of myself hidden and tucked away. Those parts of myself that want to be seen — that need to be seen. Those parts that have long since yearned for the freedom to express and create and explore and do it all with a sense of safety and joy.

So yeah, a few weeks ago, I read this passage and have not been able to stop thinking about it since. Because it wasn’t only a passage in a book; it was a catalyst for an entire identity shift. Or rather, an identity breakaway and homecoming.

I’m still almost halfway through the book (as I’m writing and posting this on May 26th, 2026) and there are a bunch of different passages that I’ve underlined, but this one has still been on my mind since. I continue to reference it in conversation whenever I can. I continue circling back to this passage to let the insight really marinate in my being.

Still reading,
C

Sitting back. Sipping on a tea or coffee. Letting someone else take care of me. Allowing myself to get pampered. And enjoying the hell out of it as I’d lean back into my chair, close my eyes, and feel a smile tug up the corners of my mouth.

When I’m getting my nails done, I can’t use my hands. Or rather, if I’m using my hands for anything, it’s sparingly so, otherwise I’m getting in the way. All that’s required of me is to simply be present in the moment while they (the nail technicians) are working on my hands and feet. And more importantly so, to stay present and still while my nails are drying. Because that’s when the work is most vulnerable to “ruin”. Even if a nail does get ruined (meaning, the polish gets smudged), it can always be fixed by adding another layer of top coat or worst case, start all over on that one nail by removing the polish and redoing it from scratch. It’s not the end of the world because it can always be resolved, one way or another. It just influences the experience differently (stay with me, I’ll get to it shortly!).

That window of time is my favourite part of getting my nails done. Because for that window of time, I’m forced to not lift a finger, so to speak (and pun intended). For that window of time, the only thing that’s required of me is to not do a damn thing.

Because “I have to wait for my nails to dry”.

Sometimes I wait the minimum amount because I have other things to get to. Sometimes, when I’m in need of a bit more me-time, I wait a little longer than necessary and use “waiting for my nails to dry” as an excuse to chill and spend an extra 10 minutes on the massage chair.

Getting my nails done was a weekly ritual of pampering myself and it’s a habit that I’ve lost over the years and have since chalked up to a luxury. A non-necessity. A “I can live without it” because of living in a country that was experiencing severe hyperinflation over the last few years.

Seeing people starve on the streets. Seeing people lose their jobs and houses and not being able to afford bread because the price skyrocketed 1000% while their salaries devalued by the same 1000%. Being in the thick of that drastic change in lifestyle, I couldn’t seem to justify getting my nails done every week “because I enjoyed it”. Even though, those businesses also needed clients to be able to survive and keep the business running. To be able to afford to pay their employees who had families of their own. The same employees who were also affected by the hyperinflation.

“I feel guilty getting my nails done because I see people barely able to afford bread, but not getting my nails done impacts businesses and people’s ability to afford bread” is such a weird, deranged, labyrinthian way of thinking through the entire experience.

So instead, I just opted to do my own nails at home. Granted, it wasn’t the same, but it was close enough. When things started to ease up, I got back into the habit of going to the nail salon every other month or every month and I swear, I would leave those appointments feeling lighter, as though a weight had been lifted within that one-hour window.

This past month has been demanding. And this past week particularly, has been the cherry on top. And so on Monday, I made the impromptu decision to get my nails done with a friend and it felt like all was right with the world.

Sitting back, letting myself be taken care of, receiving that care, and having my hands and toes matching felt…there’s no way to describe it (there probably is) and frankly speaking I don’t want to try to describe it because it’s one of those experiences you just feel and if you know, you know.

Getting my nails done every week is a ritual I would like to reintroduce into my life. Not because I need to, but because I want to. And that distinction is an important one that I’ve been coming to terms with especially in navigating my way through my intrusive thoughts around a lack mindset.

And because this has been in the back of my mind, especially as the polish has started to chip off my nails, the idea of getting my nails done popped up during my morning mediation earlier. I was recounting all the different parts I enjoy (that I wrote about a few paragraphs ago), especially the “waiting for my nails to dry” part because you can’t do anything until your nails dry. You just have to wait it out. And every person who gets their nails done knows this is a part of the process and goes into their appointment accordingly (we’re talking strictly regular polish over here!).

And then it hit me: getting my nails done is a metaphor for working towards my goals.

• When you have a goal in mind, say “I want to get my nails done”, you decide whether you want a mani-pedi or polish change. And then take an immediate course of action which is to “book an appointment”.

• When you arrive to your appointment, you pick your colour and for the next hour or so, are deep in the “achieving your goal” process.

• Once your nails have been soaked, cuticles have been cleaned, nails filed, base, colour, and top coat applied, then then final and most important part is sitting back and waiting for your nails to dry. Everything that needed to be done was done, and now you need to let it all settle. To let the polish dry before you leave the salon with your nails done.

After all that doing, if you skip over or rush the “drying time”, you increase the risk of ruining your nail. If you ruin your nail, you have to start over. And even then, you still have to go through the “drying time” again! Maybe even more strictly the second time around so you don’t mess up your nail again, because you already have a lot to do and can’t afford longer of a delay at the nail salon. (And neither can the nail technicians, because now that you’ve ruined your nail, they’re tasked with a do-over which will affect the appointment that was scheduled after you with the client who came in on time who now has to wait an extra 5-ish minutes for the technician to be done with your do-over. And maybe that extra 5 minute delay in starting is going to stress that client out because she too has other things on her schedule that might be affected by this unexpected delay and it all snowballs from there all because you couldn’t sit still for 10 minutes. How rude of you!).

The nail can always be fixed, but at what cost? At what opportunity cost? Staying longer at the salon when you have other things on your plate? Having to rush to your next appointment or whatever else you have planned because you’re unexpectedly running behind? Leaving your appointment stressed and vigilant because you need to be extra careful not to smudge the polish again?

But if you just sat still the first time around…if you just allowed yourself to enjoy the “drying” time as much as the “getting the nails done” time, both equally important parts of the process mind you. Then you would have left your appointment on time, relaxed, and feeling like the world is yours for the taking — at least that’s how I feel.

There’s a time for the cleaning, filing, and applying polish.
And a time for the sitting back and waiting for your nails to dry.

There’s a time for doing. And a time for being. And they are both equally important. You cannot have one without the other.

Till next we meet,
C

Around a week ago, I caught the source of my leak and have since been patching that hole in my cup, and have since started to feel like myself again, ever so slightly. One day at a time.

As part of the patching process, I’ve been limiting how much social content I consume because in this state, I’m quite susceptible to anything I come across. I might get extremely inspired by something, decide to hit the ground running, and tire myself out as I convince myself I have more in my cup than I actually do at the moment. Or I might get upset by something, the discouragement and disappointment ushering in doubt, insecurity, hopelessness and as such, might rip a hole in my cup anew. It could go either way really and I’ll be none the wiser until after the fact.

There’s one specific piece of content I did consume that’s stuck with me since. And it rests in the middle between extreme inspiration on one end and discouragement on the other. It’s nestled in nice and tight, an ember not of a dying fire, but of one igniting anew.

“Bite off more than you can chew and learn how to chew it”

Some part of me felt seen and comforted in reading that because it reminded me of a promise of sorts I’d made myself not too long ago. That no matter what I’m faced with; no matter what unknowns lie ahead. No matter what feels unpredictable and out of my control. No matter what might rattle me at first; make me feel nervous or anxious. To always, always, remember to trust myself. To trust in my ability to swim and hold my head above water. To trust in my ability to not only survive, but to make it out the other side stronger for it. To trust in my self-preservation instincts. And should I ever need any proof beyond my being alive and breathing, all I ever need to do is look back at I have survived. All I have experienced that I thought would break me, but only served as a stepping stone to get me to where I am, to who I am today. And if ever I find my trust in myself wavering or find that I don’t have it in me to look back at all the mountains I’ve climbed and how far I’ve come, I lean on my Dad who trusts in me enough for the both of us.

And so, whenever I’m faced with a situation that stirs up nerves, I remind myself that I can and I will handle it, just as I have in the past. And if I don’t know how to handle it, I trust that I will find a way. If it works, great. It will until doesn’t and then I’ll adjust and find a new way that works. If it doesn’t, then I’ll adjust just the same. I will figure it out and I’ll be scrappier, craftier and more creative for it.

This trust in myself makes me feel safe with myself. This trust in myself makes my nervous system feel safe. Makes my body feel safe. And when I feel safe, when I’m pulled out of fight-or-flight, when I have access to all parts of my brain (not just the limbic system) that will allow me to show up as my “best self”, I see the mountain for the molehill that it is. And then I proceed to unleash myself unto it.

“Bite off more than you can chew and learn how to chew it” likely warrants a different reaction in others than mine. Depending how you look at it, it can be considered slightly extreme, prompting the argument that you can still chew while keeping the pieces small and bite seized. You can still chew without biting off a piece that could suffocate you and put you in its own version of fight-or flight. I can sit here and play devil’s advocate, a role I relish in, but that’s not what I’m here for today.

For today is a reflection.
Today is a reminder.

That no matter how big a piece I bite off, I trust in my ability to chew.
I trust that even if I don’t know how, I will learn to chew.
Because that bite that I took, I took of my own free will.

Till next we meet,
C

Except recently, I’ve got neither. Recently, I’ve just been waiting it out, taking it day by day. In hopes that with every passing day, I come closer to feeling like myself again. And I briefly do, at the start of each day. Then within minutes, I already feel drained of any reserves I hoped I’d have for the day.

To be absolutely fair, there has been a lot going on. A lot of heaviness emotionally and mentally, with everything that’s going on back home and being so far away from my loved ones. With everything that’s going on back home that’s triggering past traumas, causing them to resurface, all the while reminding myself that I’m safe.

To be absolutely fair, there has been a lot going on, more than I thought myself capable of handling. There has been a lot going on, and I’ve underestimated how heavy a weight it’s been to carry. That of the past, with its reminders that pop up announced. That of the present, equally excited and terrified that I’m not making the most of the moment or I’m not making the best decisions. That of the future, with all the dreams, desires, and goals that I need to bring to life like I need air to breathe because there’s no other alternative where I don’t do, have, and be those things.

The weight of choices, in keeping one foot moving in front of the other at all times.

What are the next steps? Which steps are the right ones? Which are the wrong ones? Am I even moving in the right direction? Down the right path? I don’t know what I don’t know so how am I to take my next steps without knowing what my blindspots are? Without knowing what more I need to know? Without knowing if I have all the information I need to make the best decision in taking this step forward instead of that other step?

So many choices. So many variables. So many decisions.

What? Where? How? Why? Why not?
This or that…Now or later…
So…many…decisions…

And there it was. My ‘aha’ moment. My blindspot uncovered: so many decisions.

In the whirlwind of all that’s been going on lately, my daily structure was uprooted. My daily structure that’s been laid out in such a way as to give me the space to make “one less decision” per day.

For example, my movement split. Every day of the week has its designated workout, practice, and class so that when I wake up on Monday, I know it’s leg day. When I wake up on Tuesday, I know it’s backbend day. And if something were to come up, I’d move things around, and that would be the exception; making that decision. But recently, my split is no longer planned. At first, I enjoyed it because I felt like I could do anything on any given day and that felt liberating. But then I’d wake up and waste so much time throughout the day going back and forth between “I’m tired, I should just take a rest day”, “hmm I don’t feel like doing weights let me just book into a class”, “I couldn’t get into the class I wanted to let me practice or suck it up and do weights”, “I’m not in the mood to commute and be surrounded by people”, “I don’t feel like it”, etc. And by the time I’m done with all this back and forth, I’m exhausted just thinking about what my options are that I end up thinking myself out of any one decision.

Aside from my already existing daily structure that was uprooted, there’s also been new and exciting things taking root, which take time to integrate fully. And they require thinking through decisions while I trial and error my way through them.

For example, creating content. A little over a month ago, now almost two months actually, I decided to take content more seriously and I’ve been genuinely enjoying expressing, exploring, and challenging my creativity in the process. Between Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube, my creativity is beaming with joy at the potential and infinite possibilities. And I didn’t realize just how many micro decisions I need to make with every piece of content I was posting. And I was posting on a daily basis. Aside from deciding what to post, I’d need to decide how I wanted it to look; to edit, crop, and frame the clip. What audio best complements the vibe I’m going for. What message do I want to relay and how to say in a way that is true to what I’m trying to say, makes sense to whoever is watching or reading, and is best suited for the algorithm of that specific app.

And it all adds up real fast.

But because I was enjoying it, I didn’t realize how fast it was all adding up.

I didn’t realize how efficiently the old and the new were draining me of my time, will and energy until I had none left to spare.

For the last few weeks I’ve felt unmotivated, undisciplined, and unwilling. I’ve felt a little unlike myself. I’ve felt as though my cup runneth dry. Turns out, I’ve just had a leak in my cup and I’ve been unaware.

Turns out, I’ve just been decision fatigued and it wasn’t until I started to think that something was “wrong” with me that I caught onto that leak. And now I can make provisions. Now I can reshape the parameters of my cup to make sure it neither runneth dry nor leaks when I’m not looking. At least not from this particular hole; not because of this particular blindspot.

Isn’t that something?

Till next we meet,
C