Anyway, I didn't see the point of going at all if we won't even enjoy the occasion properly. And that was how I ended up not going to any party for about a decade. But when I came home for the holidays and my mother told me that a friend's daughter was getting married, I decided to tag along (even though I told her I was only going for the food). I could hardly remember what a party even looked like again.

I'd have you know, though, that the first thing that threw me off a bit on the day was the "African time" delay of about two and a half hours. Even though I'd heard people's experiences with it, it was rather baffling to experience it firsthand. We got some inside information, though, so we arrived just in time. Now, I'm guessing I'm supposed to narrate this in a positive light, but I can't help but show the hand I was dealt. Duh.

I like to think one of the things that made me feel bored was that I didn't have company with me (my mom was the wholesome one who paid enough attention to the ceremony processions). Even if I wanted to, the noise was just on another level. I kept wondering if people really had to hit such high decibels just to express themselves.

Days later, it just kept coming back to me that the funny thing about experiencing something you haven't done in a long time is that you might not come away wanting more of it. Sometimes, you come away knowing yourself a little better—or, should I say, confirming what you already knew about yourself.

For the longest time, I've been aware that some things that seem perfectly ordinary to other people don't always feel that way to me. At some point, I even had to question whether I was simply trying to be different. But that wasn't the case. Whenever I tried to do things the way most people did them, I didn't feel as content as I thought I should.

The irony of this is that the same people who tell you to be yourself and do whatever you want can sometimes be the same ones to resist you when it's time for you to make those choices. This is especially true with situations surrounded by tradition, family expectations, and social norms. And because you still care deeply about these people, you start feeling guilty, pressured, or obligated to the people and systems that raised you.

Then, the question of how far individuality and autonomy can extend in a person's life comes in. Because if the permission we need to live our lives as we deem fit is in our hands, at what point does this permission start to look like rebellion? Why is it that even when a choice is deeply personal and simply doesn't conform to the norm, it can be perceived as aggressively unconventional? Preferences just become complicated when other people have expectations attached to them.

In the times I've preferred not to participate in social events or to quietly mark certain achievements without making a statement about them, it has almost always been met with side-eyes and unending questions. It's like I'm expected to have a 17-point explanation for the validity of my preferences when I say, "No reason."

Apparently, there is an assumption that if everyone else seems to enjoy something, you should eventually learn to enjoy it too. But sometimes, exposure does the opposite. Sometimes, experiencing what other people love is exactly how you discover what isn't for you.

So, I wonder what mature individuality really is. Maybe it is less about accumulating opinions about how everybody else should live and more about becoming increasingly honest about how you want to live. And the gentler way of doing this, I've realized, is to quietly choose differently. There's indeed something beautiful about not needing your difference to become an identity.

But maybe, after all, we are still waiting for someone—parents, friends, culture, or the people around us—to give us permission that was ours all along. Permission to want less. To want more. To do things differently. To disappoint someone's expectations—not cruelly or carelessly, but simply because their expectations aren't necessarily our instructions. And what greater freedom might we experience when we give other people that same room?

Anyway, that was how I went to a party for the first time in about a decade. In the process, I spent an unreasonable amount of time on my phone than I normally would, while secretly hoping they'd serve the food already (this is the part where you read and don't judge) which happened coincidentally, at almost the exact time I decided I'd had enough and was heading home. And I came home with a souvenir of sorts—fairly certain that I am still very fond of quiet. And I'd like to stay in that space for as long as I want to and can afford to.

P.S.: I have no idea why, after undertaking the bold feat of shamelessly taking a bunch of selfies at the party, I suddenly become bashful about sharing the photo dump.

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I cannot remember the exact age I began living out full-fledged fantasies, but I know I was very young. This went beyond fairy tales and mermaid stories that keep kids entertained. I think prolonged boredom and aloneness nudged me into it—into building entire worlds in my mind. I even acted them out in real life when I could. There was something convenient about it—how quickly I could create and live through a perfect story, even with limited props.

As I grew older, I started to question why I stayed there for so long. Part of me believes it was because many of the things I wanted felt out of reach, or even impossible. Yet they still called to me. In those fantasies, I met versions of myself that did not quite fit into what society would call normal. I wished, sometimes, that life could resemble what I had created in my head. But reality, as I once heard someone say, is always messier.

Still, life in my head was not always perfect. It did not end in neat, happy conclusions. Sometimes, I even found myself drawn to pain in a way I didn’t fully understand. Yet, it was the place I felt safest. I often reshaped my reality into something more bearable, or imagined a life where I did not lose myself in chaos. Sometimes, I imagined love—quiet, understanding, shared. (Even though I know that kind of love exists, a part of me still struggles to hold on to such belief).

Somewhere along the line, this way of thinking began to shape how I saw myself and my future. I spent a lot of time imagining control—having the power to do everything at once, to be everything at once. But even my thoughts about the future began to turn against me. Instead of hope, they filled me with anxiety. I became so focused on what could be that I forgot how to live in what is. I did not know how to take life one day at a time. I found myself constantly wondering what it felt like to be where others already were.

Living in my head gave me something—comfort, entertainment, stimulation, even a kind of dopamine. But it also cost me more than I realized. The grueling battle I faced with anxiety from there was well not worth the adrenaline rush. But, I once came across a line that stayed with me: think about what you are thinking. It sounds simple, but it is not. I have struggled with the need to always be productive, always doing something. Even when I'm involved in an activity at the moment, my mind is still unsettled; already brainstorming on the remaining items on the to-do list. But trying to do everything at once feels like chasing two rats and catching none. It's exhausting! So now, I am learning, slowly and deliberately, to focus on one thing at a time.

And this doesn’t just stay in my head—it spills into how I relate with other people. This process of stepping out of my mind has also changed how I see relationships. I understand now how easy it is to unconsciously align your life with someone else’s—to match their pace, their progress, their direction. It might not look like competition, but something in it feels close. It's such that you find it hard to be entirely content with them moving ahead of you or making different choices from you.

Now, I try to see things differently. Being with someone shouldn't erase who you are as an individual. You have your life, and they have theirs. Partnership should not come at the cost of one person losing themselves. Even if two people are the same age, they can be at completely different stages—and that is fine. So, while it could be a rewarding experience to meet people where they are, maybe we don’t always have to follow them there. Not everything needs to be measured or matched.

I have come to think that love should not require me to abandon myself for someone else. I think it should feel more like mutualism than imbalance. Even though commitment requires compromise, it should not necessitate disappearance. I do not want to forget who I am without the things—or the people—that give my life meaning.

It might seem like I've drifted, but this is a similitude of how my mind works. These thoughts connect, overlap, and sometimes contradict each other. Because I am often afraid to confront them in real time, I resolve them neatly in my head—only to end up with something far more chaotic in real time. So, I find myself trying to learn how to live without having to mentally rehearse life first. Because on the few occasions I step into reality as it is, I find that I enjoy it. Even when it is uncomfortable. Maybe one day, I will learn to stay there. Because I am beginning to think that it takes a certain kind of bravery to live outside of your own head.

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On the surface, that sounded good. You know, do the whole thing of cutting myself off from the rest of the world into some remote mountains. But, I recently came across a video on YouTube where the guy was pushing back against the contemporary mindset that has been built regarding detoxing. I came to realise that dopamine itself isn’t the enemy (in fact, it plays a huge role in motivation for our work) and detoxing isn’t about enduring deprivation. Rather, the real goal was to change my relationship with attention. So, I thought to change things up and started working towards making sure that the life I led after the detox wouldn’t just be a return to my old habits but a reflection of a changed (and quieter) mindset.

So far, intentionally observing solitude has been quite the ride of experiences for me. For one, even though it is easier said than done and my progress isn’t as dramatic, I find myself to be less afraid of silence and more comfortable with enjoying my own company without the feeling of missing out. Because, if in reality, no one gets to experience everything and somehow, we would still leave the possibility of other lives behind, why be so worried about it? So, I couldn’t be more thankful for gradually learning to be content with the life I’m actively choosing.

Detoxing from social media felt awkward at first because we’re so used to keeping up with the latest. But, as the days went by without me posting anything and rather keeping some moments just to myself, having a lessened urge to document every experience, caring less about keeping up with other people’s lives and feeling okay with it, all at the same time, I started wondering, in a curious way, what we’re all really doing on the internet.

I didn’t realize how hard being offline would be untill I had to sit and have real-time conversations with the people around me, calling (instead of chatting) my long-distance friends, mindfully doing my chores without the side distraction of a movie or music playing by the side, and simply sitting with my own thoughts. So, while nothing much seemed to happen on the surface, a lot did shift internally.

In the process of slowing down in a world that doesn’t, I couldn’t help but reflect and rethink the productivity (or should I say hyper-productivity) culture of these times. It’s everywhere. There is always one leadership conference, “success strategy” closed meeting, opportunity seminar, and self-development programs every week. Even when I choose to hide this kind of content from my feed online, I am not spared the physical advertisements that are shoved in my face as I walk down the road seeking some peace and quiet.

So, while I am still reeling from the struggle to not compare myself with my peers who (as it’s made to seem) have moved ahead while I am still at the beginning of a long journey, I am faced with the pressure to constantly achieve, attend, build, and become. And, I keep wondering when exactly it ends. When will we finally believe we’ve done enough? Productivity isn’t a scoreboard, and perhaps a meaningful life isn’t measured only by how much we accomplish.

So, while I try to always aspire for the possible best, I am learning to actually live one day at a time, as honestly as I can. I want to have lazy days and enjoy certain pleasures without feeling guilty. I want to believe that I have not failed just because today’s performance was less than yesterday’s. I want to compare myself less with others. I want to resist the urge to perform my life instead of living it. (No thanks to the aesthetically curated routines and lifestyles portrayed on social media, by the way).

When mid-year came, the appraisal of myself that I took was quite different because the changes that I had experienced so far were quieter, yet tangible. Having struggled with anxiety for a long time now, choosing to let go of the things I cannot control and instead, live in the present has been one of my significant progresses. I couldn’t even believe how much I now cared less about other people’s opinions. (Because, again, if people always have something to say, why not just do you?).

Also, never have I questioned my career choices since I started studying ahead for pre-clinical medicine. I couldn’t be more thankful for such free time to build my attention span and mentally prepare for the workload ahead. And even though I can’t give a reason for the specific interest, I find myself reading more on psychology and trauma. Although, the world of fiction sweeps me off my feet too often. Overall, learning to appreciate growth that might not be dramatic enough for social media, yet is deeply significant to me, has been beautiful in its own way.

Even within the short time, I came to realize how time and distance naturally change relationships. And, just like that, I couldn’t be more aware and convinced that friendships require mutual effort. Once both parties start growing apart, the dynamic changes. Worse still (I like to believe) is when it becomes one-sided. Looking at it objectively (and as nicely as possible) though, sometimes, no one is wrong—people simply grow differently. (Although, it’s one thing to believe it; it’s another to accept it). So, I am learning to appreciate the people who continue choosing me and try my best to not take them for granted. And, maybe after all, accepting that letting go without resentment can also be an act of love and bravery of its own kind.

If there is something that I am holding on to at the moment, it is that I don’t have to live at extremes; I don’t have to become indifferent, nor do I have to be obsessed with productivity. Instead, I can seek a slower, more intentional rhythm—a life where technology is a tool, not a master; a life where rest and ambition can coexist. I like to think of it as a hybrid approach to living rather than choosing between the digital and the analog. So, maybe the greatest thing this last month gave me was the realization that attention is something worth protecting; that the life happening in front of me deserves my full presence too.

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Even so, we carry fragments of our roots with us. The homes we grow up in, the patterns we witness, the ways people speak to each other when they think no one is paying attention. We inherit these things quietly, almost without noticing, until one day we do. And once you see them, you can’t quite return to the comfort of not knowing.

Often, when I think about my roots and the role of divine providence, I feel a deep sense of gratitude—for everything and everyone. Still, it comes with a strange awareness: that not everything you’ve been given is something you would have chosen. Not everything feels like a safe place to land, even when it is supposed to be. And in those moments, you begin to understand how much of life is shaped by decisions made long before you ever had a say in them.

So, I’ve found myself becoming more deliberate at this stage of my life. Even when opportunities present themselves as promising, I don’t rush. Not because I don’t want good things, but because I’ve learned that forcing my way into them rarely leads anywhere meaningful. It feels like trying to build something beautiful on a faulty foundation—and you can already imagine how that ends. Pretense, or people-pleasing, is not how I want to live this already complicated life.

While there are things I will never be able to undo or control, there are still choices that belong to me. And knowing that I still have a long way to go, I’ve come to see the importance of making better decisions where and when I can. Of course, it doesn’t guarantee perfect outcomes, but it feels like the least I owe myself. After reflecting on my own life—and observing others—I know I don’t want to repeat certain patterns. That awareness alone has helped me keep my impulses in check.

Sometimes, what leads us to repeat patterns—even when we see the red flags—is the quiet need to compensate. A kind of unspoken guilt. Even when no one says it out loud, we feel the weight of what has been done for us, what we have inherited. And in trying to honor that, we end up making choices that don’t fully belong to us. It can feel like loyalty, like solidarity—but it often comes at the cost of living honestly.

And when I think about that, I realize I don’t want to keep living a life that doesn’t feel like mine. I’ve had enough regrets to know that blindly following expectations won’t change anything. So, I focus on what I can shape. The people I let in. The things I tolerate. The habits I build. The environments I stay in. The pace at which I move through life. I may not get everything right—maybe no one does—but this, at the very least, is something I can choose to do differently.

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Gradually, I became something of a performer, a subtle people pleaser. I was always intent on meeting and exceeding expectations. Even though I never wore my achievements loudly, receiving them quietly fed my desire to remain in everyone’s good books. There was little room for visible weakness. I was almost always willing to make the heavier sacrifice. For what it’s worth, perfectionism sat comfortably at the center of my life.

Maintaining that kind of composure had its consequences. It drew people in—people who came with their problems, hoping I might have something wise enough to offer. Over time, I noticed a pattern: in many of my relationships, I was carrying more than my share of the weight. And, if I am honest, being needed—being seen as dependable, as the “bigger person”—had its own quiet reward. Apparently, no one checks the pulse of someone who’s still standing.

I also viewed others through this same lens. I made assumptions based on what was visible, subscribing—without realizing it—to a kind of false transfer of strength. As if being strong in one way automatically made a person unbreakable in all the others. We see it everywhere: a student excels at Biology, and suddenly medicine is chosen for them. Someone understands Chemistry, and Medical Biochemistry is expected to come easily. But being within the system teaches you otherwise.

In much the same way, I find myself observing hairdressers—the precision, the dexterity, the effortless movement of their hands across different textures. On the surface, it feels natural to assume that such hands would be immune to something like arthritis. But recently, I began to question who authored that rule. After all, reality rarely follows the neat logic we assign to it.

I recently watched a video of a teenager recounting his experience after opening up to his parents about his suicidal thoughts. One statement, in particular, lingered. His father, frustrated and perhaps confused, had asked: “How are you depressed? You have a good life.” It is a question that reveals more than it intends to. Many parents work tirelessly to provide what they believe their children need, hoping that the absence of lack guarantees well-being. When that expectation is disrupted, it feels like a failure they cannot quite name.

Becoming overwhelmed with my own mental health forced me to reconsider the way I was living. I knew that if I continued with this quiet, persistent need to get everything right, I would not become the person I hoped to be. Apparently, strong people don’t get tired—they just get quieter. So I paused. I admitted that I was struggling. For the first time, I chose not to measure myself against invisible deadlines or dwell on lost time. I chose, instead, to remain present, and to believe—however cautiously—in the possibility of something better.

These days, I move differently. I walk slower. I notice the breeze against my skin. I allow myself small, private joys without needing them to make sense to anyone else. I am learning that saying no is not a failure of character. That questions and doubts—even about the systems that raised me—are not betrayals. I am learning to forgive myself for past decisions, to loosen the grip of guilt, and to accept that mistakes are not evidence of inadequacy, but of being human.

This shift has also changed the way I see others. When I find myself comparing or feeling unsettled by someone else’s composure, I pause. I remind myself of the possibility of struggles I cannot see—of fractures hidden beneath what looks like ease. It has become harder to assume wholeness simply because something appears intact.

It would be easier if pain always looked like pain—if it interrupted, if it announced itself plainly, if it refused to coexist with composure. But it does not. And perhaps that is why we keep missing it—in others, and sometimes, in ourselves. Hairdressers don’t have arthritis. At least, not the kind anyone notices. Because as long as the weight is still being carried, no one thinks to ask what it is costing the hands that hold it.

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Reading it again, I realized that the weight I carry now isn’t new. It has been there for a while—only heavier this time. Back then, though, there was a certain distance in how I wrote. It felt like I was observing other people’s lives, imagining possibilities that could have been mine. Now, that distance is gone. These are no longer imagined realities—they are lived ones. And that realization unsettles whatever illusion of control I thought I had.

I’ve said before that I’ve moved from trying to understand why life is the way it is, to learning how to respond to it. Still, there are moments when the “why” refuses to stay quiet. I understand that bad things happen—it’s almost expected—but why do they happen to good people, and often at the worst possible times?

It becomes even harder when most of these things are beyond my control. In just this past week, I’ve encountered grief, pain, and loss almost daily. These are no longer distant stories or passing headlines—they are closer now. And the closeness changes something. It reminds you that you don’t know when you’ll be next. Slowly, what feels like being spared begins to carry its own weight, something that edges toward guilt.

When things keep falling apart like this, it becomes easy to slip into a kind of quiet resignation. A despondence toward life. Just outside the door is a nihilistic way of seeing things—because when nothing good feels guaranteed, even after effort and endurance, you begin to wonder what the point of it all is. We try, we really do—but what happens when the so-called healing phase starts to feel like a cycle you won't ever step out of?

I’ve also learned that there are limits to what we can imagine. It’s easy to predict how we think we would react in certain situations, but the truth is, we don’t really know until we are in them. That realization has changed how I listen to people. When someone shares their struggles, I try to truly hear them. Even when I’ve experienced something similar, I hesitate to say “I understand,” because I’m beginning to see how deeply personal and internal these things are. Suffering doesn’t lend itself well to comparison.

People often say that when someone develops unusual or troubling inclinations, they should talk to someone. And while gathering the courage to speak might be difficult, for me, it’s often the response that feels heavier. I don’t expect complete understanding, but indifference or dismissal can be just as hard to carry—because these struggles are real. As real as anything else.

There was a time I found it difficult to grasp experiences like body awareness distortions, gender dysphoria, mental illness, suicidal thoughts, anxiety, depression, the fear of being left behind, existential crises, self-harm, emotional numbness, hypersensitivity, and more. Now, I no longer see them as distant or abstract. They are part of a shared reality—one that is too present to be dismissed or explained away too easily.

Maybe this is the problem of evil. Maybe it’s the result of living in a world that is, in many ways, broken and distorted. Maybe genetics and environment play their part. Whatever the cause, it is something we keep encountering. And so the ways we cope—the systems of support we rely on—need to be real, not just theoretical. Because sometimes, a cure isn’t immediately within reach.

Like many others, I’ve said it before: it gets better. I’ve repeated it to friends in moments where we lay our struggles bare. And often, the response I get is, “hopefully.” These days, I find myself holding onto that same word—hopefully—because belief is becoming harder to sustain.

I understand why someone like Sebastian Junger would say that many religions struggle to hold if you remove the idea of an afterlife. Because if this world, in all its brokenness, is all there is, then it can feel like we are working toward something that never quite resolves.

Still, it is only human to long for some form of comfort, even here, in the present. There is a quiet privilege in finding a safe space at the end of the day—whether in family, friendships, meaningful work, solitude, or something sacred. Perhaps what holds us together in times like this is what St. Isaac the Syrian describes as compunction: a sorrow of the heart, softened by hope.

And maybe that is what remains when everything else feels uncertain—a kind of sorrow that still leaves room for gratitude, for rest, and for trust in God’s mercy. So even now, we hold on, however loosely, to the possibility that things might still get better.

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So, I’d go on to pick one matter of interest, learn and become well versed in it. If you didn’t know, discourses in medicine, theology, ethics, and books of different genres pique my interest a lot. So, I’d often get into conversations with people about something related. And I came to realize something uncomfortable: we don’t always see eye to eye. People have their opinions the same way I do. And when it gets to that point, we present facts, but somehow—probably because of how our beliefs hold us more than we think we hold them—we end up in stalemates.

At first, it felt simple: just disagreement. But over time, I started noticing something deeper. Disagreement separates people but understanding why they disagree makes separation feel more permanent. Because once you see the reasoning behind someone’s belief, you can’t easily “unsee” it and somehow, closeness begins to require ignoring certain layers of understanding.

Now, if you take these issues out of the picture, we would most likely be the best of friends (or whatever the nature of the relationship). But somehow, these belief systems render us incompatible to a large extent. And at such moments, I think about how fiction can be misleading. The way it makes it seem like connections are that perfect—you meet someone, realize you have the same tastes and distastes, and suddenly you become a caricature of the “perfect match made in heaven.”

Unfortunately, reality is messier than that.

For instance, I think about my parents. They are undeniably good people who mean the best for their children. But we often get into a headlock when it’s time for them to parent us. They like to think that their experiences are the best teacher for us. They don’t want us going down paths they or others have seen end badly. And despite loving them to death, I just cannot see myself adjusting into that cocoon for a rule of life. Because I see things rather differently, we end up disagreeing.

But because we still have a rather compulsory relationship between us, it becomes even harder to navigate belonging with them despite our differences. I used to think we could get past it—coexist like a normal family—but I can’t seem to shake off that subtle sense of being an outcast, even if they don’t have such thoughts towards me. (They don't, actually.)

Also, I don’t have many friends. But with the very few I have managed to acquire, it’s rather unfortunate how differences in opinion have made things awkward between some of us. Of course, if the relationships get deeper, say romantically, I know some of these matters would be deal breakers in the end. So I’d think and question whether I was better off on my own or with a strained relationship. Still, I know that wanting to be cool despite differences between us isn’t as clean as I imagine it (unless we want to pretend). It’s like that mole under your feet—you might forget it’s there until you try walking. Once again, life feels complicated.

Lately, I have come to understand how humbling it is to meet people where they are. It’s then I realized that some things I consider the next rational step are far-fetched to many people. It’s like stepping into a different space where you have no choice but to hold nuance in a world that prefers sides. And as glamorous as that sounds, it can get exhausting. Gradually, wanting to understand others starts to cost you your own peace. You might think disagreement only separates ideas, but it separates people too.

At times, when it gets too much, I reminisce about who I was (and wasn’t) and what I knew (and didn’t know) before now. But it is rather unfortunate how I can’t “unsee” what I’ve seen, even when others move on easily. So it feels like I’m trying to live another life with them where the differences won’t matter as much. It even feels like rebellion against systems that have stayed through for ages. And just like that, I experience how knowledge can isolate more than ignorance. Even understanding where people are coming from, in the name of tolerance and empathy, starts to feel like betrayal.

I like to think I am fortunate to have met some very honest people in life. You just see that this person is communicating their thoughts devoid of irrationality or sheer rigidity. You see how their awareness of injustice, hypocrisy, or contradiction shapes how they move through the world. So it becomes difficult for them to agree with you no matter how hard they try. And as you try to understand them, you also want to be firm. If things escalate, you want peace—but you cannot ignore the anger at what peace costs. And just like that, you are left with this internal debate that never fully resolves.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend some months back. We were arguing about religious issues. And he said that differences would always be constant in our society, and there is nothing we can do about it. He argued that trying to defend just one truth as “the” truth is impossible and probably even biased. While I didn’t agree with him fully, especially on the specific topic at hand, I could see the sense in his argument.

But this piece isn’t really about whether two or more truths can coexist. It’s about the ache that comes from wondering how long we can keep trying to stay open before openness starts to feel like erosion.

I used to think understanding people would bring me closer to them. But I’m starting to realize it can also draw a quiet line between you and them—one you can see too clearly to ignore. And maybe belonging is not just about understanding people deeply, but sometimes about what you allow yourself not to follow through to its end. I’m not sure what that means for me yet. I just don’t want what I know to kill me.

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I started taking evening walks along the roadside. It got me out of the house, but it didn’t quiet my thoughts the way I hoped. Horns blared. Roadside marketers shouted. Vehicles rushed past. Pedestrians talked over one another.

I wished for somewhere quieter. Then I remembered I should probably be grateful for the privilege of hearing things at all. Still, my plan to settle in a remote area remains. Because why in the world is everybody yelling?

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I wish solar panels weren’t this expensive. The constant generator noise drives me insane.

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I don’t think I’d ever want to be a celebrity. I just want to walk somewhere unnoticed. No hard feelings.

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I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand the western culture of moving out at eighteen. First of all, I thought age was just a number. Secondly, who even made these rules? Thirdly, what if I simply don’t want to move out? (Although… are you really comfortable living with your parents for that long?)

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I recently read a book of poems. This line stayed with me: “I love you more than I have ever been loved.” Guess who “I” was. (Hint: a woman.)

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Another thing I’ll never understand is racism. Why does the color of my skin matter that much to you? And no, I don’t think I’d feel differently if I were white. See? That’s the problem. Why would that even be your first assumption?

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When I say “flower,” you probably think of something beautiful. A field of roses, maybe. But beauty comes with compromise too. Every rose has to bend its frame one way or another just to become the thing we admire.

Humans are not so different. As rewarding as commitment can be, loving another person costs you some autonomy. Maybe I want to be a lone rose for now. I don’t think I’m ready for those beautiful complications yet. I hope that’s okay.

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Politics turns friends into enemies so easily. Maybe that’s why I keep my distance from it. Everything about it feels unnecessarily loud.

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One of the things I hope to do when I finally have the means is spend entire afternoons in libraries. I want to walk slowly between shelves, running my fingers across the spines of books. I want to inhale the smell of freshly printed pages. I want to feel brown paper against my palms. Is that really too much to ask?

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One of my rules in life is: don’t start what you cannot sustain. Which is unfortunate because I want to begin skincare. But what if I become too broke to maintain the regimen afterward?

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I don’t like having things in my ears. I receive most of my calls on loudspeaker. So if you ever see me wearing earphones, one of two things is happening. I’m either pretending to listen to something or it's a matter of life and death.

Unrelated: when I was younger, I once stuck a sweet stick into my ear.

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There’s this friend of mine. I want to take him out on a date and spoil him a little.

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Novels always describe birds chirping as some beautiful natural soundtrack. But the birds on my roof sound genuinely distressed. Is there something I'm missing?

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Last week, I became curious about whether VIPs do their own laundry. Their underwear specifically. Okay, bye. I have homework to do.

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Children crying unsettles me. What’s the matter, angel?

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Why would you even think “Let’s count the stars together” sounds romantic?

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Five years ago—actually, exactly five years ago—I liked a boy. I liked him so much. Then after one week, all my feelings disappeared. Exactly one week. I still don’t know why. But sometimes, even now, I randomly catch what smells like his cologne in passing. Maybe people are right about first crushes.

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Imagine your life without the internet for one year. And don’t tell me you’d rather count rice grains.

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When you think about your father, what comes to mind? Do you hope to become like him?

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One afternoon, a woman knocked on my door and asked if I had any chores she could do for some money. I almost said no. Instead, I asked her to come back in the evening. She looked skeptical. I told her to return only if she felt comfortable enough to. I hope my smile helped.

When she came back, I sat on a stool and lowered my head. She sat on a higher stool. Then I handed her two pairs of chopsticks and asked her to scratch my scalp with them. She has been coming once a week for four months now. (Hint: I don’t like physical touch.)

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Surrogacy must be one of the hardest things to do. No matter how prepared someone is, I can’t imagine it being easy to let go afterward. But they still have to. Right?

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Authors of children’s books are a special breed. I suddenly remembered one of the novels we read growing up. The girl told the boy the only thing she wanted from him was the moon. She said she wanted to eat it. Imagine coming up with that.

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Have you eaten fried snails before? They taste ridiculously good.

#exaggeratednonfiction

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For the most part, I thought I had faith. But as I grew older, I began to question if it was simply blind faith. Then again, I sometimes wonder if it was what Jesus meant by childlike faith. I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that, back then, it worked. I believed because it made sense, because it was familiar, because it was what I knew.

That belief shaped how I spoke about God. I remember writing about Him as though He were the most rational conclusion anyone could come to, but as I encountered others going forward, I was met with questions I didn’t have answers for. And slowly, I began to realize something unsettling: truth should feel clear, but reality feels layered—interpretive, sometimes confusing.

For instance, I found myself wrestling with the tension between certain scientific findings and some widely accepted ideas in Christian archaeology, and I couldn’t simply dismiss those tensions as “things that don’t matter.” I paused. I thought deeply. At first, I worried that I was getting carried away by what Scripture calls “foolish disputes,” but then I remembered that we are also called to be diligent—to seek understanding.

And I thought: if God didn’t want us to question, why give us minds at all? Why give us the capacity to think, to reason, to wrestle? Because the truth is, if these questions remain unaddressed—if they are only silenced rather than explored—then something important is at stake in the faith I’ve carried since childhood.

And so I studied, and more often than not, I found myself leaving Scripture with more questions than answers—not because it lacked meaning, but because it carried so much of it. Over time, I began to understand that the Bible is not a lab report or a scientific manual. It speaks in many tones—historical, poetic, symbolic, spiritual—all at once.

And yet, that realization brought its own question: why does God allow so much room for interpretation when we struggle so deeply with uncertainty? Perhaps part of the tension lies in how we are told to approach Scripture—to read it for ourselves. While that encourages personal conviction, it can also create disparity. Different interpretations, different conclusions, and many times, division. It’s striking how a book so central to unity can also become a source of fragmentation.

And still, we return to the same place: the person of God. Because despite everything—despite the questions, the pauses, the wrestling—I cannot deny my conviction about His existence. I’ve seen too much. I’ve experienced too much. I have prayed, and I have seen answers. And for the ones that remain unanswered, I have learned, slowly, to trust in something like divine providence. If I am being honest, I am deeply convinced of God, and yet I find myself thinking—often—about what it means to believe in a good God in a world that is not.

We call Him inscrutable, and we accept that He is beyond us, but I don’t think we talk enough about what it feels like to believe in God and still not understand Him—not out of defiance or entitlement, but from a place of quiet longing. Sometimes, the most I can bring myself to pray is, “Lord, let it make more sense.” A few weeks ago, I found myself in a conversation about faith, and I struggled to recall the familiar definition in Hebrews 11, so I went back to it. And in doing so, I began to see faith differently.

Maybe faith is not just believing. Maybe, for some of us, faith is not the absence of questions, but the decision to keep asking them without walking away. I think of the man in Mark 9:24, who cried out, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief,” and there is something deeply honest about that prayer—something I find myself returning to more often than I expected.

Because when I think, sometimes too much, about why a perfect God would choose to reveal Himself in ways that can feel unclear in an imperfect world, I am reminded that faith is deeply personal—too personal to force, too sensitive to dismiss. There was a time when I didn’t understand what it meant for someone to struggle with their faith; it felt distant, almost abstract. But now, I find myself listening more, asking questions, sitting with people in their uncertainty, so that when I say, “I’m praying for you,” it is no longer a reflex—it is something I do with intention.

If I am to be honest about where I am now, I would say this: faith is far from black and white. Maybe it’s not always doubt that unsettles us—it’s not knowing where to place our certainty. And even then, I am learning to stay, to let faith carry me even when I cannot fully carry it myself, to walk with questions that have not yet found answers, and with something as small—and as fragile—as mustard-seed faith, to keep praying, “Lord, meet me where I am.”

Edit: It’s been a couple of weeks since I first wrote this piece, and in that time, I’ve continued studying and searching for clarity regarding some of the questions that weighed heavily on me while writing it. Safe to say, some things have shifted since then. Maybe someday soon, I’ll write a sequel sharing where I now find myself in my journey with faith.

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I remember coming across Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning and knowing I had to read it. In it, he recounts his experience in concentration camps and then introduces logotherapy—his attempt to answer one of life’s most pressing questions: what makes life worth living? Reading it stirred something in me. At first, it was confusion—why is life like this? Why is humanity capable of such depth of suffering, such cruelty?

Stories of hardship had always felt distant, but this felt immediate. The reality of camps, gas chambers, and the deliberate breaking of human dignity left me unsettled. And yet, in the middle of all that, Frankl insists that everything can be taken from a person except one thing: the freedom to choose their attitude in response. It sounds simple, almost too simple, but it is not. It is not a denial of suffering; it is a way of standing in it.

And if those examples feel far away, it doesn’t take much to look around and see that life, even now, is far from fair. Survival often demands sacrifice. People endure injustice, loss, and preventable pain every day. Even the idea of a stable, comfortable life can feel like a luxury. Life doesn’t arrange itself neatly. Most things are not black and white. For a long time, I kept asking why life is like this, but I began to wonder if that was the wrong question. Life is already what it is; it does not wait for our approval. So maybe the better question is: how do I live, knowing this is how life is?

Frankl offers an answer—meaning through work, through love, and through the way we respond to unavoidable suffering. At first, that grounded me. It felt solid, like something I could hold on to. But over time, and through experience, those things began to feel fragile. They felt like anchors, and life has a way of proving that anchors can fail. I have always been careful—maybe even selective—about the things I allow to give me comfort. So when I find something that steadies me, I hold on tightly. Work, people, purpose—these things matter. They give shape to my days. They give me reasons to keep going. But lately, they have not held the way I thought they would. Not out of choice—just life happening.

Two people can build their lives around each other, convinced nothing will come between them. Then life shifts. Children come, priorities change, distance grows. Eventually, those same children leave, and what once felt permanent reveals itself as something that was always in motion. Even the things we dedicate ourselves to are not guaranteed. I think about my interest in medicine—the years it took, the waiting, the uncertainty—and I find myself asking what I would have done if it never worked out. I think about love, about the people we are told will give our lives meaning, and I ask quietly: what happens when love is not enough?

At the end of it all, it begins to feel like I might be the only constant—and I don’t know if that is enough, especially in a world where everything seems to have a backup, and even those backups fail. That question—who am I when everything I lean on is gone—is no longer theoretical to me. It feels close. Personal. Lately, I have tried turning inward, sitting with myself, learning my own company. It is not perfect, but it feels safe, at least for now. And there are moments I am tempted to stay there, to withdraw a little (too much), because I am not sure how much more disappointment I can take. Apparently, hope, when stretched too thin, can start to hurt.

But even there, something in me resists the idea that I am meant to carry myself alone. Which is why, despite everything, I find myself reaching beyond myself—toward God. Not with perfect clarity or certainty, but with a quiet persistence. There are still gray areas. There are still questions. But there is also a sense that maybe I was never meant to be enough on my own. That maybe meaning is not something I create entirely by myself, but something I respond to—something I lean into.

At the same time, I know it would not be honest to turn away from the world completely. From people, from work, from love, from even suffering. These things matter. They shape us. They give texture to our lives. Maybe the problem is not that these things fail, but that I expect them not to. Maybe they were never meant to hold me completely. Maybe every condition really is both a blessing and a curse—not because it confuses us, but because it reveals how tightly we try to hold on to what was never meant to stay.

And maybe—just maybe—meaning is not found in what remains, but in how I learn to live with what doesn’t. Maybe, even in the mess of it all, there is still something worth seeing. Maybe life, as unpredictable and fragile as it is, still holds beauty. And maybe the best I can do is not just search for that beauty, but in my own small way, learn to become it.

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As we age, we come to understand—through observation and experience—that life, in all its imbalance, demands survival. We are told to get a grip, to face reality, to dare greatly. And slowly, almost without noticing, we slip into a quiet competition—with others and with ourselves. Just like that, we are in it: the uneven world of hustling and bustling.

Look around, and everyone is on the grind. People seem to be growing up too fast. Even teenagers are already trying to become something, to earn, to secure a place. No one is coming to save you, they say. And when you consider where you are coming from, you reject hardship by all means and promise yourself a better life.

In the midst of all this, I tell myself not to lose everything to the struggle. I imagine pausing often—stepping away from the noise, enjoying the quiet, the ordinary blessings of life. There is a growing appeal to simplicity: going analogue (or even hybrid), decentering social media, choosing silence.

It sounds good. It feels right. But I know how easily it can remain a fantasy. Because even peace has a price now. Basic comfort is something you have to fight for. So even the part of me that longs for a quiet life still needs money to protect that quiet.

I don’t think most people are chasing money for its own sake. We are chasing relief. And as modest as that sounds, it still requires constant striving. We say we don’t want much, but ‘’not much’ is already expensive.

There is another paradox here: the more aware you become, the more expensive life feels. As we reach for healthier living, we realize how little of what we consume is truly clean. Even the products we rely on feel uncertain. In the end, it begins to seem as though only the very wealthy can afford what should be basic.

So for now, we endure the noise—both literal and otherwise. Because to step out of it, you need resources. And to get resources, you must enter the noise. The system does not force you loudly; it simply leaves you with no real alternative.

I don’t even know how to name the feeling that comes with realizing that almost every step has to be calculated. After all, who doesn’t want good things? But we are too aware to move through life on impulse alone. “Get your head in the game,” they say. And so the idea of living freely, without restraint, begins to feel like something distant—almost fictional.

For now, I don’t know if there is a middle ground, or if we have already passed it without noticing. I just know this is where we are. I am not outside of it. I am here too—trying, like everyone else, to make something livable out of what is. Maybe the question is not how to escape it. Maybe it is whether we ever could.

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When it comes to belief systems, we often come into them much earlier than we realize. Many of the things we hold as convictions today were inherited long before we understood the reasons behind them. We do not begin by questioning culture or tradition—we grow into them. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they become a part of us.

And that is where the beauty—and complexity—of adulthood begins to unfold. At some point, we start to think more critically. We begin to question, or we are questioned. That stage becomes a turning point for many, because for the first time, belief is no longer just received—it is examined.

But faith is powerful in ways we do not always notice. It is not just belief in ideas—it is trust in the people who taught us, in the systems that shaped us, in the patterns we have come to recognize as truth. And because of that, the shift is often subtle. We think we are holding on to our beliefs, when in reality, they are holding us. So when they are challenged, it feels less like an argument and more like a personal attack.

There are countless ideas and movements one could believe in, but religion has a way of grounding people unlike most others. People arrive at beliefs in different ways. Some through deeply personal encounters—like the Damascus experience of the Apostle Paul. Others through quieter convictions, formed by listening, studying, and reflecting. And then some come to belief through philosophy, metaphysics; others through history, investigate inquiry, scientific reflection, personal experience, or even through moments of suffering that force deeper questions about meaning and existence.

For me, this was never abstract. It was personal.

I was born into a Christian home, raised within Protestant traditions, and taught its values from a young age. My beliefs took deep root early on. I narrowed myself to what I read in the Bible, to books by Protestant authors, and sermons within familiar circles. I was, in many ways, quite the fanatic—even as a child. And for a long time, nothing and no one could convince me otherwise. When confronted with critiques, I either defended my position with scripture or dismissed them altogether.

But somewhere in my mid-teens, something began to shift. I started questioning things—not all at once, but gradually. Some practices no longer seemed as clear or as logical as I once thought. Yet, I had no real space to ask these questions. Everyone around me believed as I did. So I turned inward, and sometimes outward, searching quietly. Some of my doubts found confirmation. Others only deepened.

Still, questioning one’s faith is rarely encouraged. If anything, it is often met with resistance—fear, even. I encountered that resistance myself. Conversations would stall. People grew uncomfortable. And I understood why. It feels like betrayal—to question something that has shaped you so deeply. I felt it too.

Then I was introduced to Eastern Orthodoxy.

At first, I was uncertain—more than uncertain, even resistant. It required me to confront ideas I had never considered, to study church history, to rethink what I thought I already knew. Some discoveries felt almost unacceptable, even when they were rooted in historic Christianity. It was disorienting to realize that beyond the version of faith I had known, there existed a much older, broader tradition.

And it was not easy navigating that space—especially without guidance. At times, I felt convinced. At other times, I wondered if I was simply deluding myself. What kept me going, in part, was a saying attributed to Saint Maximus the Confessor: “Prayer is higher than theology.” At some point, I stopped trying to reason my way through everything and simply prayed—asking, in the most honest way I could, for clarity.

Along the way, I found myself in conversations with people who believed very differently from me. Discussions often turned into debates, and debates into stalemates. Each side is convinced of its own truth. And it left me wondering—can two “truths” really coexist?

Then, I began to notice something.

People do not hold on to beliefs merely because they are logical or well-evidenced. They hold on to them because they have experienced them, lived them, and felt them. And when you challenge that, you are not just questioning an idea—you are questioning a reality they have come to trust. And perhaps that is where caution becomes necessary. Because what does it mean to tell someone that what they felt, what they saw, what shaped them—is not real?

Even within the same faith, belief is not immune to strain. I have seen how life—its weight, its unpredictability—can shake even the most grounded convictions. Some people, raised within strong religious systems, grow up to admit, quite honestly, that they struggle to believe at all. And maybe that is where the real question begins. Not just what we believe—but what belief does to us.

Maybe beliefs are not just things we hold, but things that shape us, anchor us, even protect us. Maybe they give us language for the unknown, structure for the uncertain, and meaning in places where there might otherwise be none. And maybe that is why they are so hard to let go of.

Sometimes, I wonder if some of us have simply not been tested in that way yet—not pushed to the point where belief begins to strain under the weight of real questions. Questions like: Where is a good God in a bad world? And perhaps that is where everything changes.

Because when life presses hard enough, belief is no longer just something we speak about—it becomes something we lean on. And even then, the answers we find do not always change what is in front of us. They do not take away the pain, or the confusion, or the things that do not make sense. At best, they help us understand them. At best, they give us a way to endure.

And maybe that is where I find myself now. Not in a place where everything is clear or settled, but in a place where I am learning that sometimes, it is not just about holding on to belief—but about allowing belief to hold me. Because if I am being honest, there are moments when left to myself, I am not certain I would hold together at all.

Perhaps that is the part we do not often say out loud—that being held is not always a weakness. Sometimes, it is what keeps us from falling apart. Sometimes, it is what gives us the quiet strength to keep going, even when nothing around us seems to resolve neatly.

And if that is true, then maybe belief was never meant to make us rigid. Maybe it was meant to make us more human. More patient. More willing to listen. Because when you begin to see how deeply belief is tied to a person’s experience—their fears, their questions, the things they have lived through—you begin to understand why it cannot simply be argued away. It must be met with care.

I am learning, slowly, that conviction does not have to come at the expense of compassion. It is possible to believe deeply and remain open. To hold what you know, and yet make space for where others are. Not to force truth, but to walk people into it—gently, patiently, honestly.

And even now, I cannot pretend that everything is steady. There are days when faith feels firm, and days when it feels like something I have to ask for all over again. Life has a way of shaking even the things we are most convinced of. And so, I find myself still praying—not always with certainty, but with hope. Not always with clarity, but with a quiet willingness to keep seeking.

So maybe the question is not whether there is something stronger than religion. Maybe it is that belief itself—lived, tested, questioned, and held onto—is what gives it its strength. Or perhaps, more simply, it is that in trying to make sense of everything we cannot control, we all reach for something that will hold us when we no longer can.

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And, good for me, I was able to blame nostalgia for them. Often, I'd be by myself—just going about my routine—and launch into a full-blown reminiscence about my childhood. Usually, my heart warms and I end up smiling to myself. Other times, it breaks at memories I wish I had the superpower to go back and undo.

This morning, while at my desk—without even trying to remember anything—was one of the former. The whole rhythm of elementary and secondary school came rushing back. Overhearing a school assembly some yards away did that to me. I'm not sure what it was exactly—the feeling of belonging, or living with little to no care in the world, or something I'd rather admit I can't quite describe.

And right there, I began thinking about what they say about aging. That you grow up and do away with childish things. That reality dawns. That you grow a thick skin so you don't collapse like a Lego set when life hits hard. Yada yada yada. And despite being in the early stretch of adulthood, I've already had my fair share of that "reality." Often, when it feels like too much, all I can think of is crawling into a closet and screaming my lungs out. (In reality, I do—but the sound never comes.)

Then I find myself thinking about sonder—about how "real life" shapes most of us. How easy, or not so easy, it is to transform into someone else entirely, in both directions. Still, I keep finding that no matter how hard the gale rocks the boat, some things never leave. No matter how much you adapt, or try to outgrow parts of yourself. Maybe that's what people mean when they talk about the inner child—not something you abandon, but something that lingers. Reshaped, quieter, but still there. And that, I think, is exactly where nostalgia fits in.

Six months ago, I took a break from writing publicly—after being consistent for the better part of two years, across almost six years in total. Despite being quick to call it burnout, I wasn't wrong. But as I would come to realize, it was deeper than that. And as God would have it, a lot was happening to me in that season—thankfully, not all at once.

Impostor syndrome. Overstimulation. The constant tension between wanting to do meaningful work and feeling like I was performing instead of living. All of it began to wear on my mental health. I didn't always know where the line was, and over time, that cost me. So, in the name of protecting my peace, I did what any of us would do—I pretended all was well to those around me. (I know they'll read this. Fingers crossed they don't come for my head.)

I went through a season of decentering social media, trying to live more in the present—no thanks to my overthinking brain—and deliberately choosing a quieter, more grounded life. At one point, I found myself counting matchsticks one by one. I promise you don't want to know how that ended. I simply had to settle for prioritizing the non-negotiables. And eventually, I made peace with the idea that I might not return to writing publicly at all. I told myself I could live with that.

Then, of course—"Man plans, God laughs." Just when you think you're healing, settling into a new rhythm, finally moving on, your life shifts again. For me, that shift often comes through contemplation. I think that's part of what makes life fascinating — the oblivion of it. The way it keeps asking you to be flexible before you've finished adjusting to the last thing.

So I questioned the decisions I'd made. I asked myself whether it would all be worth it. I resisted making room for new interruptions, even the promising ones. I kept telling myself not to entertain the inner child—the desire to write again—even when the nostalgia hit differently. I wanted to play it safe. To keep my eyes on the big picture and almost forget to live in the present while I was at it.

Through all of it, one thing has kept becoming clearer. This was never just about me. Contrary to what we're often told, I am not the main character in this story—God is. I am simply a willing part of a greater narrative. And as much as I try to understand my own patterns and decisions, I keep finding myself pointed back to Him.

Some days are monotonous. Without realizing it, I'll snap out of a fog and see that I've relapsed, broken a commitment, or wasted time I can't get back. Somewhere in all of that, I stopped expecting grand moments or dramatic turning points. I stopped feeling the need to announce anything. What's so special about it? I'd think.

But as I keep returning to how much of a faith journey this really is, I find myself both comforted and terrified. I told a friend some weeks ago how scary faith feels to me. Like standing in uncertainty and choosing to trust anyway. Moving forward without knowing how things will unfold. It's uneven. It's unpredictable. And some days, progress is almost impossible to recognize.

Living, in itself, is a risk. Choosing, trusting, starting again—none of it comes with guarantees. And yet, here we are, doing it anyway. So I suppose it's fitting that I have found myself here again—writing. Not with certainty or a clear plan, but with the quiet awareness that some things don't leave you as easily as you think they will.

Maybe this isn't a return. Maybe it's just an acknowledgment—of what remained, even in the stillness. And, in light of everything that lingers, everything that refuses to leave, one thing stays true: the Lord is good.

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