Sometimes I wonder how many of my problems are actually problems.

Not hypothetical ones. Not the things that could happen. The ones that exist right now.

When I really look at my life, objectively, it feels almost uncomfortable to admit this, but...

I’m okay.

I am currently reading 101 Essays that Will Change Your Perspective by Brianna Wiest, and this particular sentence struck me. “The only problem with your life is the way you think about it. Objectively, you have everything you could ever want or need, yet your unhappiness simply comes from a lack of appreciation.”

I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

I have people who love me. I have both of my parents. I have food. A place to sleep. I’m healthy. I’m well traveled. I’m pursuing a higher education. I get to write. I have dreams that feel possible.

If someone else were handed my life exactly as it is today, they might call it a blessing.

So why do I spend so much time feeling like something is missing?

I don’t think it’s because my life lacks anything.

I think my attention does.

I’ve realized that my mind has this strange habit of overlooking what already exists in order to search for what doesn’t.

I’ll accomplish something I’ve wanted for months, maybe years. I celebrate it for a few hours. Then my brain quietly moves the finish line.

Okay... what’s next?

It’s almost automatic. As if satisfaction is something that belongs in the future. As if happiness is always waiting one achievement away.

It’s strange.

Because if you asked me to list everything that’s good about my life, I could.

But living as though those things are good? That’s different. Appreciation isn’t the same thing as acknowledgment.

I can acknowledge something every day without actually appreciating it.

I acknowledge my family. My health. My opportunities. The people who text me first. The ability to wake up without fear.

But acknowledgment is passive.

Appreciation asks you to stay there a little longer.

I used to think gratitude was something that naturally happened to grateful people. Now I think it’s more like exercising a muscle.

A practice.

Something you become better at because you keep choosing it. Maybe that’s why appreciation feels so fragile.

Our minds are incredibly good at adapting.

The apartment you once dreamed of becomes normal. The friendships you prayed for become expected. The healthy relationship becomes routine. The freedom you wanted becomes your baseline. Eventually, extraordinary things stop feeling extraordinary simply because they’ve become familiar.

I don’t think unhappiness always comes from having too little. Sometimes it comes from forgetting how much.

From treating answered prayers like ordinary Tuesdays. From becoming so accustomed to what once amazed you that you stop seeing it altogether.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking things like,

”I’ll finally be happy when…”

When I graduate.

When I make more money.

When I travel more.

When I have this.

When I become that.

And maybe those things will make me happy. For a little while.

But if I don’t learn how to appreciate what I already have, why would I suddenly know how to appreciate everything I’ll have later? The mind doesn’t magically become grateful because life improves. It just finds new things to chase.

I think that’s the hardest part to admit.

Because it means my happiness isn’t waiting on better circumstances.

It’s waiting on a better way of seeing the circumstances I already have.

Maybe the only problem with my life isn’t my life at all. Maybe it’s the way I’ve been looking at it.

Not a lot, just forever

Intertwined, sewn together

Like the rock bears the weather

Not a lot, just forever

There’s something so comforting about how little Adrianne Lenker needs to say.

Most songwriters spend entire verses trying to explain love. Lenker gives us sixteen words and somehow paints the picture perfectly.

Not a lot, just forever.

The first time I heard it, I thought it sounded silly. Not because it’s funny, but because of how impossible it is.

It’s the emotional equivalent of saying, “I don’t need much. Just everything.”

It’s the kind of request we pretend isn’t a request at all. We tell ourselves we don’t need permanence, that we’re okay with change, that we know nothing lasts.

But somewhere underneath all that maturity is this embarrassingly simple desire: Stay. Forever.

Not forever in the cinematic sense. Not endless sunsets and handwritten letters.

Just, don’t leave.

Then she follows it with:

Intertwined, sewn together.

I keep thinking about why she chose that word. Sewn. Not glued. Not tied. Sewn.

Sewing is patient. It happens one stitch at a time. Tiny moments that don’t look important on their own until suddenly you have something that holds together because of every small act that came before.

It’s like a conversation before bed. Knowing how someone takes their coffee. Waiting for them to finish their thought instead of finishing it for them.

Love, in Lenker’s world, isn’t one overwhelming feeling. It’s accumulation.

And then comes the line I can’t stop returning to:

Like the rock bears the weather.

It’s such an unsentimental image.

A rock doesn’t overcome the weather or win against it. It simply exists through it. Heavy rain. Strong winds. Freezing snow. Boiling summers. Time leaves its fingerprints everywhere.

The rock is never untouched. And maybe that’s the point.

Love isn’t about staying exactly the same person beside someone forever. It’s about allowing ourselves to be changed by the seasons without walking away from each other.

I’ve always loved that Lenker writes about permanence without pretending permanence is easy.

Even her metaphors understand erosion.

By the time she repeats, “Not a lot, just forever,” it doesn’t sound naive anymore.

It sounds like someone who’s seen enough of life to know exactly how much they’re asking for.

Forever isn’t a promise of perfection. It’s a promise to bear the weather.

And maybe that’s why these four lines linger long after the song ends. They’re almost too quiet to notice, yet they somehow articulate one of the oldest human longings with impossible precision.

We don’t really want grand declarations.

We just want someone who will still be there after the rain.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about hobbies. Not in the “five hobbies that will improve your life” kind of way.

Just hobbies.

Things people do because they want to. Sometimes, I find myself measuring everything by its usefulness.

If I pick up a camera, can it become a side hustle? If I learn a skill, can I put it on my resume? Can I make money off of this? If I spend a decent amount of time doing this, what am I getting back from it?

At times, this can be a very strange and transactional way of thinking.

We’re raised in a world that constantly asks us to justify our choices. We’re encouraged to be productive and ambitious and told that we absolutely must make good use of our time.

None of those things are bad.

But I sometimes wonder what gets lost when every interest has to become an achievement. Every hobby has to become a business. Every talent has to become a career.

I don’t think we talk enough about the joy of doing something for absolutely no reason.

Not because it helps someone. Not because it makes money or is productive. Just because you enjoy it.

A lot of us have been taught to measure the value of our actions by how much they impact other people.

How helpful are you? How accomplished are you? How useful are you?

And while those things matter, they can’t be the only things that matter.

Because then you wake up one day and realize you’ve become really good at doing things out of obligation. You’ve become really good at meeting expectations and being needed.

But not always good at asking yourself what you actually want.

A question I think people should sit with more is “What do I genuinely enjoy?”

Not what looks impressive. Not what would make a good story.

Not what would benefit me five years from now. Not what will make my parents happy.

What do I enjoy right now? It’s a surprisingly difficult question.

Maybe because desire is quieter than obligation. Obligation is loud. It comes with deadlines, expectations, responsibilities, consequences etc.

Desire is much softer. It sounds more like curiosity.

More like, “That seems fun” and “I’ve always wanted to try that.”

Back in February, I started learning how to play drums. Sure, it’s completely unnecessary. But it’s also been incredibly exciting and something I’ve always wanted to learn how to do.

There’s something really freeing about following those thoughts.

Not every interest needs to become part of your identity. Not every hobby needs to become your purpose. Not every passion needs to pay your bills.

Sometimes a hobby can just be a hobby.

Dancing can just be dancing. Photography can just be photography. Making music can just be making music.

PLAYING DRUMS CAN JUST BE PLAYING DRUMS!!

You don’t have to justify every joy you have.

You don’t have to earn your interests by turning them into something productive.

There’s a version of us that exists outside of what we can offer the world and other people…one that simply wants, wonders, creates, and enjoys.

It’s funny how quickly we label disagreement as a problem.

People will challenge our perspectives and then we wonder if we’re incompatible. When someone pushes back on an opinion we have, suddenly the conversation feels uncomfortable.

Honestly I don’t think I want people to agree with me all the time. Maybe that’s a strange thing to admit.

Of course I want to be understood. I want people to listen to me and take my feelings into consideration. But I’ve never wanted someone to just nod their head at everything I say. In fact, that kind of scares me a little.

If every opinion I have is automatically accepted, every decision I make is automatically supported, and every thought I share is immediately agreed with, it starts to feel like an echo chamber.

I’m getting an audience.

One of the things I appreciate most about the people closest to me is that they have minds of their own.

They notice things I don’t.

They push back when they disagree.

Not because they’re trying to win an argument, but because they’re bringing their own perspective into the room. That to me is one of the most valuable things another person can offer.

The conversations that stayed with me the longest were the ones where I walked away thinking, “I never considered that.”

Disagreement forces us to be curious. It asks us to explain ourselves more clearly. It asks us to consider that our perspective might not be the only one.

And whether we end up changing our minds or not, there’s something valuable about that process.

While disagreement is good, unnecessary and extraneous differing can be incredibly unhelpful at times. It’s ok to have your own thoughts and opinions, but that doesn't mean every moment requires you to challenge or debate others.

Sometimes you don’t have to say anything, and whether you agree or disagree can be irrelevant. Immediately responding with "Well, actually..." or "I don't think you're seeing it correctly" feels dismissive, even if the disagreement is technically valid.

We can admit social media has of course made this harder.

We’re constantly sorting people into categories of “agree” and “disagree.” We follow people who think like us. Algorithms show us more of what we already believe. We then begin to curate spaces where our opinions are rarely challenged and widely accepted.

So when disagreement does happen, it can feel bigger than it actually is. Like a threat instead of a conversation. But some of the healthiest relationships I’ve seen aren’t built on two people always agreeing. They’re built on two people feeling safe enough to disagree.

There’s a difference.

One requires sameness. The other requires trust.

I’m still figuring this out myself.

There are definitely moments where disagreement makes me defensive. Moments where I want validation more than honesty. But more and more I’m starting to appreciate people who are willing to tell me what they actually think.

Not what they think I want to hear. Not what will keep the peace. What they genuinely think.

Because if we’re all just agreeing with each other out of fear of conflict, are we really getting to know each other? Or are we just being accommodated?

I don’t want someone who agrees with everything I say. I want someone who thinks deeply enough to challenge me when they don’t.

I thought being hard on myself was the same thing as holding myself accountable.

If I made a mistake, I would replay it over and over in my head. If I wasn’t where I wanted to be yet, I’d convince myself I wasn’t working hard enough.

Self-criticism is what keeps so many people motivated. I thought if I was too understanding with myself, I’d become complacent.

Over time, I’ve realized that the voice in my head wasn’t pushing me forward. It was just exhausting me.

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us learned that accountability has to be harsh. That growth requires shame. That if we’re gentle with ourselves, we’re making excuses.

I don’t think that’s true anymore.

Because honesty and cruelty are not the same thing.

You can admit that you handled something poorly without deciding you’re a bad person.

You can acknowledge that a relationship ended because of mistakes you made without carrying that mistake as your identity forever.

You can recognize that you’ve been procrastinating, avoiding difficult conversations, or repeating unhealthy patterns without tearing yourself apart over it.

I’ve noticed that when I’m struggling, my first instinct is often to choose one extreme or the other. Either I blame myself for everything, or I try to convince myself that nothing is my fault.

Neither one is particularly helpful. Real growth seems to happen somewhere in the middle.

It’s looking at yourself honestly and saying, “Yeah, I could’ve handled that better.”

And then saying, “But I’m still worthy of patience while I figure it out.”

I think that’s the part people miss.

Being kind to yourself isn’t pretending everything is okay.

It’s not avoiding responsibility.

It’s not refusing to acknowledge your flaws.

It’s being willing to face the truth without turning yourself into the villain of your own story.

I’ve been trying to talk to myself the way I would talk to someone I care about. If a friend came to me feeling ashamed about a mistake, I wouldn’t tell them they’re hopeless. I wouldn’t tell them they’ll never change. I’d probably remind them that being human means getting things wrong sometimes.

For some reason, that’s often harder to offer ourselves. We think self-compassion has to be earned.

We’re afraid that if we let ourselves off the hook, we’ll stop growing.

But I’ve found the opposite to be true.

The moments I’ve grown the most weren’t the moments I hated myself into changing. They were the moments I was honest enough to admit where I was falling short and kind enough to believe I could do better.

You don’t have to choose between accountability and compassion.

You can hold yourself accountable. You can tell yourself the truth.

And you can still offer yourself grace while you’re learning how to become the person you want to be.

I’ve noticed that whenever something good enters my life, a small part of me immediately starts preparing for it to leave.

Not because I want it to. Not because I’m unhappy. But because somewhere along the way, I learned that good things aren’t guaranteed.

A new friendship starts feeling meaningful, and I wonder how long it will last. A relationship feels healthy, and I start looking for signs that something is wrong.

It’s strange how quickly fear can turn a good thing into something stressful. Instead of being present, we’re bracing ourselves. Instead of enjoying the moment, we’re trying to predict the ending.

I’ve done this more times than I’d like to admit.

The problem is that when we’re constantly waiting for something to end, we stop allowing ourselves to enjoy it while it’s here.

Theres no doubt this can be an issue in dating too.

Things just started and we begin treating people like they’re already halfway out the door.

We hold back parts of ourselves. We become guarded. We search for reasons to leave before they can leave us. And sometimes, in trying so hard to avoid heartbreak, we create the very distance we’re afraid of.

We must remind ourselves that uncertainty is part of every good thing. Friendships and relationships come with the risk that they might not last forever.

But that’s never been a reason not to experience it.

A song ends, but we still listen to it. A sunset fades, but we still stop to admire it.

Not everything meaningful is meant to last forever. Sometimes its value comes from the fact that it even existed at all.

So just let things be good.

Trust yourself enough to enjoy what’s good while it’s here. Because one day it might end. But one day it also might not.

I’d rather experience something beautiful fully than spend the entire time preparing for its loss.

For a long time, I thought the things I wanted were outside of me.

The dream school. The healthy relationship. The opportunities. The life I kept imagining for myself.

I thought getting those things would finally make me feel worthy. But lately, I’ve started to wonder if it’s actually the other way around. Because it’s hard to grasp on to something you don’t believe you deserve.

I’ve noticed that sometimes we say we want something, but become uncomfortable when it gets close to us. We want love, but question every intimate moment. We want opportunities, but talk ourselves out of applying. We want success, but feel guilty when good things happen.

It’s like we’re standing in front of an open door while convincing ourselves it wasn’t meant for us anyway.

I don’t think we realize how much our self-worth shapes our lives. Not in obvious ways, but in the small decisions we make every day. The opportunities we don’t pursue. The standards that we lower. The moments we stay quiet because we assume someone else is more talented or more deserving.

I know this feeling because I’ve lived it. I’ve spent time waiting until I felt “ready” enough or “good” enough, as if confidence was something that would eventually arrive and give me permission to go after what I wanted. It never did.

What I’ve learned instead is that nobody feels 100% deserving. Most people are figuring it out as they go. I am still figuring it out as I go. The difference is that some people move forward while they’re still uncertain. They apply anyway. They speak up anyway. They take up space anyway.

I started acting like the confident version of myself long before I fully believed she existed. Somewhere along the way, what felt like an act became second nature, and one day I realized I wasn’t pretending anymore.

In my life, and I’m sure many others, the self doubt and destructive mindset has shown up in relationships and friendships the most. Sometimes we say we want a healthy relationship, but when someone genuinely treats us well, we struggle to trust it. We overanalyze. We second-guess. Then we wait for them to change their mind about us.

Maybe that’s because accepting healthy love requires believing you’re worthy of receiving it. If you’ve spent years feeling like love has to be earned, consistency and respect can feel unfamiliar. Even when a person can be exactly what you’ve been looking for. Maybe deserving isn’t something you earn after proving yourself.

Maybe it’s something you decide.

The life you’re dreaming about isn’t reserved for people who are smarter, prettier, wealthier, or more confident than you. It’s reserved for the people willing to believe they belong there too.

I don’t think becoming deserving is the goal. I think remembering that you always were is.

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For the longest time, I thought being good at reading people meant spotting “red flags” early. Figuring out who was fake and who had bad intentions. Determining whether or not I could trust someone. Like if I paid close enough attention, I could protect myself from being hurt.

But the older I get, the more I realize reading people isn’t really about judgment. It’s about understanding.

It’s noticing that the person who comes across as cold might actually be scared of being vulnerable. That the loudest person in the room isn’t always the most confident. Sometimes they’re the one who needs reassurance the most.

It’s understanding that the friend who always cancels plans isn’t necessarily flaky. Maybe they’re overwhelmed. Maybe they’re carrying something they don’t know how to talk about.

When you start looking beyond people’s behavior and become curious about what’s underneath it, everything changes.

Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with them?” you start asking, “What happened to them?”

You realize everyone is reacting to a story you can’t fully see. Childhood experiences. Family dynamics. Heartbreaks. Insecurities. Things they don’t post online. Things they might not even have words for yet.

And no, understanding someone doesn’t mean excusing harmful behavior. Boundaries still matter. Protecting your peace still matters.

But there’s a difference between assuming someone’s character and trying to understand their humanity.

I’ve found that some of the deepest connections in my life came from choosing curiosity over conclusions.

Because most people spend their lives wanting to be understood, not analyzed.

The goal isn’t to gain power over people. It isn’t learning some secret formula to predict their every move. It’s learning how to meet people where they are. To see them clearly.

To hold space for the parts of them that make sense once you know the story.

And maybe that’s what real emotional intelligence is. Not being the smartest person in the room. Not having everyone figured out.

Just remembering that every person you meet is carrying an invisible world inside them, and approaching that world with a little more softness than judgment.

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There is no doubt that modern society places romantic relationships at the center of fulfillment and adulthood. Strangely enough, this is often at the expense of friendships, even though friendships frequently provide us with deeper connection and longevity.

Romantic novels, music, and movies became prevalent in distinct, successive waves, with roots in the late 18th century Romantic Movement (1780-1810), and peaking in the 19th century musical era (1820-1900). We’ve been constantly exposed to propaganda that frames finding a romantic partner as the “main goal” of adulthood, and the final achievement being having a family, which is another writing piece entirely. This hierarchy suggests that once you and I enter a serious relationship, friendships will naturally have to take the backseat. Is that really necessary?

While romantic relationships in our lives may come and go, close friendships often stand the test of time. For most, they span years, even decades. In our lifetime, friends are usually more present during the multiple stages of our lives. They’ve seen most if not all of our “phases.” They played tag with us on the playground, witnessed our brace face era, and even comforted us during high school breakups. Friends offer support without the pressure of exclusivity or any long term expectations. Despite this, society rarely acknowledges the pain of losing a friendship, even though friendship breakups can be just as emotionally damaging as romantic ones. The lack of recognition reinforces the idea that friendships are less significant, even when they play a major role in our emotional well-being.

Another reason romantic love is overvalued is the way commitment is painted. Commitment is often associated exclusively with romance, while friendships are assumed to be flexible or optional. We are expected to cancel plans with friends for romantic partners, but not the other way around. This imbalance suggests that romantic intimacy is the only form of love worthy of prioritization. In reality, our friendships can involve vulnerability and loyalty without the pressures placed on romantic relationships.

Many will argue that romantic love deserves greater importance because it involves emotional and physical intimacy, as well as potential for marriage and family. While yes, this is true, scientific evidence suggests that while physical intimacy is not a strict biological necessity for survival, physical touch and emotional connection are critical for mental health and over-all well being. We can thrive without sexual activity, but long term lack of affectionate non-sexual touch can lead to “touch starvation,” increasing anxiety and depression.

By valuing romantic love above all else, we risk isolating individuals who are single and undervaluing the relationships that often sustain people through heartbreak and personal growth. I do want to emphasize, romantic love is not the problem. The problem is the assumption that it should outweigh all other relationships in our lives. Recognizing the importance of friendship alongside romance allows for a more balanced and inclusive understanding of connection and fulfillment.

Now send this to your bestie <3

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Sources:

The Met: Romanticism https://www.metmuseum.org/essays/romanticism

National Library of Medicine: Physical Contact and Loneliness https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC7250541/

Psychology Today: The Vital Importance of Human Touch https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/everyone-on-top/202108/the-vital-importance-of-human-touch