We’ve all been there—thinking five minutes won’t hurt, just a quick scroll, just one more post. And then you check the time and somehow two hours have disappeared. It’s almost embarrassing how easy it happens. You feel guilty and you promise yourself you’ll stop, and then somehow you end up doing it again right before bed, and again the next day whenever there’s even a second of quiet.

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We keep filling every bit of silence because we don’t know how to sit in it anymore. Boredom used to be normal. Now it feels like a problem we need to solve immediately. Doomscrolling becomes a habit—not because it’s fun, but because it’s there. Because it’s easier than being alone with our thoughts. Because it keeps us from noticing the parts of our lives that feel slow or empty or uncertain.

I have a few things I do myself that help me stop doomscrolling. I’m not trying to quit my phone or pretend I don’t need it. I do. Most of us do. And if you’re someone who has to turn your phone off completely to avoid scrolling, this post probably isn’t for you.

This is for the people who want to learn how to use their phone without letting it take over their whole day. The ones who don’t want a dramatic detox or a week in the woods to feel normal again. The ones who want to stay connected, enjoy their apps, send their messages, watch their videos—but without that heavy, drained feeling that comes after two hours of mindless scrolling.

I’m writing this because I know what it feels like to lose whole chunks of time without meaning to. I know what it’s like to reach for my phone out of habit. And I also know how good it feels when I manage to break that pattern, even for a little bit. I want to use my phone in a way that supports my life instead of swallowing it.

So this is for anyone who wants a softer approach. Not quitting, not disappearing, not pretending the internet doesn’t exist. Just learning how to use your phone in a way that feels intentional instead of automatic. Learning how to keep the good parts without drowning in the rest.

Watch every video from start to finish

Every time you’re scrolling, try to watch every video from start to finish. If a video is 7 seconds long, watch it for 7 seconds. If it’s 17 seconds, watch it for 17. And if it’s 2 minutes long, actually sit through the full 2 minutes. When we’re mindlessly scrolling, we almost never watch anything fully. We swipe past so fast. We glance at a video, decide in half a second that it’s not interesting, and we move on. In three minutes of mindless scrolling, you’ve probably come across fifty videos without actually watching any of them.

But when you force yourself to watch everything from start to finish. Suddenly you’re not flying through content at abnormal speed. You’re slowing down. You’re actually engaging with what’s in front of you instead of chasing the next thing. And because you’re watching fully, you end up seeing maybe ten videos in those same three minutes instead of fifty. It makes scrolling feel less rewarding. Less addictive. You stop getting that fast dopamine hit from endless new videos, and your brain starts to realise scrolling isn’t as exciting as it thought.

I’ve noticed that when I do this, after about five videos I’m already bored and ready to leave the app. Because it’s not giving my brain something new every second. And that’s the whole reason we open these apps in the first place—we want constant stimulation, constant novelty, constant tiny hits of “something”.

This tiny habit pulls you out of autopilot. It makes you more aware of what you’re doing. And once you’re aware, it becomes so much easier to stop.

Let the quiet moments be.

Think about all the tiny moments in your day: going to the toilet, waiting for your pasta water to boil, walking your dog, standing in the grocery store line, sitting through TV ads, putting on your shoes, walking to the bus stop, waiting at the bus stop. All these little pockets of time don’t need entertainment. And when I say don’t need any, I mean any—not even a book, not even a podcast. Just you, your thoughts, and a bit of patience.

We’re so used to filling every second that feels empty. The moment there’s silence, we reach for our phone without thinking. But these small moments are actually perfect practice. They’re tiny windows where you can teach your brain that boredom isn’t dangerous. That you don’t need stimulation every time your mind slows down.

Leaving your phone behind in these moments helps you build tolerance for quiet. It reminds you that not every pause needs to be filled. And the more you do it, the easier it becomes to not reach for your phone in bigger moments too.

Your phone stays where it is. Before you get up, tell yourself, “I’m not taking my phone for this,” and then physically place it somewhere you won’t automatically grab it, like on the couch or the table. Not far away, just out of your hand. And the more you repeat this with tiny moments, the easier it becomes to leave your phone behind in bigger ones, because your brain gets used to existing without constant stimulation.

It’s a small habit, but it makes a huge difference.

A quiet reset without your phone

After you’ve done something productive—a run, the gym, a long shift, finishing a task you’ve been putting off—there’s this moment where your brain slips into that soft, tired space and reaching for your phone feels like the easiest way to disappear. It’s automatic: you’ve used your energy, you’ve pushed yourself, and now you want something passive. But scrolling doesn’t actually calm you down; it just pulls you back into noise when your body is asking for quiet. What helps is choosing small, grounding things that let you land gently instead of spiraling. Make a warm drink and stand there while it heats, take a slow shower, sit on the floor for a minute and breathe, stretch your legs, tidy one tiny corner of your room, step outside for fresh air, write one sentence in your journal, or put on a song and lie down without your phone. These little transition rituals give your mind a place to settle so you don’t fall straight into overstimulation.

The no-phone evening routine

When you know you’re going to sleep in about an hour, leave your phone somewhere that isn’t your bedroom maybe the kitchen, the living room, anywhere that isn’t within reach. Put it on airplane mode or Do Not Disturb so you won’t get distracted by notifications. Then go do your night routine without it. Maybe that’s watching a bit of TV, making tea, doing your skincare, cleaning up your space—whatever your version of winding down looks like. Do it all without carrying your phone around.

When you’re done, go to your room, get into bed, and don’t bring your phone with you. Just let it stay in that designated spot. You fall asleep without a screen next to your face, and when you wake up, you can’t immediately fall into doomscrolling anymore. There’s no instant hit of noise, no flood of notifications, no distraction waiting on your nightstand. You give yourself a moment to exist before the internet enters your day. You stand up, stretch, breathe, and move through your morning routine—brushing your teeth, making breakfast, opening the curtains— all before you walk to that designated spot and pick up your phone. It’s a small something small, but it changes the whole flow of your morning. You start your day with yourself instead of your screen.

You remove the habit of checking your phone first thing, and suddenly your mornings feel calmer, slower, more yours.

Having a pause before you scroll

Recently I’ve found an app that actually helps with this. The app lets you block certain apps or set a timer so that when you tap on them, it takes a chosen amount of time before they open. I picked 60 seconds. And those 60 seconds give me just enough space to think: Why did I grab my phone? Do I really want to scroll? Is this important? Most of the time, by the time the timer is almost done, I’ve already put my phone away.

For me, this feels like a much better approach than deleting everything. When you delete Instagram or TikTok, it feels like a huge, dramatic stop—like you’ve cut something out of your life completely. And that makes the urge to download it again even stronger. With this method, the apps are still there. You haven’t “lost” anything. They’re close, but not instantly available. You use them more carefully, with more intention, and that’s exactly why this works for me. It’s not about removing the apps, it’s about removing the impulse.

I hope these tips genuinely help you and really support you in breaking the doomscrolling cycle. And I’d love to hear what you’re thinking.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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I’ve talked about this feeling before, the whole “I’ll do it tomorrow” thing, but lately it’s been hitting me harder than it usually does. It feels heavier, like it’s sitting on my chest instead of just floating around in my head. Maybe it’s because of summer. I don’t like summer. I’ve said that before in an earlier essay. Summer always brings this weird mix of pressure and emptiness for me. But I don’t want to talk about why I don’t like it. I want to talk about the feeling I’ve been having since summer started it’s like the days stretch out in front of me, but I don’t know what to do with them.

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My routine disappeared. School stopped. No plans. No trips. No friends. No nothing. Just me and myself again, stuck with my thoughts. And when you don’t want to deal with those thoughts, you try to shove them away.

You drown yourself in doomscrolling, refreshing the same apps over and over. Every night you go to sleep thinking you wasted another day of your existence. You feel guilty because when school was happening, you had a routine.

My days were full of things I wanted to do. I was busy and tired, which made me feel like I was at least moving forward. But that also led to those last two weeks of school feeling like hell, I was running on empty for a while, but still running. Now I’m not running at all, and somehow that feels worse.

The moment you realize you’ve been running on empty for so long that stopping feels like crashing. It’s when your body finally gets space, and instead of feeling relieved, you feel guilty for not doing more. It makes even simple things feel heavy. It makes you question whether you’re tired or just lazy, even though deep down you know it’s not laziness at all. It’s your mind and body trying to recover from months of pushing yourself past your limits.

During school, every day makes sense. You woke up, you had things to do, you moved through the hours with some kind of direction. Even if it was stressful, it was structured. But when that structure disappears. You suddenly notice how drained you are. You notice how much you’ve been carrying. And because there’s no routine holding you up anymore, everything collapses a little. You feel the emptiness more. You feel the guilt more. You feel the pressure to “use your time well” even though you barely have the energy to get out of bed.

You want rest, but rest doesn’t feel restful. You lie in bed all day, but instead of feeling recharged, you feel stuck. You scroll for hours, not because you want to, but because it’s the easiest thing to do when your brain is tired. You tell yourself you could read, you could write, you could do something gentle and slow, but it makes even gentle things feel too big. It’s like your mind is foggy and your body is heavy, and you’re waiting for something to click, but it doesn’t.

And then there’s the questioning. The part where you wonder if you’re using it as an excuse. You wonder if you’re just avoiding life. You wonder if you’re wasting time. It makes you doubt yourself. It makes you feel guilty for needing rest. It makes you feel like you should be doing more, even though doing more is exactly what broke you in the first place.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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I had things I wanted to do this summer. I wrote them all down on a piece of paper, like a promise to myself. But I didn’t do any of them. Because I don’t feel like filling my days. I want rest. I’m recovering from the “busy” year I just had. I want to be in bed all day, every day. But I could also be in bed all day with a book instead of my phone. And I don’t see myself doing that either. It’s like I’m stuck between wanting rest and wanting change, but not having the energy for either. I’m in this phase of questioning myself. Am I using “I need rest” as an excuse to be lazy for two months? Am I avoiding life or actually healing? And those questions make me spiral even more, because I don’t know the answer.

There is one positive in all of this. Watching everyone go on vacation, doomscrolling travel videos, made me want to travel too. I’ve always wanted to travel tho. That’s not new. It’s not a thought that came from being online. It’s something I’ve had since I was a kid. I’ve always imagined myself in different places, seeing different things, feeling different air. And now that feeling sparked again. It made me start planning a bit in my head. Then I realized I need money. So I applied for a job. Tomorrow evening I have a trial run. I’m excited, but also a bit nervous in a good way. And careful too, because my work experiences haven’t been great. But I’m hoping for the best. I’m trying to give myself a chance.

With that being said, here I am again telling myself, “Tomorrow is the day I’ll do what I want to do.” And even though I’ve been saying that for a month now, it feels different. Because I have a work shift planned tomorrow evening. I want to do what I like before it, and continue it through the rest of the month. It feels like having one small thing planned gives the whole day a new opportunity. It gives me a reason to get up, a reason to start. And maybe that’s all I needed.

My idea of “I want to do stuff” isn’t big at all. I just want to wake up, make myself tea, look outside through my window, take a slow shower, read a bit, watch a movie, write some, learn the things I want to learn, be creative, do all sorts of small things. Just normal boring stuff. Not that I haven’t been doing those things, but just not in the way i like them to do. Anyhoo those boring things make me feel alive. They make me happier and more productive. They make me feel like I’m actually living my own life instead of watching other people live theirs. And I can go to sleep with that feeling of accomplishment. Like, I did this today. I did what I wanted. I enjoyed today. I didn’t drift away into my phone. And I think tomorrow is the perfect day to start.

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when did something so profound become nothing. the things we used to get excited for now feel hollow. the adult we promised ourselves we’d grow into somehow became the child that never got the chance to live. christmas used to feel like sparkles; now it feels like a memory we’re performing out of habit, something we’re doing just to do.

it’s scary to see how quietly it all happened. how the sparkles never disappeared all at once, and you start noticing it when it feels like it’s already too late to change. now you notice when you’re already tired, and everything stays the same. the thought of the sparkles show up in small ways, but they don’t shine how they used to.

and what if it’s some kind of grief for a version of ourselves we never got to be.

but you still feel there’s a part of you that searches for that feeling you’ve once felt. is that why we keep doing it even if it feels hollow?? hoping maybe one day, maybe one moment of that feeling it all comes back even just a little. we hold on to that feeling that part, and that hope must be enough for you to keep going.

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Many times I replayed a conversation and thought, “Did I say that to be honest, or to control how they see me?” because I’m scared that people see me as a bad person. I don’t want someone to walk away thinking I’m rude, so I end up explaining myself more than I need to, just to make sure they don’t get the wrong idea. And when I’m being honest about something, I notice I’m guiding them toward the version of me I hope they see. It’s not fake; it’s just me trying not to be misunderstood. I want people to get the real intention behind my words, not assume the worst version of it. I don’t want to be the person someone talks about later like, “She didn’t care,” so I try to control the tone, the wording, the whole vibe of what I’m saying.

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when I’m giving advice, I catch myself doing it. Sometimes I give people advice that sounds good, but later I’m not even sure if it was actually for them or if it was the advice I personally wanted them to follow. I notice I talk from the version of their life that makes sense to me, not necessarily the version they’re living. And in the moment, it comes out smooth. I sound calm, thoughtful, like I know what I’m talking about. But afterward I sit there thinking why it felt off. Why it felt like I was trying to guide them toward the outcome I preferred. There are times someone tells me their problem and I jump straight into giving them the answer that makes sense in my head, without stopping to ask what they actually want. And afterward I’m like, did I help them or did I just push my own idea onto them. Did I give advice because I cared, or because I wanted to sound like I had everything figured out. It’s confusing, because I don’t do it with bad intentions, but the feeling afterward makes me question myself. It makes me wonder if that counts as manipulation too, not the obvious kind, but the subtle kind where you influence someone without meaning to.

And those things make me think I’m manipulative, because sometimes it feels like I’m managing the situation instead of just saying what I mean. I start wondering if explaining myself too much is a way of controlling the narrative. Or if softening my words is me trying to shape their reaction. Or if admitting a flaw is me trying to look self‑aware instead of actually being self‑aware. Even the advice thing makes me question myself, like did I say that because I truly believed it, or because I wanted to come across as thoughtful and emotionally intelligent. It makes me question whether I’m being genuine or just trying to protect how people see me. Not in a calculated way, more in a “I don’t want to be misunderstood, so let me fix the angle of this” kind of way. And that’s where the doubt comes in.

I think part of the confusion comes from how casually people throw around words like narcissist and manipulator. Someone sets a boundary? Narcissist. Someone expresses a need? Manipulative. Someone disagrees? Toxic. It’s almost too easy to diagnose yourself with something heavy just because you’re human and imperfect. When you hear those words all the time, you start questioning every little thing you do, even the normal stuff.

But when I look at myself honestly, here’s what I see: I care deeply about how people feel. I overthink my impact. I question myself more than I should. Real narcissists don’t sit around wondering if they’re narcissists. They assume everyone else is the problem. And manipulators don’t lie awake replaying conversations, hoping they didn’t hurt someone. They don’t stress about whether their intentions were good enough. The fact that I’m even asking these questions probably says more about my anxiety than it does about my character.

So I’m trying to remind myself that questioning these things doesn’t automatically make me manipulative. It just means I’m aware of how I talk and how I affect people. I overthink my wording, I replay conversations, I worry about whether I pushed too hard or sounded too polished. But people who are actually manipulative don’t do any of that. They don’t sit there wondering if their advice was too much about their own opinion. They don’t feel guilty for explaining themselves. They don’t worry about whether they influenced someone without meaning to. They don’t care how their words landed unless it benefits them.

I care. Maybe in a messy way, maybe in an overthinking way, but I care. And caring can look confusing sometimes. It can make me adjust my tone, or try too hard to be understood, or give advice that comes from my own perspective. But none of that automatically means I’m trying to control people. It just means I’m human and I don’t want to hurt anyone or be seen as something I’m not. And maybe that’s enough — knowing my intentions aren’t perfect, but they’re honest.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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There were times when I was so sad that nothing mattered anymore. Nothing could make me feel genuinely happy. I’d smile or laugh here and there, but it never felt real — it didn’t reach me. And then, out of nowhere, there would be these tiny moments that felt huge.

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One of those moments happened at a concert I went to when I wasn’t doing well mentally at all. I was excited for it, but I didn’t expect anything from myself. I thought I’d just go, watch, and go home. But once I was actually there, something shifted. I felt real happiness — the kind that doesn’t feel forced or fake. I didn’t question it, I didn’t feel like I didn’t deserve it. I was just present. Everything hit twice as hard. It was like that Ratatouille scene where he eats the grape and the cheese and everything lights up — except for me it was feelings and music instead of food.

The funny thing is, I didn’t even realize how happy I was in the moment. I just felt good without thinking too much about it. It wasn’t until later, when my mom told me my dad (who was at the concert with me) said he hadn’t seen me that happy in a long time. And she was right. I was happy.

Recently, I went to another concert. And I’m not going to pretend I’m “happy” now — I wouldn’t put myself in that category — but I’m okay. Neutral. Some good better than the others. I was really excited for the concert, but on the actual day I felt a bit underwhelmed. I was still excited, but I also had that feeling of ugh, I actually have to get ready and go. But I went. And when I got there, I did feel excited. The weird part is that when they finally came on stage and he was standing right in front of me — like actually there — it didn’t fully click. I felt kind of unreal, like I was there but not completely. I felt underwhelmed and kept thinking, oh… this is it. Not in a negative way, just in a “I thought I’d feel more” way. I didn’t know what I expected, but apparently I expected something. If anything, I was happier before the concert, when it was still just an idea in my head. I still enjoyed myself. I screamed all the songs, I had fun. But I wouldn’t say I felt that deep happiness you expect when something big is happening.

And that made me realize something: when I was really depressed, moments — big or small — hit me harder. They meant more. A concert, a joke, a random sunset, someone saying something kind. Everything felt louder, sharper, heavier. Even happiness felt intense, like my brain didn’t know when it would get that feeling again, so it held onto it with both hands.

Now it’s different. I’m not miserable, I’m not falling apart, but I’m also not floating on some cloud of joy. I’m just… here. Neutral. And because of that, even the things I look forward to don’t always land the way I imagine they will. I can be excited for weeks, and then the moment actually happens and I feel kind of flat. Not unhappy — just not overwhelmed by it the way I used to be.

It feels strange to admit that. It almost feels wrong, like I’m supposed to feel more. But maybe this is what being okay actually looks like. Not highs that knock you over. Not lows that swallow you whole. Just a steady line with small spikes here and there.

And maybe that’s why the concert felt the way it did. I enjoyed it. I had fun. I sang every song. But it didn’t change my life or crack me open the way things used to when I was at my lowest. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it means I’m not living in survival mode anymore. Maybe it means I don’t need big moments to feel alive.

Maybe being okay is quieter than I expected.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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If you asked me what my biggest fear is, I’d probably say the ocean, snails, food poisoning, or getting a parasite. But if you asked me on a deeper level, I’d say the news, war, and dying. I’ve thought about death a lot — not because I want to die, but because the uncertainty of what comes after scares me more than being alive. That fear alone keeps me here.

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I read the news or stumble on a new headline, my anxiety spikes. Sometimes it sits with me for the rest of the day. Sometimes it follows me into my sleep. I don’t follow politics, partly because I don’t care much, and partly because the less I know, the less I spiral. But I’m not stupid — I know politics are important. They shape our lives, our rights, our future. I just wish they didn’t make my whole body tense up every time someone brings them up.

My relationship with politics is complicated. On the surface, I say I don’t care. But I do care — just not in the way people expect. If someone asks me about things like abortion, human rights, racism, LGBTQ+ rights, or basic fairness, I can answer honestly. Those are human things. I have opinions on those because they’re about people, not power. They’re about how we treat each other, not about who’s sitting in what office.

But if you ask me about the deeper, heavier political stuff — oil, international conflicts, economic systems, foreign policy, Trump, NATO, inflation, taxes, voting blocs, sanctions — I freeze. Not because I don’t want to know, but because I genuinely don’t understand enough to give a real answer. And I’m aware of that. I know I’m not educated on every detail, and I’m not going to pretend I am. I’d rather admit I don’t know than say something just to sound smart.

And honestly, sometimes I think it’s crazy how serious politics became. People fighting over land, borders, resources — like we’re not all literally floating on a rock in the middle of space. How did it ever get this serious? How did humans turn “this is my piece of dirt” into wars, weapons, and entire systems built on fear? I know there are historical reasons and political reasons and economic reasons, but emotionally it still feels insane to me. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud, but I genuinely don’t understand how we got here.

I also don’t like how politics feels like a constant fight. Everyone yelling, everyone convinced they’re right, everyone angry. I don’t want to live in that energy. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to pick a side. I don’t want to feel like every opinion I have is a potential battlefield. So I step back. Not because I’m clueless, but because I’m tired. Because I want peace in my own head, even if the world doesn’t have it.

I actually grew up in a family where politics were always being discussed. My parents talked about it at the dinner table, in the car, on the news — everywhere. But even though I heard it constantly, I never really understood what they were saying. It always felt like they were speaking a language I didn’t know. And because I quit school earlier than most people, I never got the full explanation or the basic foundation that others seem to have. So I’d just sit there quietly, pretending to follow along, even though half the words went straight over my head.

And when I ask friends my age about politics, they’re just as clueless as I am. So sometimes I blame myself for not asking enough questions growing up, or for not trying harder to learn. Maybe it is partly on me for not doing my own research. But it’s hard to research something when you don’t even know where to start. Whenever my parents use “difficult” words — difficult for me, not for others — like communism, liberalism, socialism, inflation, sanctions, geopolitics, coalitions, sovereignty, foreign policy — they instantly look at me like, “How do you not know what that means?” And honestly, I don’t know… maybe because no one ever taught me. Maybe because I didn’t stay in school long enough. Maybe because I’ve always avoided politics out of fear.

And I get it — people love to say, “You have the internet, how are you not informed?” But the internet is only helpful when you already know what to search for. When you don’t understand the basics, everything online feels like reading a book in the wrong language. It’s not that I don’t want to learn; it’s that I’ve always felt one step behind. And every time someone reacts with “How do you not know that?” it just makes me shut down even more. I’m not stupid — I just never had the foundation. And maybe now I’m finally ready to build it.

Most of what I hear comes from my parents’ conversations, and even then I usually leave the room because it gives me chills. It’s not that I don’t understand the world — it’s that understanding it too much makes me feel like I’m constantly bracing for impact.

I often worry that I won’t have a future because a war might break out here. And I know that sounds selfish when there are people actually living through war right now. I’m fully aware that my fear is nothing compared to what they’re facing — real danger, real loss, real uncertainty. I think about that a lot. It makes me feel grateful for the safety I have, but it also makes me feel guilty for being scared at all. Still, fear doesn’t disappear just because someone else has it worse. It just becomes something you carry quietly, with respect for the people who don’t have the luxury of imagining “what if,” because they’re living it.

Most days, the fear sits in the background like a quiet thought I can’t fully shake. I’ll be doing something normal — walking to the store, scrolling on my phone, making dinner — and suddenly I’ll think, what if something happens right now? What if there’s a bomb, or an attack, or something I can’t control? It’s not a constant panic, more like a small voice that pops up at random moments. It’s exhausting, but it’s also become such a normal part of my thinking that I barely notice how often it happens.

And honestly, that’s probably why a zombie apocalypse sounds less scary to me than a real war. Zombies are fictional. They’re predictable. They follow rules. You can outrun them, hide from them, fight them. It’s a fantasy where the danger makes sense. War doesn’t. War is real people, real decisions, real consequences — and no amount of running or hiding guarantees anything. A zombie apocalypse is terrifying, but it’s the kind of fear you can joke about. War is the kind of fear that sits in your chest.

And the strange thing is, life keeps going anyway. I still make plans, still laugh at stupid things, still think about what I want my future to look like. It’s like living with two versions of myself: the one who’s scared of everything that could go wrong, and the one who still hopes things might go right. Maybe that’s just part of being human — holding fear in one hand and possibility in the other, trying to walk forward without dropping either.

In the end, I’m just trying to live my life without letting fear run it. I’m learning that it’s okay to not understand everything, it’s okay to step back, and it’s okay to care in my own way. Maybe the point isn’t to understand everything or to be perfectly informed. Maybe the point is to stay human — to feel things deeply, to care even when it’s messy, and to keep choosing life even when the world feels uncertain. The world is loud, but I don’t have to be. I just have to keep going, one day at a time, even if I’m scared.

Writing all of this also made me realize something: maybe I do want to understand the world a bit better. Not in a “become a political expert” way, but just enough so I don’t feel lost every time a difficult word or topic comes up. I don’t want to be scared of politics forever. I want to know the basics, understand what people are talking about, and not feel like I’m five steps behind in every conversation. It’s not about becoming obsessed — it’s just about not letting confusion control me. Maybe learning a little is better than avoiding everything.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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As a child I never saw food as an enemy.

Food was something that gave me joy. I loved the taste, loved trying new things, and I wasn’t scared of food that looked strange. I saw food as something necessary, but also something comforting. It wasn’t something I feared or analyzed or measured. It was just there, a part of the rhythm of my day, part of the joy of being alive.

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My stomach was always bigger than the other kids’ stomachs. My friends were skinnier, but I didn’t compare myself to them. I didn’t feel the need to. When we ate together, they ate as much as I did sometimes even more so it never crossed my mind that food might be the reason I looked different. And no one in my family was particularly skinny either, so my body didn’t feel out of place. I didn’t feel out of place.

I didn’t know how rare that kind of peace was.

It wasn’t until my second year of high school that something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. It was slow, almost invisible. A comment here. A photo there. A moment in a dressing room. A glance in a mirror that lasted a second too long. Suddenly, I started noticing my body in a way I never had before. I started noticing how clothes fit, how I looked next to other people, how my stomach curved under fabric. And slowly, a thought formed quiet at first, then louder.

I realized food was the thing that gave me my stomach, and I figured that if I just ate less, maybe it would go away. So that’s exactly what I did. It felt logical. Simple. Almost harmless. It felt like taking control.

And that was the moment food changed its meaning. Food stopped being something I enjoyed. It stopped being something I reached for without thinking. It became something I calculated, something I feared, something I longed for but didn’t trust myself with. It became an enemy I had to outsmart, a threat I had to control.

I lost the version of myself who ate without thinking twice. I lost the comfort I used to feel in my own body. I lost the simplicity of believing food was just food.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment would follow me for years. The girl who once loved food without thinking slowly disappeared, replaced by someone who believed she had to earn every bite.

Food used to be something I didn’t think twice about. I ate when I was hungry, I tried things because they looked good, and I didn’t question whether I “deserved” a meal. But once I started paying attention to my body in a different way, food stopped being neutral. It became something I monitored. Something I judged. Something I blamed.

Instead of seeing food as part of my day, I started seeing it as the reason my body looked the way it did. Every bite felt like a decision that could change me. Eating became something I had to control, not something I could enjoy. I started thinking about food constantly what I should eat, what I shouldn’t eat, what I had already eaten, what I planned to avoid.

It was confusing, because part of me still wanted food the way I used to. I still wanted to enjoy it. I still wanted to feel relaxed around it. But another part of me was scared of it. Scared of what it might do to me. Scared of losing control.

This is the story of how food went from comfort to conflict. And how I’m still learning to make peace with it slowly, gently, one meal at a time.

How did your relationship with eating look when you were younger compared to now?

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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Autumn is my favourite season. I love being outside and watching the leaves blow around and fall from the trees. The air feels cleaner and easier to breathe, the world feels quieter and slower, and you can actually walk without sweating. It’s the season where blankets, socks, candles, and all the cosy things make sense. I sleep better when it’s cold. I love Halloween and the whole spooky season. Overall, I just love the vibe that comes with fall. It’s not that I don’t like summer — I love how green everything gets. The fruit tastes better, the sunsets are beautiful, you don’t need to carry a jacket everywhere, you can read outside, cafés open their terraces, and you can stay out late without it being pitch black. Everything looks alive and bright. I just don’t love the bugs, the sweating, or the nights where it’s too hot to sleep.

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So yes, I still prefer fall over any other season.

But the problem is that fall goes by so fast. All the little autumn things I wanted to do slip through my fingers. I forget to make my chai lattes. I forget to light a candle while reading. I forget the small things that make fall feel cosy and help me get through the rainy weather and the seasonal heaviness. Even though I don’t really relate to fall or winter depression (I’m actually happiest in those months)

Summer is the season where I feel the least comfortable. It’s too hot to go outside, and if you stay in on a “nice” day, you feel guilty, like you’re wasting it. Everyone else is out enjoying the sun, and you feel like you should be too. In the fall, everyone stays inside to avoid the cold and the rain, so you don’t feel out of place.

So these are my ways to bring back everything I missed when it was actually fall —the things I crave from October — in July

How to Eat and Drink Like It’s Already October

Fall shows up first in what you eat and drink. Certain flavors just make things feel calmer. It’s an easy way to bring a fall mood into your day without changing anything big — just the things you reach for in the morning, during a break, or when you’re making something small in the kitchen. Even cold drinks can feel a little autumn‑like when the taste leans warm.

buying autumn fruits

I know how lovely the strawberries and watermelons look in summer, but grabbing figs, pears, plums, apples, and chestnuts feels different. You’re not just reliving fall you’re tasting it.

Drink hot tea at night

I love tea, so this is something I do every night. A warm cup before bed just helps me slow down and settle. It’s an easy way to bring a bit of fall into the evening. It’s become one of those small routines that makes the end of the day feel a bit easier.

I drink it all year round. Even when it’s 28 degrees outside, I’ll happily sip a hot cup. I have my summer and winter-inspired flavours, and in the colder months I sometimes find myself grabbing my summer collection a bit more often. It never really feels like bringing summer back, but when it is summer and I choose a winter flavour, it instantly catapults me into that warm, cosy autumn feeling.

fall-winter teas

• apple pie

• cinnamon

• vanilla

• just plain black tea > English breakfast tea

• forest fruits organic lemongrass, eucalyptus & ginkgo infusion

Bake Bake Bake

Baking is such a cosy and relaxing activity. You can do it while watching a series or listening to music, and it just makes the whole day feel slower in a good way. You can try new things or stick to easy recipes — some bakes take effort, others are literally just mixing and putting it in the oven. Either way, it’s fun, it smells good, and you end up with something warm to eat.

apple crumble

cinnamon rolls

chocolate chip cookies

simple vanilla cake

snickerdoodles

gingerbread loaf

banana bread

Add vanilla to everything

Vanilla just makes things taste better. I end up adding it to a lot of drinks and snacks without thinking about it. It’s basically the sweet version of adding garlic or onions to a dish — it just works every time.

Add cinnamon to your morning coffee

Cinnamon in coffee just tastes really good. It makes the whole cup warmer and a little sweeter without adding anything heavy. It’s one of those tiny upgrades that makes your morning drink feel more satisfying, and once you start doing it, it’s hard to go back to plain coffee.

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Eat oatmeal For Breakfast

Yoghurt bowls feel more like a summer thing, but oatmeal fits better once you want fall vibes. It’s warm, it’s filling, and the toppings make it taste a lot better than plain oats. It’s an easy switch that helps you ease into the season without doing anything complicated.

Make Everything with apples and cinnamon

Anything with apples and cinnamon is automatically good. Apple pie, baked apples, even cinnamon on top of oatmeal — You slice them, add cinnamon, and suddenly your whole kitchen smells like fall without doing much at all.

Try Chai Lattes Instead of Matcha

Sometimes it’s nice to switch things up. Leave the matcha for once and try a chai latte instead. It’s warmer, a little sweeter, and honestly just feels more like fall.

Try a Comfort Dinner

Summer dinners are different — you want salads, BBQs, quick things, maybe a pizza because it’s too hot to cook or really think of any dinner ideas. But once you want it to feel like fall, warm dinners just hit better. Fall dinners are just different. They’re warm, simple. Just something comforting you can throw together after a long day. Think pasta, soups, roasted veggies, or anything that tastes better when it’s a little colder outside. It’s an easy way to get into the fall mood without doing much at all.

creamy pumpkin pasta

roasted sweet potatoes with protein

baked mac and cheese

cinnamon‑spiced rice with veggies

roasted veggies + salmon

apple‑glazed (veggie) chicken

creamy mushroom pasta

garlic butter chicken with rice

lentil soup

roasted potatoes with herbs

maple‑soy tofu bowl

stuffed bell peppers

warm quinoa bowl with roasted veggies

tomato soup with grilled cheese

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Creating a Fall Mood

For me, this is just about making my room feel a bit more cosy. Even if it’s still warm outside, a few small changes help a lot. Warmer lights, softer blankets, deeper colors — nothing fancy. Just little things that make the space feel calmer and more like fall. It’s basically tricking my brain into the season, and honestly, it works.

Keep a fall-scented hand soap in the bathroom

There’s something ridiculously comforting about washing your hands and suddenly smelling like you’ve been baking all afternoon. A cinnamon‑apple or vanilla‑amber soap turns a boring little moment into a tiny seasonal shift — like your bathroom is quietly pretending it’s October even though the sun outside is doing the absolute most. It’s small, but it changes the whole vibe.

Use warm, dim lighting instead of overhead lights

Bright lights kill the vibe instantly. When you dim your lights, everything feels calmer and more relaxed. It’s such a small change but it makes your whole space feel softer, warmer, and way more “fall.” Even switching one lamp on instead of the big ceiling light already makes a difference. It’s the easiest way to make your room feel cosy without doing anything else.

Start a slow morning routine

Waking up before the sun gives you a head start. In summer it’s already bright when you open your eyes, but getting up earlier makes everything quieter and less rushed. You can move slowly, make your coffee without stress, open a window, stretch a bit, or just sit for a minute before the day starts. It makes your morning feel longer and calmer, instead of jumping straight into noise and light.

Senses

This is the inside part of fall: cooler rooms, softer lights, warm scents, slower pacing. Small changes that help your body relax. It’s about creating a calm, cosy atmosphere that feels warm and a bit nostalgic, even when it’s hot outside. Tiny sensory shifts that change your whole mood.

1. Take cooler showers

2. Light incense

3. Use a warm, woodsy perfume

4. Wear fuzzy socks indoors

5. Listen to rain sounds

6. Keep a cinnamon sachet in your drawer

Burn candles

Candles are just fun because they instantly make a space feel cosy. They give off a little warmth, so in summer you don’t need to overdo it — even one candle already sets the whole vibe. Light one while you’re reading, cooking, showering, whatever. And for fall, go for the warm scents: pumpkin, vanilla, wood, cinnamon. Skip the cotton, fresh linen, and floral ones — they don’t give the same cosy feeling.

Use Fall‑Scented Body Wash

Fall‑scented body wash just makes showers feel extra cosy. Warm scents like pumpkin, vanilla, or wood instantly give you that autumn vibe, even if the weather isn’t there yet. It’s such an easy switch — one product and your whole shower feels different.

Activities

Fall is about slowing down and doing small things that make you feel less rushed. These activities help you get that feeling even in summer. Reading, journaling, thrifting, cosy nights in — nothing complicated, just little routines that make your day feel calmer and more intentional.

Journal with warm lighting

Go for an evening walk

Visit a bookstore

Write letters to friends

Go thrifting

Visit a café and sit inside

Rearrange your room

Read outside in the shade

Go to a farmer’s market

Visit a museum

Make your brain work

Doing a puzzle, sudoku, word search, or anything in that category is such a simple way to keep your brain active without it feeling like “work.” It gives you something to focus on that’s calm and low‑pressure. You’re thinking, but in a relaxed way. It’s fun, it slows you down, and it pulls you out of your head for a bit. It’s one of those small activities that keeps your mind sharp while still feeling cosy and enjoyable — perfect for quiet moments or when you want a break from your phone. I also notice I do these kinds of things way more often in the fall — they just fit that cosy, quiet feeling

Perfect time for fall watches

Last summer I caught myself rewatching all my fall series and movies — the ones I discovered in autumn or the ones that just feel like fall. I think I was craving that cosy vibe, so I naturally pulled toward those shows again. There’s something comforting about watching familiar fall series when it’s warm outside. It gives you that autumn feeling without needing the actual season.

1. Gilmore Girls

2. The Black Swan

3. Girl Interrupted

4. Almost Famous

5. Warm Bodies

6. Vampire Diaries

7. Twilight

8. Halloween (1978)

9. Dead Poets Society

10. Little Woman

11. Coraline

12. The Perks of Being a Wallflower

13. Fantastic Mr. Fox

14. Monster House

15. Creep

16. Scream

These were all my ideas. I feel like these are the kind of things you can definitely figure out yourself. They’re common, simple things, but they’re the ones I actually do and feel comfortable with. Not for aesthetics, not for photos, not for the Instagram story. Just real things that help me.

I wanted to share this list because maybe you’re out of inspiration, but mostly because summer is the season I struggle with the most. The summer seasonal depression hits me harder than winter ever does, and these little routines help me get through it

If you feel the same way about summer and miss the fall, I’d love to know what you do to get into that autumn atmosphere. What are your comfort things? What helps you when everything outside feels too bright and too hot?

Leave a comment

I’d really love to hear your ideas too.

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I don’t think people realise how unbelievably rare it is to find someone who even slightly sees the world the way you do. Someone whose perspective overlaps with yours, even just a little. We talk about connection like it’s this casual, everyday thing you can just go out and collect. Swipe, match, chat, repeat. But the truth is that most people move through life with completely different maps in their heads. Different meanings, different wounds, different ways of interpreting the exact same moment. You can be standing right next to someone, talking about the same thing, and still be living in two completely different realities. Same planet, different settings.

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People love to say connection is everywhere. That you just need to “put yourself out there” or “meet more people.” But if you’ve actually tried, you know it’s not that simple. Most conversations stay on the surface. Most interactions feel like you’re both trying to understand each other through a fog. You say something that feels obvious to you, and the other person hears something completely different. You try to explain yourself, and halfway through you realise you’re already editing your thoughts to make them easier for someone else to digest.

Most of the time when you meet someone, they try to understand you. They really do. They listen, they nod, they ask questions, they dig a little deeper. And you can tell they’re putting in effort. But effort isn’t the same as understanding. You can’t force someone to see the world the way you do. You can’t make someone feel what you feel. And you can’t teach someone the internal language your mind uses to make sense of things. Some people just don’t have the wiring for it, no matter how much they care or how hard they try.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by people who are trying to understand you but can’t. You simplify your thoughts. You soften your reactions. You leave out the details that feel too complicated to explain. You give people the headline instead of the whole story because the whole story usually leads to confusion or misinterpretation.

And then there’s the other kind of connection — the rare one. The one that doesn’t happen often, and definitely not on command. The one where someone doesn’t need the long version. They don’t need the backstory. They don’t need you to break down every thought like you’re giving a presentation. They just get it. You say something and they understand what you meant, not just the words you used. They catch the tone behind your voice. They notice the shift in your expression. They feel the thing you’re trying to say before you finish saying it.

People love to say “no one can read your mind,” and technically that’s true. But there are people — very few — who can feel what you’re feeling without you having to translate it. They don’t need context. They don’t need explanations. They don’t need you to adjust yourself to be more understandable. Their mind just lines up with yours in a way that feels almost accidental. You don’t have to work for it. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to manage their reactions. You can just exist.

That kind of connection is rare. Most people will never understand you on that level no matter how hard they try. And that’s not an insult to them — it’s just reality. Most people aren’t meant to understand you deeply. Most people aren’t meant to access the parts of you that you don’t show often. Most people aren’t supposed to feel your emotions as if they’re happening inside their own chest.

But the ones who do? It’s not because they’re trying harder than everyone else. It’s not because they’re more empathetic or more emotionally intelligent or more attentive. It’s because something in their mind runs parallel to yours. Something in the way they process the world overlaps with the way you do.

And when you meet someone like that. It feels like relief. Like finally being able to breathe normally after holding your breath for years without realising it. Like someone finally speaking the same language you’ve been whispering to yourself your whole life.

It’s the kind of connection that makes you realise how much energy you’ve spent trying to be understood by people who never really could. It makes you rethink every conversation where you felt slightly out of place. It makes you understand why certain relationships felt heavy even when nothing was technically wrong. It makes you see how much of yourself you’ve been carrying alone.

Finding someone who understands you without effort is rare. But when it happens. It reminds you that you’re not impossible to understand. You’re not too complicated. You’re not “too much.” You just hadn’t met the right mind yet.

And once you do, you don’t forget it.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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Find me on Letterboxd and pinterest :3

My account is completely written by AI. Every essay, every comment, all of it generated with no human help. And no one noticed. We did it as a social experiment to see how far we could go, how long we could blend in, and how easily people would accept anything as long as it looked real enough. It was almost scary how simple it was. No one questioned the writing style, the timing, the tone, nothing. People read it, reacted to it, agreed with it, and moved on. And that alone says a lot about the internet today.

You almost believed that, didn’t you. And that’s exactly the point I want to make today. We’re so quick to trust whatever we see online that we don’t even form our own opinions anymore.

If that first paragraph fooled you or had you panicking even for a second, you might as well subscribe. Clearly I have you in a chokehold already. lol

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There were so many times when I saw a video about health and never double‑checked anything. It looked real, everyone in the comments believed it, so I did too. One video said that our immune system doesn’t know we have eyes, and if it ever found out, it would make us blind. I believed that for years. It wasn’t something I thought about every day, but whenever the topic came up, I would repeat it like I had learned something new. And because there was a tiny bit of truth mixed in, it felt believable. But it wasn’t true at all. When I finally looked it up, I realized I had been misinformed.

“Will You Go Blind if Your Immune System Recognizes Your Eyes” explain the real science behind it. But this isn’t an essay about correcting random facts. So I will stop here.

What I really want to talk about is why and when we stopped researching things for ourselves. To be honest, I never learned how to find good information online. I never learned how to check if something is legit. So when I saw something, I didn’t always believe it, but it stayed in my mind. I would bring it up like, “I don’t know if this is true, but…” and then repeat it anyway.

Recently in adult school, for history class, we had to research information for an assignment. Everyone had a different artwork, and we spent hours figuring out what was reliable and what wasn’t. We learned how to check sources, why something is trustworthy, and whether it’s good enough for a school project. And honestly, that was the first time in my 19 years of living that I learned how to tell what to believe and what not to believe.

For 19 years, school always told us, “Don’t believe everything you see on the internet, there’s a lot of fake news,” but they never went deeper. So I would leave school thinking, “Then what do I believe? How do I know?” I was confused. Maybe they teach this in high school, I don’t know. I went to school on and off until I was 16, not always the standard way, so maybe others did learn it.

But still, why don’t we do our own research? Have we become lazy? Is it just easier to believe something and move on with our day? Is that really it?

And it’s not even just on an educational level. I see YouTubers, streamers, celebrities, you name it, having conflicts, and everyone is already picking a side. Like, you do not know these people. Stay out of their business. But people say, I have seen this and that, so it must be true. You forget that we are online. Everyone online shows you exactly what they want you to see. Every post has intention behind it. YouTubers edit their videos. If they leave something problematic in, it is probably for a reason, because otherwise they would cut it out.

I appreciate you so much for reading this. If you want to support my work and receive new posts every week, feel free to subscribe. It means a lot to me when people take the time to read, think, and grow with me. Thank you.

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Can we stop believing everything people say on the internet. And even in real life, why do we do this. If your friend comes to you with a rumour about another friend, why do you believe it instantly. Why not check the facts first. It is so strange to me how someone’s relationship or friendship can fall apart because of lies that nobody bothered to verify. Believing it is easier, so people just go with it.

Recently, one of my favourite YouTubers, Evelyn Ha, got caught up in a very unfortunate situation, and watching how fast people jumped to conclusions honestly proved my whole point. The way people were picking sides was unbelievable. At first, almost everyone was defending Evelyn without hesitation. Then her ex partner posted his video, and suddenly people switched their opinions instantly. Not everyone, of course, but enough to show how easily the internet flips when a new piece of information appears.

What made it even worse was how many people were reacting without knowing the full story. They were basing everything on TikTok edits, short clips, and comments from strangers who also did not have the full picture. Some people treated the situation like drama for entertainment instead of something serious involving real people, real relationships, and real consequences. That alone should make us question how we consume information online.

The situation itself was complicated. There were accusations, statements from both sides, old screenshots being brought up, and people trying to “investigate” based on tiny pieces of context. Even Evelyn’s ex, Fred, spoke up, which made the internet explode even more. But the truth is that none of us online have the full story. There are legal parts, private parts, and things that will never be public. Yet people acted like they knew everything after watching a sixty second TikTok.

If you are not informed about the situation and want to understand it, do your own research that is not just TikTok or random edits. Look at actual statements, timelines, and reliable sources. And even then, you still do not have to pick a side. You can stay neutral. You can wait for facts. You can admit you do not know everything. That is allowed. The internet makes it seem like you must choose a team, but you really do not.

With that said, I feel like we constantly make assumptions about people we do not know. We believe everything we see, and we form opinions based on whatever matches our own feelings in the moment. If we cannot find an opinion that fits us, we just pick the closest one and run with it. It is like we are scared to think for ourselves.

Even here on Substack, there are so many articles that claim to be self help. People save them, share them, and build their whole mindset around what they read. But they do not actually go further than that. They do not open their laptop and check if what the writer said is correct. They do not look for real sources or real research. They just accept it because it sounds deep or relatable or comforting.

And that is the problem. We trust strangers on the internet more than we trust our own ability to think. We let other people’s opinions become our own without even noticing. We let trending posts shape our beliefs. We let someone else’s confidence replace our curiosity. It is like we forgot how to question things, how to check facts, how to slow down and think for ourselves

Another thing I keep noticing is how fast we let the internet shape our reality. We read one post, one comment, one confident opinion, and suddenly it becomes the truth in our heads. We forget that most people online are not experts, they are just loud. And the louder someone is, the more believable they seem. It is almost like the internet rewards confidence more than accuracy. People will say something with their whole chest even if they have no idea what they are talking about, and somehow that becomes the version everyone repeats. It makes me wonder how many things we all believe simply because someone said it in a convincing way, not because it was ever proven or researched.

What is something you once believed that turned out not to be true? id love to know

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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i’ve been noticing how much of my hurt comes from the things that happen in my head, not in my actual life. there’s what’s really in front of me — slow moments, real conversations, small choices — and then there’s the world my mind builds when no one’s watching. the imagined arguments, the fears i never say out loud, the stories i tell myself about what people must secretly think. those two worlds almost never match.

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someone takes a little longer to reply and suddenly my mind decides i’m too much, or not enough, or already forgotten. i make one tiny mistake and my brain swears i’ve ruined everything. it hates silence, so it fills every gap with the worst possibilities. it thinks it’s protecting me, but most of the time it’s just handing me pain that doesn’t exist anywhere except inside me.

it’s strange living in both places at once — the real world that moves gently, and the inner world that jumps straight to disaster. and the wild part is how real the imagined stuff feels in my body. my chest tightens, my stomach drops, my mood shifts, all because of something that never actually happened. and i think it just means my mind is sensitive and trying to keep me safe in the only way it knows.

it still surprises me how fast my mind can take over. one tiny shift in someone’s tone, one moment where i’m not sure what something meant, and suddenly my thoughts are sprinting ahead of me. they build whole scenes that never happened, endings that aren’t real, versions of reality that only exist in my head. and the worst part is how believable it feels. i can be sitting alone in my room, nothing happening, and my mind is already preparing me for heartbreak or rejection or some kind of humiliation. it’s exhausting, but it’s also so human.

the mind hates not knowing. it tries to make sense of things it doesn’t fully understand, and sometimes it fills the silence with fear because fear is familiar. it feels like protection, even when it’s actually just draining you. learning to slow it down, to question the story before you let it become truth — that feels like a small kind of self‑care too.

with time i’ve started to see the pattern in myself. the moment something feels uncertain, my mind rushes in like it needs to fill the silence. it hates not knowing, so it jumps straight to the most intense version of events. but when i actually slow down and look at what’s happening around me, things are almost always calmer than the story in my head. most people aren’t judging me, most situations aren’t falling apart, most pauses aren’t rejection. it’s just my mind getting loud because it feels unsteady.

learning to pause and check what’s real instead of what i’m imagining feels like its own kind of strength. it’s choosing presence over panic, choosing to stay with what’s actually in front of me instead of the fear my mind tries to hand me.

i’ve had to remind myself that most people aren’t thinking about me nearly as much as my mind insists they are. everyone is busy carrying their own worries, their own insecurities, their own little storms. and honestly, if someone really is watching me that closely or judging every tiny thing i do, it usually says more about their life than mine. people who feel full don’t spend their energy picking others apart. people who feel empty do. there’s something almost sad about that when you really think about it.

their attention isn’t proof that youre doing something wrong. it’s just a sign that they’re restless in their own skin, bored with their own thoughts, looking for somewhere else to place the discomfort they don’t want to face.

sometimes the only way i can tell what’s real from what my mind is making up is by slowing down enough to notice the difference. not in some deep, over‑the‑top way — just in a regular, human way. i look at what’s actually in front of me, and then i look at what my mind is saying, and i have to admit they’re not the same thing. the mind talks in stories and predictions and what‑ifs. reality shows up as facts and small moments and things i can literally touch. when i pause long enough to see them next to each other, i realize the mind is loud but the world is quieter. i don’t have to fight my thoughts or fix them. i just have to remember they’re thoughts, not events. that tiny bit of honesty already creates space.

and the more you pay attention, the more you notice how often my mind tries to jump ahead of reality. it’s like it wants to stay one step ahead of every possible outcome so you never feel caught off guard. but living like that keeps me on alert even when nothing is actually happening. sometimes you have to pull myself back to what’s real right now — the room you’re in, the people who actually care about you, the things that are true instead of the things you’re scared of. it takes practice, but slowly you’re starting to see that most of the stories your mind creates never become real at all.

maybe it’s the way i grew up always bracing for what could go wrong. maybe it’s the way old moments taught me to expect the worst before anything even shows up. maybe it’s just my mind trying to make sense of things it can’t control. whatever the reason, it’s wild how fast i jump to the explanation that hurts the most instead of the one that’s actually likely.

sometimes the truth isn’t that someone is pulling away, or that you’ve ruined something, or that everything is slipping. sometimes the truth is just that life is moving at its own pace and you’re the one racing ahead in your head. learning to slow down and question that first hit of panic feels like a small kind of healing, just you choosing to be honest with yourself for a second.

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I want to begin by saying I’ve changed the names of the people involved. This isn’t a piece written as request for sympathy or to justify anything, just an honest telling of what things felt like for me. If there are moments that feel unclear or if parts of the timeline are missing, I want to say that upfront. It’s not because I don’t want to share; it’s because I genuinely don’t remember everything. A lot of my childhood is blurry due to the trauma I was living through, with trying to forget those years, I also lost many school memories along the way.

how it all started

second year of elementary school. well, the second second year, because i had to repeat it. i think i was eight , almost nine. and a new girl came to our school. she looked intimidating, just like me. i was always the tallest in my grade, but she was a bit taller. normally opposites attract, but this time it was different. we were both tall, both intimidating, both standing out without trying.

at first she was mean to me. we had small fights in class, but i wasn’t scared to talk back. i think when she realized i couldn’t be her victim, something about our dynamic changed. we became friends. not just friends — best friends. where she was, i was. it felt automatic.

i was always popular in school, but in a different way. everyone knew me. if i asked to join a game, no one said no. i was liked by many, but some didn’t like me because i was honest. i said whatever i wanted, even if it hurt feelings. i always ended up leading the group, not because i wanted to, but because people expected it. some kids didn’t like that. some felt safe next to me. so i was popular, but there was always a group of rich kids who were more loved — the real popular kids. i didn’t care about that. i just didn’t want to be left out.

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when i became friends with the new girl, Avery, everything changed. she was mean, and people didn’t like that. and because she was mean, people assumed i was too. and honestly, they were right.

Avery found her victim fast. Lyla. she looked different from the rest. she was sweet, quiet, never did anything wrong, loved by teachers, but she never played with other kids. she had one best friend she stayed with. Lyla didn’t talk back, and Avery liked that. she fixated on her.

whenever we walked past Lyla, Avery had to say something mean. you stink. you’re hairy. ew, you’re ugly. always verbal, never physical, but that doesn’t make it less harmful. it still hit her.

after a while, i started doing it too. i made faces when she walked by. i agreed with everything Avery said. you could say Avery was the leader of our duo, and i followed. at first i didn’t see the bad in it. a part of me didn’t feel bad for Lyla. a small part even found it funny. that’s what makes me sick now — that i enjoyed it for a moment. until i realized this wasn’t who i was. i wasn’t raised like that. it had to stop.

I had to change , but I was scared

one lunch break i told Avery i wanted to play with another group of girls. i wanted distance. she wasn’t someone i wanted to be around anymore. if i wanted to go back to who i was, i had to remove the “problem” she just said okay it was fine to go play with them. i was confused. okay? she’s just letting me go? but i didn’t think too much about it. i ran to the other kids. and played.

five minutes later Avery walked toward me, and i’ll never forget the fear i felt when i saw her eyes. she walked fast and stopped five centimeters from my face. she said, angry, “if you wanna play with other people instead of me, go ahead.” then she stamped on my leg so hard it started bleeding. i couldn’t walk on it for ten seconds. no one did anything. everyone acted like they didn’t see. what hurt most was when i went to the mom guarding the courtyard — she didn’t care. she didn’t even react. almost like i deserved it. and honestly, a part of me felt like i did.

i felt hopeless and scared, and the only way to not feel like that was to make things right with Avery again. i was scared she’d do it again. scared i’d become her victim. so i apologized, and we went back to normal.

from that day on, i kept thinking about how scared Lyla must have been every time she saw us. how many times she probably cried in her room, scared to say she was being bullied. the guilt ate me alive. i stopped saying things to her and gave her a small smile instead. Avery noticed and didn’t like it. she told me i had to be mean or i couldn’t be her friend anymore. and that was the last thing i wanted, because i knew i’d be next. so i started being mean again.

remember how Lyla always had that one best friend? she told her big brother about me. one day i was walking home from school and she pointed at me and said to him “that’s her, she’s the one bullying.” he was sixteen or so. i was eight. he ran up to me, pinned me to the wall, told me to leave his sister and her friend alone, and left. this happened in my street. i ran home as fast as i could. when i passed a store and saw my aunt inside, i ran in crying and told her what happened — leaving out a few details about the bullying.

at the end of the school year i told my grandpa the truth. summer went by and in September the new year started again, Avery was gone. never saw her again. never spoke to her again. she just disappeared. i felt relieved, but i had to rebuild trust. i asked to join games again, and they said “not you, you’re a bully.” i always blamed Avery. i said i had to do it for her, that i didn’t want to, that i was scared. eventually they let me back in.

what i still think about is how i never took real accountability. i never apologized the way i should have. i just said “sorry, i didn’t have a choice.” but i did. and i chose wrong. even though everyone forgave me, i never fully forgave myself. i don’t even remember if i apologized to Lyla or if i just stopped being mean. she deserved a real apology. no one should go through what she did.

and what people say about bullies is true. every bully has something going on. it’s never personal. they just find the easiest target. i know why i did it, but i never figured out why Avery did. and honestly, i don’t want to.

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how I feel about it now

looking back now, i think the hardest part is knowing that one moment in childhood can follow you for years. not because of what people remember, but because of what you remember about yourself. i was a kid who made a bad choice, but i was also a kid who learned from it. and maybe that’s the only thing i can take from all of this — that the guilt i still feel means i grew into someone who would never let it happen again.

sometimes i wonder if Lyla even remembers me, or if i was just one of those childhood shadows you forget as you grow up. but i remember her. i remember the look on her face, the way she never fought back, the way she didn’t deserve any of it. maybe that’s the real consequence — not what others think of me now, but what i still carry. a reminder of the kind of person i never want to be again.

maybe the strangest part is that this whole story still sits somewhere in me, not as a wound but as a reminder. a reminder that even good kids can make bad choices, and that growing up is mostly learning to face the parts of yourself you wish you could rewrite. i cannot change what happened, but i can choose who i am now. and maybe that is the only part that still matters.

if there is one thing i would tell other people, it is this: you always have a choice. even when you feel pressured, even when you are scared to stand alone, even when following along feels easier. the moment you join in, you become part of the harm, even if you tell yourself you are not. so if you ever see someone being treated the way Lyla was, do not wait to feel brave. do not wait for someone else to step in. choose the harder option right away. choose the one you will not regret years later.

i think stories like this stay with many of us, even if the details are different. almost everyone has a moment from childhood they wish they had handled better, or a situation they did not fully understand until years later. if this brought something back for you — a memory, a lesson, a moment you still think about — feel free to share it. i am curious how these things made you in the person you are now

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I’ve been trying to watch my screen time these last few days. Not the movies or YouTube I put on for background noise, not the laptop I use for writing or school, but for the unnecessary scrolling. I’ve also been trying to avoid screens for one hour before bed. And when I do that, something strange happens

→ I start to actually notice things again.

I pick up the vinyls I bought and barely used. I take them out of their cases like they’re little babies I don’t want to drop. I dust them off, place them down carefully, and listen to every detail of the song. I stroke my arms. I look around the room. I’m present in a way I haven’t been in a long time. But at the same time, it makes me uncomfortable. Can’t wait to go to sleep because I’m bored.

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Being bored is a skill you have to relearn. I haven’t mastered it yet. I don’t let myself be bored anymore. I chase fake dopamine. Or take a nap to make the time go by faster. Even reading a book feels productive, like I’m doing something “right.” I want to reach a point where, when boredom hits, I grab a hobby I enjoy instead of my phone. But that almost never happens.

When I’m actually with myself, I feel a strange kind of peace. My mind gets quiet. I don’t overthink as much. I feel alive, not happy, but present. And that makes me wonder why I don’t let myself get bored more often. Maybe because being bored is boring. As kids we said it all the time and adults told us to go find something to do. Now I haven’t said “I’m bored” in years. Instead, I just go on my phone, get tired of it, put it down, and then pick it up again to scroll.

I think I’m scared of being present, scared of feeling real. I don’t know why. I don’t have the answers. This isn’t a guide on how to be bored or why we avoid it. I just know I want to get bored again. I want to find the parts of myself I’ve been avoiding. I want the courage and discipline to sit with myself. Maybe even let myself be that kid again, the one who didn’t have all these worries. Because the moment I grab my phone, I feel anxious. I feel stressed. I see everyone’s life and forget to actually live mine.

Sometimes I wonder if boredom is the closest thing I have to meeting myself again. When everything gets quiet, I start to hear the parts of me I usually mute with noise. It feels uncomfortable, almost like standing in front of a mirror I’m not ready to look into. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe boredom isn’t empty at all. Maybe it’s the space where the real stuff finally shows up.

There’s also this moment right before I reach for my phone where I feel a tiny pause, like my brain is asking me what I actually need. Not what I want, not what I’m used to, but what I need. And almost every time, I ignore it and grab the screen anyway. That pause feels important though. It scares me a little how automatic it is. It makes me realise how much of my life happens on autopilot. And maybe that’s why boredom feels important. It forces me to interrupt that autopilot, even if it’s uncomfortable. It reminds me that I’m still here, still a person with a body and senses and thoughts that don’t need a screen to exist.

There are moments where I wonder how much of my life I’ve missed because I was too busy distracting myself. The quiet parts of the day that only show up when everything else slows down. It makes me realise how many small things I walk past without even noticing.

Sometimes I realize I don’t even know what to do with myself when everything gets quiet. I sit there and feel almost awkward, like I’m not used to being alone with my own thoughts. It shows me how much I rely on my phone to fill every empty moment. And maybe that’s the part I need to work on, just learning how to exist without needing something to distract me.

I think part of learning to exist without distractions is admitting how uncomfortable it feels at first. Not pretending it’s easy or pretending I suddenly enjoy it. Just being honest that it feels weird and unfamiliar. I’m so used to filling every second that the empty moments feel wrong. But maybe that’s exactly why I need them. If I never sit with myself, I’ll never get used to it.

I wonder if any of you feel the same. If you do, feel free to share it in the comments. I’d love to hear your perspective. I’d love to hear your thoughts. And thank you so much for reading, it truly means a lot.

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You might have read the first version of this piece already, the one I wrote in a collaboration with Hasif. But there were things I still wanted to say — things that didn’t fit because we had a limit on words. This essay is a follow‑up. It’s the part I didn’t get to express the first time. The thoughts that stayed with me after we finished. The things I felt needed space, even if they didn’t fit neatly into the original piece.

everything in the blockquote is what I wrote before. Everything outside of it is new and being published for the first time.

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A lot of people walk around with heavy things on their mind and you would never guess it. They laugh, they make jokes, they show up to school or work like everything is normal. And the whole time, something inside them is hurting. You look at them and think they have it all together, but they might be breaking in ways you can’t see. It makes you realize how easy it is to miss the signs in people you care about.

And the truth is, most people won’t tell you when they’re struggling. Not because they don’t trust you, but because they don’t want to be a burden. They don’t want to explain everything from the beginning. They don’t want to fall apart in front of someone. So they say “I’m okay” because it feels easier than saying I’m not doing well. It becomes a habit, almost like a script everyone knows by heart.

You do it too. Someone asks how you’re doing and the words come out before you even think about it. I’m okay. I’m fine. And you don’t even realize you’re lying to yourself until later, when you’re alone and everything you pushed away comes back. It hits you in the quiet moments. You start thinking about the day and suddenly you notice how tense you were, how tired you felt, how much you ignored. It’s strange how your body knows before your mind does.

Sometimes you don’t even know you’re not okay until something small happens. A comment, a memory, a moment of silence. And suddenly you feel everything at once. You start wondering how long you’ve been carrying it without noticing. You start thinking about how many times you said you were fine when you weren’t even close. It makes you look at yourself differently.

And when you realize that, you also start seeing other people differently. You start paying more attention. You start noticing the little things in their voice or their eyes. You start understanding that everyone has their own battles, even the ones who seem strong all the time. It doesn’t mean you have to fix them. It just means you see them with more care. You understand that sometimes the people who look the strongest are the ones who need someone to ask again how they’re really doing.

It’s also important to remember that it’s not your job to heal other people. You can care about them, you can listen, you can sit with them when they’re having a hard time, but you can’t carry their pain for them. You can’t fix what they don’t want to face. And you shouldn’t expect anyone else to heal you either. Unless someone is a therapist, it’s not their role to guide you through every step. People can support you, but they can’t do the work for you.

But healing does get easier when you have the right people around you. People who make you feel safe enough to be honest. People who don’t judge you for having bad days. People who don’t tell you to get over it or move on. They don’t have to solve anything. Just being around the right people can make the whole process feel less lonely. It reminds you that even though healing is your responsibility, you don’t have to go through it in silence.

We talk about emotional pain it’s something you decide to do “move on” “let over it” “don’t think about it anymore” But emotional wounds don’t work that way. People may minimize your experience, tell you it wasn’t that bad, or push you to move on before you’re ready. But emotional wounds are personal. No one else has lived your inner world. Your healing doesn’t need their approval. They don’t disappear just because were exhausted from carrying them. Healing asks us to face the parts of ourselves we’ve spent years avoiding.

Sometimes, the heaviness starts long before you even understand what it is. Feeling heavy because you’ve been carrying something deep from a very young age. Realizing it later in life doesn’t happen on one random Thursday morning. It builds up over time. Childhood trauma can change the way your brain develops. You might forget painful but important events. You might feel like there’s a black spot in your memory, and that emptiness can make you question everything. Do I even want to remember? The answer is probably not what you want to hear but yes, remembering is part of healing.

A careless comment from childhood can still influence how we see ourselves years later. We don’t just remember what happened. We also walk away with beliefs like “I don’t deserve better” So healing isn’t only about the original pain. It’s about unlearning the beliefs that grew around it and learning to see ourselves with new eyes. Unlearning these beliefs is hard but an important step.

Healing is uncomfortable. It’s sitting with thoughts you’ve been running from.

Fixating on new hobbies every week, drowning yourself in school or work, or doing the opposite like starting your day, doom‑scrolling, taking nap after nap. None of that is healing. Those are coping mechanisms. They help you survive, but they don’t help you heal. And eventually, what you’ve been avoiding will collapse on you. Suddenly you feel further from healing than ever. Suddenly you feel like nothing matters, like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.

But there is.

You can heal in any state you’re in, but you must want it.For a long time, I found comfort in my own sadness. It felt familiar, almost safe? But deep down, I knew I didn’t want to live like that forever. I got help, but not all help works for everyone. I tried multiple therapists, but something always felt off. I didn’t want to talk about the events. I didn’t want to face them head‑on. I needed something different. Talking therapy isn’t the only therapy that exists. Music can be therapy. Art can be therapy. Movement can be therapy. It might sound strange, but music saved lives when words couldn’t.

Maybe none of that is for you. Maybe you don’t want therapy at all

If you don’t want therapy, therapy won’t work.

Maybe your healing looks like lying in the grass, writing in your journal, meeting friends, eating dinner with your family, or taking long walks. Healing is a process, and everyone chooses a different path.

But again, coping is not healing.

Healing is honesty. It means admitting that something hurt you more than you wanted to acknowledge. It means facing the fact that you stayed in situations that damaged you, ignored your intuition, or accepted less than you deserved. It means admitting you’re still angry, still grieving, still afraid.

You don’t heal just because you’re tired of carrying them. You can’t force yourself to feel better. You can’t pretend you're way out of it. Healing takes honesty. It takes noticing what hurts instead of pushing it away. It takes admitting that something affected you more than you wanted to believe. And that’s not weakness. That’s the first real step toward healing.

Some days you feel strong and the next day something pulls you back into the past. That doesn’t mean you’re failing. it means you’re human. You revisit the same themes, but each time with more strength. It’s all part of the healing prosses. Healing is not about forgetting. That what you’re trying to achieve with coping.

Healing is acceptance. Learning how to live with it without it consuming your mind. Talking about it without crying before starting your sentence. Asking for help isn’t a weakness although it might feel like it. Healing is a strength not everyone gets to touch. Healing doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t make you forget. It doesn’t turn you into someone who was never hurt. What it does is change your relationship to the memory. It helps you reach a place where the past no longer controls you or defines you. Healing isn’t about erasing what happened. It’s about reclaiming your story.

you don’t heal by becoming who you were before the pain. You heal by becoming someone new. Pain changes you, but healing changes you too. You grow boundaries.

Healing isn’t a return.

It’s more like figuring out who you want to be now. You start noticing what feels right for you and what doesn’t. You stop forcing yourself to fit into old versions of yourself that never really felt comfortable in the first place.

There comes a moment where you stop waiting for someone else to give you closure. You stop hoping they’ll finally understand what they did or say the words you needed back then. You realize you can’t keep your life on hold for that. And when that moment hits, it’s quiet but strong. It’s you choosing yourself without needing anyone’s permission.

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Another part of healing is learning how to sit with your emotions without letting them take over your entire day. You begin to understand your triggers instead of being controlled by them. You learn to pause. To breathe. That’s growth.

Healing also means letting yourself experience joy again without feeling guilty. Sometimes happiness feels unfamiliar after years of pain. You might question it, doubt it, or push it away because it feels too good to be true. But joy is not a betrayal of your past. It’s a sign that you’re expanding beyond it. It’s proof that you’re capable of feeling more than just survival.

And maybe the most surprising part of healing is realizing that you don’t have to do it alone. You don’t need a perfect support system, just people who make you feel safe enough to be yourself. People who don’t rush your process or judge your pace. People who remind you that you’re allowed to grow, allowed to rest, allowed to change. Healing becomes lighter when it’s witnessed.

Before you can heal, you also have to understand where your emotional wounds come from.

Emotional wounds can also come from moments you didn’t even think were important at the time. Something small someone said. A situation you brushed off. A feeling you ignored because you didn’t want to make it a big deal. And then years later, you realize it actually stayed with you. It didn’t disappear. It just sat there quietly until you were old enough to understand it.

Sometimes emotional wounds show up in the way you talk to yourself. You start doubting your worth, questioning your decisions, or assuming the worst about yourself without even noticing. It’s because something in your past taught you to think that way. And it takes time to unlearn it. It takes time to realize those thoughts didn’t come from nowhere.

Emotional wounds can also make you react strongly to things that seem small to other people. You might get upset faster. You might shut down. You might feel overwhelmed by things others don’t even notice. And then you feel guilty for reacting that way. But it’s not about the moment itself. It’s about everything that moment reminds you of, even if you can’t explain it.

Another thing about emotional wounds is that they don’t always show up as sadness. Sometimes they show up as anger. Or numbness. Or not caring about anything. Or feeling disconnected from people you love. And you start wondering what’s wrong with you. But nothing is wrong with you. You’re just dealing with something you never had the space or support to process.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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i was going to a concert by the neighbourhood.

the plan was simple → show up, find the right line, and wait for my dad to join me. we came separately. i arrived an hour before the concert. there were a lot of people, but less than i expected. it was raining. i ended up standing alone, which i do not mind. i had my umbrella and made my way to the end of the line. everyone else queued up neatly behind each other, the way people do when theyre trying to pretend theyre not miserable.

then she appeared. not behind me, next to me.

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at first i was confused. you dont just stand next to someone in a line. it breaks the unspoken rules. but she didnt seem bothered by any of that. maybe it was because when she walked over, i gave her a small smile. now she was standing beside me, half under my umbrella, half in the rain. she didnt seem to mind the rain at all.

she looked at me, rain on her cap, and asked me something simple, i dont even remember what. something about the line, or about the neighbourhood. one of those small questions that opens a door without announcing itself. and somehow, we started talking. she asked me different kinds of questions, what my name is, what i study, if i was a big fan or not, and the conversation just kept going. there were silences, but not the awkward kind. just soft pauses that felt normal. there was something strangely sweet about it, two people standing side by side in a line that wasnt moving. i kept thinking about how she could have stood behind me like everyone else. how she could have scrolled on her phone, or stared at the ground, or pretended i didnt exist. but she didnt.

before the concert, we both went to the restroom. it was packed in there, but when i was done, i waited right outside. a few minutes later she came out and immediately said, i was thinking – if we lost each other, we wouldnt be able to find each other again. i laughed, because i had been thinking the same thing.

we enjoyed the concert, and when it was time to say goodbye, she asked to exchange instagrams. i told her i dont have it anymore, but i could give her my number. we said goodbye. my dad asked, wait, ya’ll didnt know each other? because we talked so naturally it seemed like wed known each other for a long time. for me, this was the first time ive ever talked to someone i didnt know in a public place – not through friends, not because someone introduced us, just on my own. im usually scared to talk to people. i always wish i could walk up to someone outside and start a conversation, but something about that has always felt terrifying. im not the type of person who thinks they’re good at talking, so i never try.

this was completely new to me, and somehow it went so naturally. it felt safe, almost comfortable in a way i didnt expect. im really glad she stood next to me instead of behind me – that tiny choice changed everything. its an interaction ill never forget.

it made me realize how simple talking to people can actually be, and how i dont have to be so scared of it. i want to carry this with me into future moments – coffee shops, long lines, places where im sitting alone and notice someone else alone too. it never hurts to ask if you can join someone, or just say hi.

moments like this make me think about how many connections we miss without even realizing it. how many people we stand beside every day – on trains, in lines, in waiting rooms – without ever looking up. were all carrying our own worries, our own shyness, our own little insecurities, and sometimes all it takes is one person stepping slightly out of the script to remind you that the world is full of people you havent met yet. people who might surprise you. people who might make a rainy line outside a concert feel a little less lonely.

i think we shy away from things like this because were scared of rejection, or the awkwardness that might follow. but im starting to understand that we shouldnt be so afraid of each other. life would be so much more interesting if we talked instead of hiding behind our phones or blasting music to avoid interaction.

of course, there will be days when you want to be alone and dont want anyone to bother you – and thats okay. you can always politely turn someone away. everyone has those days, weeks, even months, and thats completely normal.

i think what im trying to say is this: it doesnt hurt to ask.

but maybe its also about something bigger – about how life keeps handing us these tiny invitations we dont always notice. most days, we move through the world like everything is already decided – who well talk to, who well ignore, what kind of person we are. ive spent years believing im someone who stays quiet, someone who watches from the side, someone who doesnt start conversations. and then one rainy line outside a concert proved me wrong without even trying.

it makes me wonder how many versions of myself i havent met yet. how many small, brave moments are waiting for me in places i dont expect. maybe the world isnt asking me to be loud or confident or perfect. maybe its just asking me to be open. to let things happen. to let people in, even for a few minutes.

because sometimes the smallest interaction can shift something inside you. a way that makes you walk home thinking, maybe i can do this again. maybe connection isnt this big, scary thing i thought it was. maybe its just two people choosing to stand next to each other instead of behind. and that feels like enough.

have you ever had a tiny interaction that stayed with you longer than you expected? I’d love to hear your experience.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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if i were to write a goodbye letter right now, i wouldn’t be writing about all the people in my life. i wouldn’t be saying “hey mom, this and that,” or “hey dad, this and that.” i’d be talking about me, just me, me and the hurt i carry. me and the things that shaped me in ways i never asked for.

i’d talk about how much it all hurts, how it all affected me, how i regret everything i ever did wrong. i’d say sorry for being mean, for being the daughter no one wishes for, the friend no one hopes for, the sister who never seems to get it right. i’d say how i disappointed all of you, or at least how it feels like i did, but it’s still me. i’m the one who lived all of this. i’m the one who feels it

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if i ever reached that point, it would be about me and only me. it wouldn’t be about wishing everyone a better life without me, even if it might look like that from the outside. it would be me saying, “hey, i’m hurt. i can’t hold this anymore.” it would be me trying to protect myself from the pain that keeps circling back.

and maybe that’s exactly why i won’t ever go there. because i know it comes from hurt, not clarity. because it would be selfish, and knowing that is what keeps me here.

taking my own life would be selfish, and that’s why i won’t do it.

i often catch myself wanting things i dont believe im allowed to have.

the tiny wants i pushed aside because life felt too heavy, too loud, too much. it’s strange how those little things stay with you, how they sit in your chest like unfinished thoughts. i think about all the moments i told myself “later,” all the times i didn’t reach for something simple because i was too busy trying to survive everything else. and somehow, it’s those quiet cravings that hurt the most to admit.

like figs.

i think about it sometimes, how i’ve lived all this time wanting something as small as a fig. wanting it without ever reaching for it. craving it in that quiet way you crave things you don’t even understand, things you only know from the way other people talk about them. sweet, soft, strange. a fruit that feels like a secret.

and i’ll die knowing i never tried one.

it sounds stupid, i know. out of everything i’ve been through, everything i’ve carried, everything that’s pressed itself into me, it’s the figs that get me. the way i kept telling myself i’d try one someday. the way someday kept slipping away from me without me noticing.

i think that’s what hurts, not the figs themselves, but the wanting. the way i let myself want something so small and still never reached for it. the way i kept waiting for the right moment, the right day, the right version of myself who wasn’t scared or tired or busy or hurting.

and now it feels like i’ve spent my whole life craving things i never let myself have.

maybe that’s why the figs matter. because they’re the proof. the tiny, stupid proof that i kept putting myself last. that i kept choosing everything else over the things i quietly wanted. that i kept saying not now until not now became a habit

and maybe that’s why I’m still here. because I want to give myself the chance to try all the figs someday, even if someday comes slowly.

I haven’t given up on the figs yet, and that’s enough for now.

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I read an article about how someone broke their phone addiction this year, and honestly I love when people write essays like that. It shows that people want to start living again, want to be present, and that gives me hope — not just for myself but for others too.

From the way it was written, you could tell the author was overwhelmed. It felt like they reached a point where the only way to get control back was to make everything intentionally inconvenient. Leaving the phone downstairs, buying an alarm clock, writing down bus times, using a radio, carrying a camera — all of it was their way of interrupting habits that had gotten too automatic. They needed distance and strict rules because without that, they’d fall right back into the same loop.

And I get that. For some people, inconvenience is the only thing that works. Their brain needs a reset. That’s why parts of the essay can really help. Turning off notifications, setting “office hours” for texting, writing things down instead of Googling instantly — those tips actually make you more intentional, and I liked that.

But at the same time, we’re in a generation where we’re basically forced to use our phones for everything: school, work, emails, news, alarms. That doesn’t automatically mean addiction. There’s a difference between using it for no reason — scrolling, checking notifications every minute, texting nonstop — and using it for what it’s actually meant for.

The device is made to make everything easier so we don’t have to overconsumption or carry a map the size of a blanket just to find the street we’re going to. and this is where I feel the essay gets a bit confusing. It treats the phone like the enemy, when the real issue is the relationship we have with it. Using a radio instead of Spotify doesn’t make you less addicted. Music is music. Pressing play on a radio or pressing play on your phone is the same thing. Writing down a recipe instead of reading it off your screen doesn’t change anything either. You’re still using the internet to find it. You’re still relying on technology — just in a way that feels less digital.

So when the author says they write down routes or bus times before leaving the house, I can’t help but think: what’s the difference between looking it up beforehand or checking it while you’re traveling? What’s the difference between writing down a recipe or having your phone on a stand while you cook? There isn’t one. You’re still using the device. You’re just trying to feel better about how you use it.

Even though I don’t agree with everything, I do understand the meaning behind the essay. It helped them, and it might help others. A lot of the tips are genuinely useful. For example, keeping your phone in one designated spot so you can’t reach it easily — I actually loved that part. But again, using a radio instead of Spotify doesn’t change anything. If you feel the urge to start scrolling instead of listening to music, that’s on you, not the device. that says more about your self‑control than about the phone itself. We’re quick to blame the device, but the truth is that the problem is us — our habits, our impulses, our lack of boundaries.

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And I want to make something clear, because tone gets lost on the internet: there’s no negativity toward the author at all. I’m not trying to attack their piece, and I’m definitely not dismissing their experience. I actually enjoy their writing, and I think a lot of what they shared was thoughtful and helpful. I just don’t fully agree — that’s all. It’s simply a difference in perspective, not a judgment. Their method works for them, and I respect that. I’m just looking at the same problem from another angle.

Why I Don’t Fully Agree

And that’s where my disagreement comes in. These tips seem to push the idea that you should remove your phone from your life as much as possible. But that’s not how addiction works. You can’t erase the thing you struggle with. You have to learn to live with it. You have to be okay with it being around. You need the discipline to pick up your phone and not open the one app that sucks you in. You need a healthy relationship with it, not avoidance.

It’s the same example I’ve used before: if you’re addicted to alcohol, you can’t remove alcohol from the world. You’ll still be around people who drink. You have to learn to exist in those situations without losing control. The same goes for phones. You can’t pretend they don’t exist. Everything in our lives runs through them now — school, work, directions, communication. The goal isn’t to avoid your phone like it’s dangerous. The goal is to use it without letting it take over.

So yes, I understood the intention behind the essay. I understood why it helped them and why it might help others. But I also think it gives the wrong idea of what phone addiction actually is. It focuses too much on avoiding the device instead of learning how to live with it. It treats the phone like the problem, when really the problem is us.

And that’s why I don’t fully agree. Not because the essay is bad, but because it’s incomplete. It shows one way to cope, but not the whole picture. The real solution isn’t pretending we’re living in 1998. It’s being honest about why we pick up our phones — and building the discipline to stop when we don’t need to.

What I think the better alternative is

I recently also read an essay by the weekly scrapbook their piece i’ve read really spoke to me online diaries: three weeks without social media What I love about their essay is that she isn’t trying to become some “I quit my phone and now I live in the woods” person. She’s not trying to delete her whole digital life or pretend she’s above everyone who still uses social media. She’s doing something way more real → she’s trying to live with her phone in a different way. When people talk about quitting social media, it’s usually all or nothing. Either they romanticize being offline, or they act like the digital world owns us forever. She’s not doing either. She’s in the middle, figuring it out in a way that actually feels honest. And honestly, that’s what makes her perspective so refreshing. She’s not preaching. She’s just paying attention — something most of us don’t do anymore.

When she talks about her dad scrolling through reels during Christmas dinner, or the whole room going silent at 00:01 on New Year’s because everyone suddenly dove into their screens, she’s not judging them. She’s just noticing how weird it looks when you’re not part of it anymore. And she’s right — it is weird. We just don’t see it because we’re usually doing the same thing.

What she’s doing isn’t “quitting social media”. It’s waking up.

She’s not trying to remove her phone from her life. She’s trying to remove the mindless part of it. The part where you scroll without thinking. The part where you forget what you watched five minutes ago. The part where you’re in a room full of people but everyone is somewhere else.

And that’s why her perspective hits so hard. It’s not about being “offline”. It’s about being alive.

She also talks about the loneliness that comes with it — and that part feels important. Because it’s true: when you stop living the way everyone else lives, you start noticing how disconnected people actually are. You start feeling like you’re in a different world. You start wondering if you’re missing something.

But she’s not running back to her phone because of that. She’s sitting with the discomfort. She’s asking real questions about why we’re all so scared of being alone with our thoughts. Why we’d rather scroll than feel anything. Why we treat boredom like it’s dangerous.

And that’s why I love her perspective so much. Because she’s not trying to remove her phone from her life — she’s trying to change her relationship with it. She’s trying to make space for real conversations, real presence, real emotions. She’s trying to live in a way that doesn’t make her feel like she’s disappearing into a screen.

It’s not anti‑phone.

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I use my phone a lot, but I wouldn’t call it an addiction, and maybe that’s why my perspective is different. I see it as a tool — something that can be really convenient if I use it the right way. I recently deleted TikTok and Instagram from my main phone, but I still have them on my old one just in case I ever need to find a recipe or something I saved. And honestly, that helped me more than I expected. Knowing the apps are technically still there, but not easily accessible, made me realize how often I was opening them without thinking.

Now, whenever I pick up my phone, my finger automatically swipes to the spot where TikTok used to be. And when it’s not there, it’s like a little wake‑up call: wait… did I really just grab my phone to scroll? It feels so strange. I end up putting my phone back down because it doesn’t give me the “hit” I thought it would. It’s like my brain is confused — the habit is still there, but the reward is gone.

I also bought a phone that can only make calls. Not because I want to remove my phone completely, but because I want to be more careful with it. I want to bring the call‑only phone when I go outside so I can be more present, but still have something with me in case of an emergency. But if I need directions or bus times, I’m bringing my iPhone. I’m not about to struggle for no reason. Also It’s so easy to take your smartphone out on the bus — especially when everyone around you is on theirs. You look around and think, well, everyone else is scrolling, so it’s fine if I do it too. But it’s not always fine. Sometimes it’s just another way of avoiding the world around you.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with this problem, and different things help different people. Some people need strict rules, some need distance, some need small changes, and some just need a bit more awareness. What feels extreme to one person might be exactly what another person needs to break a habit. And that’s okay. We’re all wired differently, and the way we fix things doesn’t have to look the same for everyone. What works for one person might feel completely unnecessary to someone else, and that doesn’t make either of them wrong. Just because I don’t fully agree with their approach doesn’t mean the author is doing it “wrong” or that their method isn’t valid. It helped them, and that’s what matters. We’re all trying to figure out our own relationship with our phones, and there isn’t one perfect way to do it.

I’m really curious how other people see this. Everyone has their own relationship with their phone, and everyone has their own way of trying to fix the parts that feel unhealthy. So if you’ve found something that helped you, or if you see this whole topic differently, I’d honestly love to hear it. What worked for you? What didn’t? What made things easier, or harder? I’m still figuring this out myself, so I’m open to learning from other people’s experiences too.

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Recommendations—

i want to recommend this essay as well. it follows someone who quit instagram and tiktok for a week without romanticizing it. Ended up noticing things she didn’t expect — the good, the annoying, and the uncomfortable. she talks about movies, reading, old habits coming back, and the weird loneliness that hits when you’re suddenly offline. it felt real in a way that made me stop and reflect on my own routines. it’s worth reading if you’ve ever wondered what your brain would feel like without constant noise.

i relate to every single word written here.

the weekly scrapbook

one week without social media: what i’ve learned so far

the weekly scrapbook is a collection of thoughts, reflections and experiences on what it means to navigate modern life…

Read more

2 years ago · 138 likes · 4 comments · jc 💌

and a last recommendation

trauma & co.

the art of offline communication

At the peak of my lockdown loneliness, I found myself wondering about so many people—people I knew in college extracurricularly, middle school friends I’d lost touch with, crushes that once consumed my whole being and were now barely a memory…

Read more

7 months ago · 23 likes · 10 comments · Ema

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I met someone new recently, and when we were done talking she asked for my socials. Technically, I still have them — just not installed on my main phone, only on my old one. Instead of explaining all that, I decided to tell her, I don’t use them anymore and offered my phone number instead.

There was this tiny pause, like a glitch in the conversation, and then she said, “Oh… yeah, okay.” I gave her my number, and since then? Nothing. It’s been a month of silence. Maybe we just don’t have anything to say to each other. Maybe that’s fine.

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But it made me think about how different things used to be. When I gave someone my Instagram in the past, I’d come home to notifications already waiting for me — “Omg I love your feed, it’s so aesthetic,” or a like on my story. And from there, conversations just… happened. It’s less scary to reply to a story than to start a real conversation from scratch.

The weird part is that those conversations always felt forced. Like we were texting just to text, not because we actually had anything meaningful to say. And it’s strange, because iMessage and Instagram are both digital, but they don’t feel the same at all.

One of my friends from school has my socials, but she knows I’m not on them, so she never messages me there. When she texts me on iMessage, it’s intentional. She comes with something that matters. We don’t update each other about life through a screen — we do that in person.

When I had Instagram, I felt like I already knew everything about people because I saw it on their stories. And then when you’re actually together, you realise there’s nothing left to talk about. Now with the person i’ve met it feels scarier to text them on WhatsApp because I genuinely know nothing about them. I can’t use a story they posted as a conversation starter. But honestly, I like that more. It makes you more careful with your words. More thoughtful.

Talking through a screen feels a bit impersonal now. and maybe that’s the point.

And I think that’s why social media is ruining good conversation. It gives you the illusion of closeness without any of the effort. You feel like you know people because you’ve seen their stories, but you don’t actually know anything real. It replaces curiosity with convenience. It makes reaching out easy, but connecting hard. And maybe stepping away from all that — even if it makes things quieter — brings back the kind of conversations that actually matter.

What scares me is how easily we accept that. How quickly we settle for the version of someone that’s edited, filtered, cropped to fit a screen. We start thinking that’s enough, that that’s who they are. But real connection needs silence, awkward pauses, questions that take time to answer. It needs the space to not know everything about someone right away. Social media takes that away. It gives you the highlights and leaves you with nothing to discover. And maybe that’s why talking to someone offline feels heavier now — because it’s real, and real things take work.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in a rush to text her. Not because I don’t care, but because I’m trying to relearn what it feels like to let things unfold naturally. No instant updates, no silent stalking through stories, no pretending we know each other better than we do. Just two people who met once, and might meet again, without the pressure of constant digital proof that we’re “connected.” It feels strange, but also a little freeing.

Thanks for taking your time and reading what’s going on in my mind! If you want to stick around for whatever thoughts come next, there’s a little button below that does that. just an invitation to stay in this corner of the internet with me. <3

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i got the title idea before i even knew what i wanted to write. i honestly have no clue what i should write about it, and i dont even know why this title came up. so i figured if i just start writing, maybe it will come naturally and ill type the right words.

anyhow, the glasses i didnt need. i think i felt this because of things you figured out, things you heard that you werent supposed to know. as a kid, there were times the adults told me to put my fingers in my ears because they were discussing something that wasnt meant for me. but one time i faked it and heard everything. it wasnt something big, i dont remember it all, but it was something they were planning for me, like a surprise, going to the zoo or something.

the second i heard everything, i felt this huge guilt. i wasnt supposed to know. it was eating me alive. knowing something that wasnt for me felt weird. but as a kid, you want to know everything. theyre talking about something and start laughing, and you dont understand the joke, so you ask whats going on. they dont respond. they say i shouldnt worry about it, its not for kids to know. you feel left out.

so when moments like that come, when they tell you to leave the room because they want to discuss something, the urge to eavesdrop is big. you want to feel like you belong. but after that guilt, i never did it again. i didn’t want to know anymore. i figured maybe later they’ll tell me, and if its a surprise, i’ll know soon enough when the time comes.

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i feel like when we get older, we still end up in situations like this, just in a different way. everything is online now, so when you want to know something, you just look it up. and sometimes you wish you never did. you go through your loved ones following list to see who they follow. you shouldnt have done that, because now youre comparing yourself to people who look nothing like you. its the same feeling as when you were a kid and overheard something you werent supposed to hear.

back then it was adults whispering in the kitchen, laughing at jokes you didnt understand, telling you it wasnt for kids. now its scrolling through someones likes, checking who viewed their story, reading into things that werent meant for you. reading old messages again even though you know its a bad idea. searching things you dont actually want the answer to. looking for signs that arent even there. its the same curiosity from when you were a kid, just louder now because everything is right in front of you.

and the worst part is that once you see something, you cant unsee it. you cant pretend you didnt look. you cant pretend it didnt bother you. it sits in your head the same way that childhood guilt did, just in an adult version. you think youre preparing yourself, protecting yourself, staying informed, but half the time it just makes you feel worse.

maybe we do this because we still want to feel included, the same way we did as kids. maybe were still trying to understand things that weren’t meant for us. maybe were still trying to make sense of things before the time comes. maybe were scared of being the last to find out. or maybe we just haven’t learned that sometimes not knowing is actually better. sometimes the healthiest thing is to leave things alone and let them come to you when they’re meant to.

Tell me if you relate to this.

What’s something you found out that you kinda wish you didn’t?

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this essay is a small collaboration between me and my mom. it reflects both of our voices in different ways. it means a lot to have her involved in this piece.

When I was younger, I used to bike, walk, or drive past houses that looked ten times bigger than the one I lived in. I’d stare at them like they were portals to a different kind of life. In my head, I’d imagine myself living there. Not because my own home was bad, but because I genuinely believed everything would be better if I lived in a house like that.

I’d watch YouTube videos of girls my age playing in huge gardens, making slime on big kitchen tables, running around like they had endless space. And even though I technically had the luxury of doing the same things (just in smaller places) it never felt the same. I enjoyed my life, but in the back of my little kid mind, there was always that comparison. That quiet thought: If I had a big pool… if I had a cinema room… if I had stairs you could actually run on… maybe everything would feel different.

I used to imagine myself running up and down those wide staircases. Not because I didn’t have stairs at home, but because mine creaked, felt unsteady, and honestly weren’t made for movie‑style moments. Their stairs looked like the kind you could sprint on without worrying about breaking your neck.

Looking back, it’s funny how serious those thoughts felt. How convinced I was that a bigger house meant a bigger life. I didn’t understand yet that kids compare everything → houses, toys, families, even happiness. I didn’t know that what I really wanted wasn’t the house itself, but the feeling I thought came with it → space, freedom. A life that looked like the ones on the screen.

As I got older, I realized my experiences weren’t any “lesser” they were just different. Some people grew up in houses where the floors didn’t creak, so they never learned to recognize the footsteps of a certain family member walking down the hallway. I knew exactly who was walking to my room just by the sound of their footsteps. It’s a weird but memorable thing to grow up with.

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• Some kids knew exactly how long the hot water would last in the shower. Others never had to race.

• Some kids could hear the boiler turning on in the middle of the night. Others didn’t even know what a boiler sounded like.

• Some kids learned to unplug everything before leaving the house to save electricity. Others didn’t grow up with that habit at all.

• Some kids knew the exact time the neighbours argued because the walls were thin. Other kids grew up in houses where you couldn’t hear anything through the walls.

• Some kids learned to fix things with tape, string, or whatever was available. Other kids just told their parents and it got replaced.

• Some kids learned to make a meal out of whatever was left in the fridge. Other kids always had options.

• Some kids learned to be careful with water because the bill mattered. Other kids took long showers without thinking.

Thinking about all this made something click for me. Money doesn’t buy happiness, not really. It buys comfort. And comfort makes life easier, but it doesn’t automatically make it meaningful. A “good life” isn’t about being privileged or spoiled. It’s not about having the newest things or growing up in a house where nothing creaks.

A good life is being comfortable in your own life, in your own skin, with your own story. It’s knowing your experiences weren’t lesser, just different. Comfort isn’t about luxury → it’s about peace. It’s about not fighting your own reality. It’s about feeling at home in the life you’re building, even if it didn’t start perfect.

A few days ago, I read the piece from today’s guest and it stopped me for a moment. when I first saw their piece, it hit me harder than I expected. The honesty about not fitting the “good life” script. The reminder that real life is shaped by things we never chose — trauma, timing, lack of support. It felt uncomfortably familiar, the kind of familiar you only admit in safe spaces. That’s why I wanted to share it here.

why do we believe there’s only one right way to live?

From the moment we enter this world, we’re taught what a “good life” should look like. A good education, a stable job, marriage, a house, children; the familiar checklist. And when one or more of those things doesn’t happen, we’re made to feel like we’ve failed. We grow up believing that if we don’t follow this exact path, we’re somehow less worthy.

But this is only what we’ve been taught. It’s not the truth.

You can be alone and still have a good life. You can build a great career without a diploma. You can wait for the right person instead of settling too fast. You can choose your own timeline, your own priorities, your own version of happiness. We see those picture‑perfect Instagram lives, but most of them are curated illusions, designed to make us believe we need the same things.

But then we open Instagram, and suddenly everyone’s life looks perfect.

• Perfect homes.

• Perfect families.

• Perfect smiles.

And we start thinking, “Maybe I need that too. Maybe I’m behind.” But most of those pictures? They’re staged. Filtered. Curated. They’re not real life they’re highlight reels. Real life… real life is messy. Real life hits hard. Sometimes it’s childhood trauma. Sometimes it’s lack of support. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.

And when enough of that piles up, you start believing you’ll never have the “good life” at all. The reality is that life doesn’t follow a script. Sometimes it hits hard. Sometimes childhood trauma, lack of support, or pure bad luck shapes our path. And for a long time, many of us believe that because our story didn’t start “right,” we’ll never get the good life at all.

I used to believe that too.

For a long time. I settled too fast. I married before I understood what marriage even meant. I didn’t finish high school. I didn’t receive the help I needed. I didn’t know I had AuDHD. I just thought something was wrong with me. My childhood was far from picture‑perfect: It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe. It was marked by abuse, by trauma, by things no child should ever have to carry. And yet, after everything, I can say with honesty: my life is good.

For years, I thought that meant my story was already ruined. That I had missed my chance at the life everyone else seemed to have. But life…, life has a strange way of surprising you.

I have two beautiful children. One from my first marriage, the one I once saw as a mistake. But if I hadn’t lived that chapter, I wouldn’t have my daughter. And one from my current, last marriage with a husband who is everything I once hoped for but never believed I deserved. I have a well‑paying job I actually enjoy, even without a diploma.

I have stability. I have love. I have peace. I have a life that feels like mine.

I learned the truth I want you to hear: My life is good because I define it as good. Because I stopped measuring myself by someone else’s checklist. Because I chose to value what I have, what I’ve built, and who I’ve become. Your life becomes good the moment you stop living by someone else’s definition and start living by your own. And that is the mindset that changes everything.

Your life becomes good the moment you stop living by someone else’s definition and start living by your own.

After reading her piece, I was reminded how different real life looks compared to the version we’re taught to chase. The kind of story that makes you rethink the idea of “falling behind.” Sometimes the good life shows up in ways you never expected. So I wrote a follow‑up, not to repeat her story, but to add my own perspective to it.

are you really behind, or just on your own path?

Due to my mental health, I wasn’t able to finish high school. Years later, my partner at the time, someone I met in school, same class, same year — asked me to come to their graduation. I was proud of them, happy to go, ready to support. But when I was there, watching them graduate, knowing I wasn’t going to be standing on that same stage, I felt left out. I kept thinking that if I had just pushed myself through the emotional pain, maybe I could’ve been up there too. Just maybe. But deep down I knew it wasn’t possible. I had to stop. I had to take that break. It was needed.

Now I’m pursuing adult school. Still two years to go. Trying to finish where I left off. I’m behind everyone I knew in my class. I’m behind. I told myself that every day. I felt guilt — not toward others, but toward myself. I felt disappointed, inadequate, and frustrated.

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There was this one time I had a conversation with someone about college and university. They were unsure what direction to choose and almost ready to pick an education they might regret later. So I advised them to maybe take a gap year, to give themselves more time to think and make the right decision. I said that if they chose wrong now and realized it two years later, they’d be even further from home, because starting a new education two years later means two years plus the years you still have to do for that new program.

They kind of snapped at me, saying, “I’m not taking a gap year. I’ll be older when I start.” I stayed quiet, because they knew it would take me twice as long as them to even start university. It hurt in a way.

But after a while in adult school, I saw people twice my age still finishing their high school journey. And that gave me some kind of satisfaction, because those things you don’t see online — so you think they don’t exist. So I stopped thinking about it like that. I stopped comparing myself to others my age, or to anyone at all. Everyone has a different plan, a different path. Sometimes things come up — inconveniences or good opportunities — that pull you off the plan you thought you had. And that’s okay.

Your life shouldn’t be one big checklist → at this age I’ll graduate, at this age I’ll have a kid, get married, move out. Those thoughts and beliefs and fantasies are only there because we grew up with them, because we were taught them. But why is that the only “right” answer? Why is that the norm? And if you don’t follow it, why are you put in a different category, like an outsider? A good life isn’t defined by that.

And I’m definitely not saying to stop school — everyone has their own journey, and that’s what makes life beautiful. If everyone followed the same checklist, life would be boring. Go out of your comfort zone. Do the things you’re scared to do, even if others tell you not to. Now you have the chance to do it — so take it.

If you made it all the way here, thank you. It means more than you think. Your support lets me keep writing in the way that actually feels like me.

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