Guilt is different. Guilt has a way of turning the past into a crime scene, making me revisit every conversation, every decision, every silence, every little detail, as though somewhere in all of it lies the exact moment I fumbled everything.

I keep wondering whether I should have tried harder, spoken sooner, stayed longer, been less emotional, less complicated, less intense, less me. I keep searching for the version of myself who could have somehow prevented the ending, (or ended the yellow dress theory) because blaming myself feels easier than accepting the far more inconvenient truth. I could have done everything I knew how to do and still not gotten what I wanted. And honestly, that is such a hard pill to swallow. What makes it worse is that I had already given that possibility a life inside my head. I had imagined what it would feel like, where it would fit into my life, what would come after. I had quietly made room for it before it had even become mine. I had attached memories to something that technically had not happened yet, built expectations around moments that never arrived, and allowed myself to believe in a future that existed mostly in my imagination. So when it fell apart, I was not only losing what existed but instead I was losing everything I had mentally built around it. An entire future disappeared without ever having the decency to actually exist. That kind of loss is strange because there is nothing tangible to hold onto, yet somehow the absence feels completely real. And I struggle with the whole “it wasn’t meant for you” philosophy because, respectfully, that sentence does absolutely nothing for me when I am actually hurting. I know life does not always give me what I want. I know there are supposed to be better things waiting, better people, better opportunities, better endings. I have heard the entire motivational-quote starter pack. But when I wanted something specific, I wanted that specific thing. I was not secretly asking the universe for a substitute.

I had already chosen what I wanted in my head, already imagined how it would exist in my life, already convinced myself that there was something worth believing in. So being told to look forward to something better does not magically erase the fact that I am still grieving what I wanted in the first place. The worst part is how quickly I turn the outcome into a judgement about myself. I start dissecting everything. What did I lack? What did someone else have that I did not? Why was I not enough? Why did it work there and not here? And at some point, the question stops being “Why did this not work?” and becomes “What is wrong with me?” That is where I really begin to do damage. I take one situation, one person, one rejection, one failure, and somehow turn it into a full blown character assessment, as though one outcome has somehow uncovered classified evidence that I am fundamentally unworthy.

The delusion is almost impressive. I know better than that. I know another person’s decision cannot possibly be an objective measurement of my value. I know failure does not make me incapable, rejection does not make me undesirable, and losing something does not automatically mean I was not enough. But knowing something and actually feeling it are two completely different things.

When something matters deeply, logic tends to clock out and emotions take over the upper department. I can understand that I was not necessarily at fault and still spend hours mentally putting myself on trial. I am also learning that life is not particularly interested in fairness. Wanting something sincerely does not guarantee that I will have it. Giving my best does not guarantee that my best will be enough for a particular outcome. Love does not come with a contract, and effort does not give me ownership. Sometimes circumstances simply do not align, and there is no satisfying explanation waiting at the end of the story. Sometimes there is simply an ending I did not want. And I think that is what I find hardest to accept, there is nowhere to put the blame.

I cannot argue with timing. I cannot negotiate with circumstances. I cannot send a strongly worded email to the universe demanding an explanation and a refund. I cannot go back and edit the past like it is some badly written draft. All I can do is sit with the fact that something mattered to me and still slipped out of my hands. I do not want to force every loss into some inspirational bullshit about growth.

Not everything needs to become a lesson. Not every heartbreak needs to make me stronger. Sometimes I just wanted something, and I did not get it. Sometimes it genuinely sucks. Sometimes I still think about it. Sometimes I still wonder how different things could have been if one tiny detail had changed. That does not necessarily mean I am stuck. It means I cared. I am allowed to be disappointed without turning that disappointment into self-hatred. I am allowed to miss what I wanted without convincing myself that I should have wanted something else. I am allowed to admit that I would have chosen a different ending if I had been given the choice. There is nothing pathetic about that, and there is nothing embarrassing about having wanted something badly enough for its absence to hurt. I may lose again. I will probably want things that never become mine. There will be doors I cannot force open, people I cannot make choose me, opportunities that arrive at the wrong time, and futures that remain permanently hypothetical. That is simply part of being alive, whether I like it or not. The goal cannot be to want nothing just because wanting comes with the possibility of losing. I do not want to become so obsessed with protecting myself that I stop allowing anything to matter. If I have to lose, I would rather lose after genuinely caring than spend my life pretending I was too detached to care in the first place. I would rather admit that I wanted it, that I loved it, that I hoped for it, that I saw something beautiful in it, and that losing it fucked me up for a while. At least that is honest. At least I did not betray my own feelings simply to make the ending look easier than it was. I wanted something. I gave it what I could. It did not happen. That is painful, but it is not a verdict on me. I do not need to keep digging through the wreckage looking for the exact version of myself who could have prevented it. I was who I was. I did what I knew to do with what I knew at the time. The outcome was never entirely mine to control, and perhaps that is the part I have to learn to live with it.

I do not need a perfectly packaged lesson or a convenient “everything happens for a reason” conclusion. I can simply acknowledge that I wanted something, that I lost it, and that it hurt.

Wanting something and losing it does not make me foolish, and failing to get it does not make me a failure. Some things hurt because they mattered. Some things leave even when I wanted them to stay. I can grieve that without making myself the villain of my own story.

I would still rather have loved something enough for its absence to hurt than become someone who never lets anything matter out of fear that it might leave. And maybe that is enough for now. I wanted it, I cared about it, I hoped for it, and it did not happen. I do not have to rewrite that truth to make myself feel better. I only have to stop punishing myself for having wanted something that was never entirely mine to control.

with love,

Khizra

i was thinking about this today and i don’t even know why, but i feel like none of us actually know what we’re doing. we just somehow wake up every morning and continue. like we have plans, we have things to do, we tell people “yeah i’m figuring it out” as if there is actually a document somewhere telling us what we’re supposed to be doing. XD

i look at people sometimes lol and genuinely wonder if they’re as confused as i am. someone will look so put together and i’ll be thinking wow, this person has their shit together, and then i remember that they probably went home and stared at their ceiling for two hours wondering what they’re doing with their life. maybe everyone is just really good at pretending. and honestly, i find that kind of comforting.

because why are we expected to know everything so early? at 18 you’re supposed to know what you want to study, then what job you want, then where you want to live, then who you want to marry, then what your entire life is going to look like. and if you don’t know, suddenly you’re behind. behind WHAT? who are we racing?

i don’t even know what i wanted two years ago anymore. i wanted things so badly and now some of them don’t even cross my mind. there are people i thought i’d always be close to and now i genuinely have no idea what they’re doing. there are things i used to spend so much money on that i wouldn’t even buy now. even my taste in music changes every five business days. so how exactly am i supposed to sit here and confidently tell someone what i want five years from now?

and honestly, i don’t think everything needs some big explanation either. sometimes you just stop wanting the same things. you don’t even know when it happened. one day you’re completely into something and then a few months later OR YEARS OR A DECADE you’re like, “eh, whatever.” and obviously my first instinct is to sit there and investigate it like i’m solving a crime XD. why don’t i like this anymore? when did i change my mind? did something happen? was there a specific moment? maybe there isn’t anything to solve. maybe i just changed my mind. that’s it.

i do this with people too. i’ll randomly think about someone i used to talk to all the time and realise i don’t even miss them. and then i start wondering when that happened because i definitely used to care. maybe i just slowly stopped. maybe there was no exact day. maybe i don’t need to find it.

same with old versions of myself, actually. i look at old pictures and sometimes i’m like girl… what were you wearing? and then i remember i genuinely thought i looked amazing.but i don’t want to make fun of that version of me too much either because she liked what she liked. she didn’t know what i know now. and i’m probably doing things right now that future me is going to look at and question very seriously.

i think that’s what makes growing up so weird. you don’t really notice yourself changing because you’re with yourself every day. you just keep doing things and then randomly realise, oh, i don’t actually think like that anymore. i don’t want that anymore. i don’t care about this anymore. and sometimes you don’t even have a proper reason.

and maybe that’s not even a bad thing. why do we act like we’re supposed to decide everything once and then stick to it forever? i don’t even like the same things i liked two years ago( or maybe i still do, lol), how am i supposed to know what i’ll want five years from now? i’ll probably change my mind again anyway. and honestly, that’s fine. if i want something different later, i’ll deal with it later.

right now i just want to figure out what makes sense for me without turning every little change into some huge identity crisis.

i think i’ve spent way too much time trying to understand why i am the way i am when sometimes the answer is literally just… because. i like something today. maybe i won’t like it next year. i care about someone now. maybe someday i won’t. i want something now. maybe i’ll wake up one day and decide i don’t want it anymore. and that’s probably going to keep happening.

anyway, i don’t really know where i was going with this. i started writing because i was thinking about how nobody really knows what they’re doing and somehow ended up questioning half of their personality.

very productive use of my time. hehe

- xoxo, Khizra 💋

falling in love knowing it won’t last ,but falling anyway. trying to make every bit of every second count. holding his face in my hands. feeling his warm breath against my back as we drift into peaceful sleep. running my fingers through his soft hair. kissing him as if time had stopped, as if forever could fit into a single moment. and then fearing another day because another day means we’re one step closer to goodbye.

we cry, i cry, even though neither of us wants to make this harder than it already is. i watch him cry in my arms. he watches me cry in his. sometimes there are no words left to say. just tears that understand each other.

we fell in love knowing, from the very beginning, that we would probably never get to stay together.but we still did. and maybe that’s what makes us brave. maybe that’s what makes us human. to let someone touch not just your hands, but your soul. your mind. your body. your spirit. to choose love despite knowing it may leave you with nothing but memories.

my love,

i hope that one day you can move on. i hope you find another love, someone who gets to keep you in all the ways i couldn’t.

but if life ever decides to be kinder than we expected…

if one afternoon, years from now, you happen to find me waiting near the gate, i’ll still be there, quietly waiting for you.

take my hand. let’s run away to the place we used to dream about. we’ll build the little life we never got to have. we’ll become each other’s shelter.

you’ll leave for work every morning, and i’ll wait for you. i’ll make dinner, and we’ll sit beneath the warm yellow chandelier in our dining room while i ask how your day was. you’ll tell me about the little things, and i’ll listen like i always wanted to.

then one evening, you’ll look at me and say,

“tomorrow is sunday.”

i’ll smile before you even finish.

“movie?”

you’ll nod.

there’ll be no more nights ending too soon. no more waiting for monday to take you away. and when the day ends, you’re still here.

thank you for letting me love you anyway.

there are nights when i don’t even miss a person. i just miss having someone to exist with. someone i’d text without thinking twice. someone i’d tell about the dumbest thing that happened during my day. someone whose silence never felt awkward. it’s strange how loneliness isn’t always about being alone.

sometimes it’s about knowing the one person you want to talk to is seven seas away… or maybe even further than that. not just because of distance, but because life happened.

i don’t even know if they’ll ever text me back. or if one day my phone will randomly light up with their name. maybe the next time they call, it’ll only be because they need me. maybe they won’t call at all. i don’t know. and i hate that, every now and then, i still catch myself wondering. and no, i’m not waiting for anyone.

i’m just saying some habits don’t leave as easily as people do. there are days when life feels so full that i forget all of this ever existed. then there are evenings when the sun goes down, everything gets a little quieter, and somehow my mind starts wandering to places i’ve promised myself i wouldn’t revisit.

i don’t think i miss what we had.

i think i miss the comfort of believing there would always be someone at the other end of the conversation. maybe that’s why the end of the day feels different. everyone’s asleep. the world’s quieter. and somehow that’s exactly when you wish someone was beside you, even if it’s just to sit there in silence.

i guess that’s what i’ve been grieving all along.

not the person. the feeling of having someone who made the world feel a little less heavy.

maybe one day these thoughts will stop showing up uninvited. until then,

i’ll just let them sit here instead of letting them live rent-free in my head..

-Khizra

like empty cups lined on a shelf

forgetting the ocean already placed

quietly within ourselves

the breath that comes without asking

the sky that stays without claim

hands that still reach for warmth

a heart that still remembers a name

these are the نعمت nemat we pass by

like strangers on a crowded street

too busy chasing distant lights

to notice what rests at our feet

and maybe it is written in us

this hunger that never sleeps

to want a little more each time

until the wanting is all we keep

but in that endless asking

we scatter pieces of our soul

trading presence for illusion

mistaking fragments for the whole

Allah gave in ways so gentle

we called them ordinary days

while we ran after louder dreams

lost inside our own maze

and one day we will pause

with tired hands and restless sight

realizing we had everything

but never held it tight

so sit with what is already yours

before it slips like silent air

for the heart that learns to see enough

finds a kind of peace nowhere else is there

xoxo

khizra

it devours

each second dissolving into the next

with a quiet, merciless precision

and i

i stand in the middle of it

unraveling

terrified

that i will misplace myself

somewhere between who i was

and who i am expected to become

my body feels transient

like a borrowed vessel

aching under the weight of unspoken things

my dreams linger

unfinished, unsheltered

like fragile constellations

fading before they are ever named

and love

love terrifies me the most

it arrives like a storm

intoxicating, consuming (hard to digest)

yet leaves behind the haunting suspicion

that it was never meant to stay

so i beg for stillness

i try to quiet my thoughts

but they surge

restless, relentless

colliding against the walls of my mind

as though silence itself is something to fear

i restrain my heart

thread it with caution

teach it restraint

because devotion this profound

feels indistinguishable from ruin

and in this dissonance

between longing and retreat

i begin to understand

it is not merely time that escapes me

but the fragments of my own existence

because what frightens me most

is not solitude

but the possibility

that when everything finally comes to rest

there will be nothing left of me

to witness it

a small note

i need to pause

before i lose myself in my own words.

-khizra

a faint, red pangea blooms in the white of my eye, leaking into the iris. under the dim, jaundiced light of the cramped bathroom, it darkens, becoming a small, stubborn pool staring back at me. it overflows at the edges, careless and staining, much like the pomegranates i so often invoke yet barely know. how many times have i written of pomegranates, of a homeland that feels more imagined than remembered? i have spent longer today staring at the glow of a screen caught between my thin fingers than i have ever spent peeling their skins apart. longer, perhaps, waiting in the quiet monotony of grocery queues than standing anywhere that could truly be called home.

the guilt rises, warm and insistent, tightening at my throat. i refuse it. i let it slip downward instead, where it settles and spoils somewhere deep inside me. my hands move before my thoughts do, i scrub my face harshly, almost violently, until my skin flushes pink and unfamiliar. curtains close. the sky outside looks like a thin veil stretched over cooling milk. day collapses into night, night into day, until everything blends into one long, indistinguishable stretch. even when it threatens to spill over, i am quick to contain it, to wipe away any evidence of disorder.

control is a fragile thing, and i guard it obsessively. even the slightest unraveling sends me retreating inward, so i never allow it to fully happen. instead, i reconstruct a past that was never mine to begin with, an inherited thread i have neither seen nor touched, yet continue to stitch into something tangible. there is comfort in packaging it neatly, dressing it in careful language, reshaping what i once ignored into something digestible, even beautiful. every decision, no matter how small, expands into something immense. it is never just groceries or missed calls or postponed plans, it is an entire constellation of consequences, an endless spiral of what-ifs. no one should explain the butterfly effect to a child. it plants a quiet terror that lingers for years. i remember watching ordinary moments unfold, my brother trimming his nails, my mother brushing her teeth, while silently fearing that each small action could fracture the future beyond repair.

i make dreams in my head to survive it. i paint for myself, to outrun solitude. i lie down, open my hands the way a child does in a cradle, as if something might still place softness into them. i let my hair fall across the sheet, spreading it out, trying to feel lighter, because the weight is already there. it presses into my shoulders, pulls them downward, makes walking feel like resistance, makes speaking feel like effort. it shrinks me, quietly, steadily, into someone smaller than i know i am.

maybe something irreversible did happen. but i cannot call it a mistake, because somewhere along that chain, i found you.

and i say you with hesitation, with disbelief threaded through something dangerously close to wonder. you feel like breath, like the first full inhale after forgetting how. as if there were parts of my lungs i had never reached until now. with you, something opened. a space i didn’t know existed. vast, intricate, flooded with light. and still, habit clings to me. it grips my ankles with cold persistence, urging me to withdraw, to run, to disappear before anything becomes real. but how can i, when you have shifted everything? when you have redrawn the very continents inside me, leaving that small red mark behind, proof of presence, of exhaustion, of something undeniably alive?

you remind me of that. of being alive.

i think of offering you a pomegranate in gratitude, carefully opening it, laying its seeds out on porcelain, but i know my hands would falter. it would take too long. long enough for doubt to return, for habit to tighten its hold, for everything to slip through my fingers and scatter across the floor.

perhaps that is why it was always forbidden. love, i mean. like the quiet warnings not to eat what has touched the ground, as though it carries something impure. we come from a world distilled into symbols, pomegranates, dates, deserts, stories polished into something easier to hold. we are taught to value structure, tradition, family, often at the quiet expense of feeling. maybe it is a way to guard against longing. to contain desire before it becomes something uncontrollable.

i understand the need for boundaries. the sacred lines drawn by something greater, something beyond question. but these other rules, the ones passed down without thought, feel different. they feel arbitrary, brittle. like instructions given by someone who never stays long enough to understand what they enforce. a voice that mispronounces your name yet dictates how you should live.

i wish love did not feel so dangerous to speak about. so fragile, as though naming it might deepen the wound it already creates. reduced to something trivial, something suspect, something external to who we are. maybe that is why i freeze. why every choice feels so heavy. it stops being intention and becomes obsession.

my parents carry love quietly, shaped by duty more than desire. solid, unmoving, like stone worn smooth by time. and yet, i wonder if we have inherited anything, it is also the ability to change it. to reshape love into something softer. something chosen.

not as a burden, but as a kind of sustenance.

a quiet, unexpected rizq.

something that makes even the smallest moments of this life feel fuller.

to whoever needed this tonight,

i hope it reached you softly.

and i hope you stay a little kinder to yourself after this.

xoxo, khizra

fall in love with exploring yourself

not just the polished, presentable parts

but the depths you keep avoiding

the insecurities that grow louder in silence

the slow unlearning of who you thought you had to be

the truths that wait patiently

until you are ready to face them

fall in love with failure

not as an idea people romanticize

but as something that actually breaks you a little

when rejection feels personal

when doors close without reason

when you start questioning your own worth

and still, somehow

a small part of you refuses to give up

fall in love with falling in love

not just the excitement

but the vulnerability it asks for

the way you slowly let your guard down

the quiet fear of knowing

someone now has the power to hurt you

fall in love with life

in all its unpredictability

in the unanswered questions

in the almosts that stay with you longer than endings

in the goodbyes that never give you closure

because life is not always clear

it does not tie things together neatly

it happens in pieces

in brief connections

in moments that feel endless

and then disappear too soon

and maybe that is where its beauty lies

not in perfection

not in forever

but in choosing to feel everything

to carry what hurts without losing yourself

to go through it all

and still remain

soft enough

to begin again

fall in love when you stand in front of the mirror

and the comparison begins, why not you

why not your face, your life, your timing

fall in love in that exact moment

when your reflection feels unfamiliar

when you measure yourself against a world

that never knew your story

because it is not that you are incapable

not that you are unlovable

it is that you have been taught to look at yourself

through borrowed standards

you are not a lesser version of someone else

you are not a failed attempt at becoming them

you are simply you

unpolished, unfinished, still becoming

and maybe that is enough

maybe that has always been enough

~Khizra

we inherited instructions

a grammar of restraint

coded into dinner tables, prayer rooms, report cards

where approval was rationed

and affection felt like a conditional clause

culture arrived first

not as celebration

but as surveillance

stitched into the way we sat, spoke, chose

a choreography of obedience mistaken for grace

society refined it

polished the cage until it reflected ambition

called it discipline

called it dignity

never called it what it was

erasure with good manners

so we curated ourselves

edited tone, desire, grief

learned to metabolize disappointment

until it resembled patience

love, then, became a negotiation

not an arrival

we offered softness like currency

to people trained in scarcity

they held us carefully

like something they couldn’t afford to keep

and we called that intimacy

there is a story no one archives

of a girl who mastered composure

while her mind rehearsed exits at 3 a.m.

of a boy who translated sorrow into anger

because tenderness was a liability

of rooms full of laughter

that dissolved into quiet implosions once the lights went out

mental health

a phrase that never fit the household vocabulary

so it disguised itself

as headaches

as fatigue

as just a phase

but it was architecture

corridors of overthinking

ceilings that pressed lower each night

a nervous system taught to anticipate absence

we were told resilience is virtue

so we endured

and endured

until endurance replaced living

hate wasn’t always loud

sometimes it was the absence of gentleness

sometimes it was being seen

only when you performed

and love

love was surviving long enough

to recognize you deserved more

still

in the aftermath of inherited silences

something resists

a refusal to keep shrinking

a decision, almost fragile, to remain

to speak

without diluting truth

to feel

without requesting permission

perhaps healing is not a destination

but a quiet insurgency

against everything

that convinced us

our existence

needed justification.

beating inside her ribs,

love trembling in her beak

like something too sacred to drop.

“just a moment,” she promised,

to eyes that had never seen a world

without her.

the sky let her go

the way the world lets us go

quietly,

as if nothing precious could ever be lost.

when she came back,

her wings still warm with effort,

her heart still full of them,

the branch stood there,

but her home,

her whole, breathing, fragile home,

was gone.

not broken,

not fallen,

erased.

as if her love had never existed

as if those tiny lives

were never held together

by her sleepless nights and soft wings.

she waited.

because denial is the last kindness

grief gives us.

maybe they’re quiet

maybe they’re hiding

maybe

but silence

doesn’t lie.

it only deepens.

she didn’t cry out

because what sound

can hold that kind of breaking

she just stood there

with everything she brought for them

still clutched tightly

love,

now useless.

and in that moment

something inside her

didn’t shatter

it disappeared.

because sometimes

the cruelest thing in this world

isn’t losing what you love

it’s returning,

still full of it,

still carrying it carefully,

only to find

the place you called home

has already decided

you

and your love

were never meant to last.

-Khizra

i buried in the back of my throat

like fragile confessions

i was too afraid to entrust to the air

they lingered there

dense

unarticulated

fermenting into a quiet ache

that spoke even in silence

i remember how your name

once felt like sanctuary

gentle on my tongue

like a place i could belong

without permission

and now

it feels like splintered glass

each syllable grazing something tender

for reasons i can no longer decipher

i revisit the moments

not the monumental ones

never those

it is the trivial fragments that haunt me

just perceptible enough to wound

but not enough to confront

i should have asked

i should have said

“are you already leaving me

while still standing beside me”

but i didn’t

and now i am left with

and a heart that keeps searching

for closure

in places you have already deserted

do you know what it means

to grieve someone

who is still breathing

to scroll past their existence

as if it does not dismantle you

thread by fragile thread

i longed to be

someone you chose

without hesitation

but i became

someone you held onto

until it was convenient to release

and the most merciless part is

i still remember you with tenderness

as though my heart

never acquired the language

to resent

what so quietly ruined it

i know i will survive

but i also know

you already did

• - Khizra

i stepped out

and the bougainvillea had undone itself

petals everywhere

scattered

displaced

as if the sky had shaken it loose all at once

my lawn was covered

in thin, crumpled fragments of pink

like something delicate that didn’t survive impact

the balcony held them in corners

pressed into the floor

clinging in silence

as if even in falling

they resisted disappearance

some were stuck against the walls

fragile, breathless, almost translucent

like they had been caught mid-letting-go

and the air still carried that damp heaviness

the kind that lingers after something has already happened

it didn’t look like a mess

it looked like aftermath

like something that had been forced to release

before it was ready

rain does that

it arrives without context

without permission

without caring whether it is the right time

it interrupts

it displaces

it takes what was holding on

and makes it let go

all at once

and yet

the bougainvillea will bloom again

as if nothing fractured

as if nothing scattered itself across concrete and corners

as if losing parts of itself was never a reason

to stop becoming

it will climb again

uncontained

unapologetic

reclaiming every surface it once touched

and maybe that’s what unsettles me the most

how something can be undone so suddenly

so completely

in a moment that wasn’t even meant for it

and still

carry within itself

the quiet, stubborn instinct

to return

🌸

and lately, while reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, i keep noticing how much i relate to mrs ramsay

i don’t want to be her. (seriously i don’t)

but sometimes i understand her too well.

in the beginning, when james wants to go to the lighthouse and mr ramsay shuts it down with cold logic

“the weather won’t be fine”

mrs ramsay immediately protects james’ hope. she softens the truth. she buffers the harshness. that moment looks small, but it shows everything. she is always absorbing impact so others don’t have to. always choosing emotional cushioning over confrontation.

then there’s the dinner scene. she orchestrates it like it’s fragile glass. watching everyone’s mood. adjusting conversations. making sure no one feels excluded. for a second, she feels fulfilled but even in that moment, she feels time moving. she knows it won’t last. she senses how temporary everything is. and instead of saying “i’m scared of losing this,” she just makes the night warmer. she turns anxiety into hospitality.

with mr ramsay, you see it even more. he constantly needs reassurance about his intelligence, his legacy, his worth. and she gives it, again and again.

even when she’s emotionally tired. no one really reassures her back. no one asks what she fears about aging, about being reduced to a role, about disappearing once she’s no longer needed.

she suppresses irritation. she suppresses doubt about marriage.

and then in the “Time Passes” section, she’s gone. her death is mentioned almost casually, in brackets.

life just… moves.

the novel is called To the Lighthouse, but the lighthouse isn’t just a place. it’s something distant that everyone thinks they’ll reach someday. in the beginning, it represents hope for james. possibility. tomorrow. but they don’t go. time interrupts. years pass.mrs ramsay dies before the trip ever happens.

and when they finally reach the lighthouse, it’s not magical. it’s not the dreamy thing james imagined. it’s solid. ordinary. different from the fantasy.

the lighthouse was never about arrival. it was about distance. about delay. about how long it takes to understand people. about the things we assume we’ll fix “later.”

mrs ramsay never gets her lighthouse moment. she spends her life holding everyone emotionally afloat, but she doesn’t get the closure.sometimes we think we have time. time to apologize properly. time to explain. time to stop suppressing. but time moves quietly.

and by the time you reach your lighthouse, you’re not the same person who first wanted it.

recently, whenever anxiety comes uninvited, or whenever i want to cry, or i see something i wasn’t supposed to see and it stings, i don’t confront it directly. i redirect. i either think about piercing my ear or cutting my hair (impulsive decision lol) like changing something outside will calm what’s inside. or i distract myself by cooking, baking, reading a novel so i can attach my feelings to a character and convince myself their pain is bigger than mine. or write any heart wrenching poem.

sometimes i do skincare. sometimes i deactivate my instagram. sometimes i just sit in my room and rearrange everything my shelves, my skincare, my attar section like if i organize my space well enough, my emotions will fall into place too. sometimes i shoot a youtube video just to feel productive, like proof that i’m functioning.

and sometimes i just cry in front of Allah.

i know my Allah will take care of every situation. i truly believe that. but i am also human. and being human means things hurt. it means i don’t always handle it perfectly. it means sometimes i isolate from my phone not because i have messages, but because i’m scared of seeing something that reopens the wound. i just don’t want to hurt again.

sometimes i wish i could cry once properly, fully and let it flush everything out so the pain doesn’t keep revisiting in small waves.

reading this while i’m in my own emotional quarantine hits differently. because i keep thinking about my own lighthouse that one decision from two years ago. that apology i thought i could delay. that softness i didn’t protect when i should have.

i don’t want to be mrs ramsay. i don’t want to shrink myself for harmony. i don’t want to keep my real feelings in quarantine just to look strong.

maybe To the Lighthouse isn’t about reaching something. maybe it’s about realizing how far you’ve drifted while telling yourself there’s still time. and maybe the scariest part isn’t the distance. it’s wondering if you’ll still recognize yourself when you finally get there.

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thank you for reading this. please keep supporting, and be your own lighthouse.

Love,

Khizra

your soul knows.

that tightness in your chest.

that replaying of conversations at 2 a.m.

that sudden shift in your energy after saying yes when you meant no.

you call it anxiety.

but deep down, you know where it began.

it began the moment you silenced yourself.

the moment you betrayed your own instinct to keep someone comfortable.

the moment you chose ego over empathy.

your soul does not shout.

it whispers.

and when you ignore it, your body carries the noise.

do you climb a mountain to be seen by the world,

or to see the world?

one is hunger for applause.

the other is hunger for perspective.

there is a difference between wanting to be admired

and wanting to understand.

most people are exhausted because they are performing goodness,

not embodying it.

a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.

-The Secret History

romanticizing intensity, tolerating chaos, staying where your spirit is shrinking

just because it looks meaningful from the outside.

but aesthetics do not heal the nervous system.

and performance does not protect the heart.

there is a narration: when Allah loves a servant, He calls Jibreel and announces that love in the heavens. He commands the angels to love that person, and acceptance is placed for them on earth.

imagine your name spoken above the skies.

not quietly.

not secretly.

declared.

love placed for you on earth.

not because you were impressive.

not because you won arguments.

not because you proved a point.

but because you were careful with people.

the richest rizq is not counted in coins.

it is being trusted.

being remembered gently.

being prayed for without knowing it.

being loved in rooms you are not in.

even being shown grace by those who could have responded with harm.

that is wealth.

my mother says,

never hurt someone in a way that makes them cry before God.

because when someone stands in prayer with tears in their eyes because of you,

that pain does not disappear.

you may move on.

they may stay silent.

but nothing is lost in the unseen.

kabhi kisi ka dil mat dukhana,

chahe tumhe apni izzat ki tauheen kyun na sehni pade.

(never wound a heart ,even if it costs you your pride.)

consequences are patient.

they do not rush.

they wait.

sometimes they arrive as restlessness.

sometimes as a heaviness you cannot explain.

sometimes as a random afternoon where regret sits beside you and refuses to leave.

and if you have ever been hurt, listen.

it says something beautiful about you that you genuinely don’t understand why someone would choose to be unkind.

the fact that you sit there confused instead of plotting revenge.

the fact that you replay it trying to make sense of it.

the fact that you wonder how someone could be so careless.

that is not foolishness.

that is your character.

so instead of breaking yourself trying to understand their lack of compassion, pause.

stop picking apart what they didn’t give you.

stop searching for logic in behavior that had none.

celebrate the fact that your heart does not operate that way.

celebrate that your kindness is natural.

that your instinct is to care.

that you would never treat someone with that level of disregard.

that you would never leave someone who is this close to you, who has put in so much effort

you would pray for them, pray for their success and happiness, and give them everything they want.

your softness is not the problem.

their inability to value it was.

and you do not need to change who you are just because someone failed to recognize it.

if you have ever felt this weight, i am sorry.

i am sorry if you ignored your intuition to keep someone.

i am sorry if you chose silence instead of honesty.

i am sorry if you carried guilt longer than necessary.

please, be kind to yourself.

choose small things that bring you back to steadiness.

read slowly.

paint without posting it.

walk without checking your phone.

learn something just because it interests you.

cook something warm and sit with it peacefully.

create joy that does not depend on being chosen.

and speak to your god.

tell Him where you went wrong.

tell Him where you were wronged.

tell Him what you regret.

tell Him what you are afraid of becoming.

He already knows.

but speak anyway.

the world is full of unkindness.

do not join it.

choose mercy.

choose selflove

choose your health

give love and spread

make dua for everyone who hurt you, intentionally or unintentionally.

make dua for yourself.

make dua for everyone around you ( even for those who consider you their enemy!)

thank you for reading<3

love,

KHIZRA

almost love.

almost being chosen without asking for it.

we’re taught how to mourn endings, not hesitations. not the things that hovered at the edge of becoming something real. not the quiet hopes we carried carefully so they wouldn’t scare anyone away.

it’s embarrassing, actually, to ache over something that never earned a label. there’s no anniversary for it. no permission to be sad. just a feeling that settled in your chest and made itself at home without explaining why it was there.

this kind of heartbreak doesn’t arrive all at once. it doesn’t knock. it seeps in slowly, the way water ruins a place not meant to hold it.

it erodes.

you don’t wake up devastated. you wake up altered. a little quieter. a little less curious. more careful with your softness, like you’ve learned that wanting too openly comes with consequences. you start editing yourself before anyone else can, just in case.

and the worst part is there’s no clear ending to point at. no moment you can circle and say this is where it broke. just the slow understanding that something mattered more than it was allowed to.

sylvia once wrote about wanting to be everything at once. i think that’s what this ache is. the desire to live the life you imagined in fragments. the longing for a version of the world where you were chosen without having to ask, where wanting didn’t feel like a risk.

so i let it ache. not loudly. not publicly.

just enough to honor the fact that it mattered.

i want to read literature like a human, not something to analyze and abandon, but something to sit with until it starts to feel personal.

plath, dostoevsky, kafka, woolf. i don’t want neat interpretations. i want to know what they were carrying quietly, what thoughts followed them around, what kind of suffering became so familiar that it slipped into their writing without asking. i want to understand how pain slowly turns into style, how fear, guilt, loneliness, and pressure learn to speak through sentences.

i keep wondering how depression didn’t just silence some writers, but taught them a new language. how the weight they carried learned to arrange itself into sentences, and those sentences went on to shake psychology, philosophy, and the way we understand the human mind.

and somewhere between reading all of that, i want a life that feels slower and softer too. sitting in a place where the moon and the sun exist at the same time, listening to small sounds that feel like childhood, my mother calling me back from the playground, the echo of my own voice when i cried over little things because little things felt enormous then.

i want to remember how i used to make the world less frightening in small ways, like taking the eyes off my dolls so i could sleep beside them without fear, believing that if i adjusted things just enough, i would be safe.

(the way i used to remove my dolls’ eyes so i could sleep, i wish fear in real life came with an off switch too.)

i want to learn quiet things deeply. chess, sudoku, patterns, patience. not to be impressive, but to feel steady. i want my life to feel aesthetic in a gentle, unforced way. pink phases, long nights, stillness that does not feel empty, just calm. i don’t want knowledge to make me louder or smarter-looking. i want it to make life feel understandable, survivable, and a little bit magical, like i am finally living inside something that makes sense. and when i think far ahead, i do not want a life full of regret or unfinished curiosity.

i want peace, knowing i tried to learn what mattered to me. i want to know about the books that were lost too. the scripts and scrolls burned in the library of alexandria, the histories, poems, sciences, and questions that disappeared before we ever got to read them. not out of sadness alone, but because remembering what was lost makes me value what still exists, and makes me want to read, live, and pay attention while i can.

i want to live and die in peace.

trust your gut even when it’s barely whispering. intuition is that tiny voice noticing stuff your brain can’t even explain yet. it’s that weird feeling in your chest before you even have words for it. lately i’ve been doubting myself about everything my insecurities, my priorities, my likes, my dislikes and my feelings. but i’m realizing i can’t ignore that inner voice it’s been trying to guide me all along

and honestly, it’s been fucking one year. one whole year of me trying to convince myself. trying to ignore it. trying to hurt myself into thinking it’s not real. telling myself no this can’t be true, how can this be true. but you know what? it is true. i saw the signs. little things that made me pause, made me stop and think. and yeah, maybe it feels immature. maybe i don’t have all the answers. maybe i’m just a mess of feelings and confusion. but i can be immature and still proud of myself, because one day i know it will make sense. one day i’ll see why i felt it, why i noticed it, why i didn’t let it go.

i saw this yt interview about maya angelou’s the heart of a woman 1981 and it hit me so hard that i ended up reading the book online. there’s this line that stuck with me: “when someone shows you who they are believe them the first time.” and honestly that’s what gut feeling is

it’s the part of you that just knows the truth before anyone else can convince you otherwise

people are always ready to define you by your worst moments like one bad reaction can sum up everything. our angry side is always seen as our true colours but what about our happy side? what about the part of us that laughs too loud, loves too hard, cries for no reason and still keeps going? we’re not just our breakdowns we’re also our healing, our joy, our messy, beautiful growth. sometimes your gut is just trying to protect your peace, steering you away from what drains you and toward what actually feels like home. not everything needs proof, not everything needs validation. sometimes the truest thing you can do is listen to that quiet voice inside telling you what’s right, what’s real, and what you actually deserve. give no one permission to tell you what to do or make you doubt that you’re correct..

thank you<3

i hope no one will ever have to face this, not even my enemy, not even someone i love, not even my near and dear ones.

ancient egypt understood this so well. kohl wasn’t just eyeliner. it was medicine, protection, prayer. men, women, kids all wore it. even gods were shown with lined eyes. beauty wasn’t sinful back then. it was sacred.

the shame came later.

ancient greece praised “natural” beauty while still enhancing it quietly.

rome judged cosmetics while using them obsessively.

early christian thinking made altering the body a moral issue. by the late 18th century, this turned into the idea that only prostitutes wore makeup. not because other women didn’t use it, but because they weren’t supposed to be seen using it.

the rule was never don’t wear makeup.

it was don’t be obvious.

that mindset stayed for way too long.

In films like pride and prejudice or little women, the women appear almost makeup-free. soft skin, flushed cheeks, natural lips. this wasn’t because makeup didn’t exist back then. it was because visible makeup was coded as morally wrong.

during the periods these stories are set, and especially in the eras when these films were made, obvious makeup was associated with women who were seen as “improper” or “fallen”. so cinema created a visual language.

good women looked natural.

rebellious or “immoral” women were given visible makeup.

what we now call the “no-makeup look” was actually very intentional. actresses wore makeup, but it was designed to look invisible. the goal wasn’t bare skin, it was respectability.

that’s where the myth that “only prostitutes wore makeup” gets reinforced. not from real life, but from storytelling.

films used makeup as a shortcut to tell the audience who was virtuous and who wasn’t. subtle makeup meant purity.

bold makeup meant danger.

so when we romanticise those old films for their “natural beauty,” we’re really looking at a carefully controlled aesthetic. makeup wasn’t absent. it was just not allowed to be noticed.

and now, in the 21st century, something feels different.

makeup hasn’t vanished. it’s evolved.

for a lot of people today, skincare is makeup. cleanser. sunscreen. serums. moisturiser. hair care that actually smells good. a soft perfume. lip gloss instead of heavy lipstick. nothing loud. nothing extra. just intentional.

it feels like a shift from covering to caring.

from trying to look perfect to just wanting your skin to feel okay.

and brands obviously caught on.

that’s why so many products now sound insanely clinical. acids. actives. names that feel like they belong in a chemistry lab. sometimes it’s real science. sometimes it’s just marketing pretending to be smart.

which is why i trust only a few things.

cetaphil, for example. i’ve been using that face wash for years. like four years straight. no crazy promises. no overnight glow. just works. and honestly, that’s rare.

when i get small bumps, my dermatologist gives me clindamycin. for acne and spots, i use a bpo gel with adapalene and benzoyl peroxide. those names sound crazy, i know. i don’t leave it on forever. five minutes, rinse. another day, ten minutes. slowly building it up so my skin doesn’t freak out.

because skincare isn’t about attacking your face. it’s about understanding it.

moisturiser is not optional. skip it once and your skin will humble you instantly. and all of this happens at night because sun plus actives is a recipe for redness and regret.

this made me realise something.

most people today are using skincare for medicinal reasons. makeup is just there to enhance, not hide. and honestly, that feels like growth.

because historically, makeup always started medicinal. kohl protected the eyes. oils healed the skin. pigments weren’t vanity. they were care. somewhere along the way, beauty got separated from health.

and now we’re kind of coming back to it.

the best skincare i’ve ever used isn’t even from a brand.

multani mitti. clay.

you guys must have heard of it, but if you haven’t, it’s insane. the cooling effect alone feels like therapy for your skin. it calms inflammation, helps with spots, helps with detan. during college, when i’d come back to my room completely tanned after classes, i’d mix the paste, apply it for ten minutes, rinse it off, and my skin would look so much better the next day.

not flawless. not glass skin. just calm.

and this whole mindset shows up in clothing too. people are choosing comfort over restriction. looser fits. breathable fabrics. clothes that don’t make you suffer all day. slowly letting go of the idea that pain equals style. and no, this isn’t shade. if you love skinny jeans or bold makeup, wear them. this is about choice, not judgement.

and maybe that’s what’s actually changing.

beauty didn’t disappear. it just got quieter.

we didn’t abandon it. we just learned to be gentler with it.

less covering, more caring.

less proving, more choosing.

skincare before makeup.

comfort before trends.

feeling good before looking perfect.

maybe that’s not even a trend.

maybe it’s just us finally listening to ourselves.

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thank you<3

it’s interesting how both philosophies are trying to answer the same question

how do we live peacefully in a world that doesn’t always feel peaceful

but they approach it in such different ways

stoicism feels like learning how to stay steady even when life is unpredictable

like when plans fall apart when people disappoint you when you’re trying your best but life still feels heavy

stoicism reminds you that you can’t control everything outside you only what happens inside you

it’s the mindset of taking a deep breath and saying okay this is happening but i will not lose myself in it

and i see this in my own life in small ways

like how i’ve started ignoring my phone more

i don’t keep checking for notifications

sometimes i don’t even charge it on time

i don’t take it with me everywhere

not because i don’t care

but because i’m trying to stop letting outside noise control my peace

but i also know no matter how much i try i still fall sometimes

because after all we are human

we overthink we get attached we lose balance

and healing isn’t about never slipping

it’s about coming back gently every time

and lately it feels like so many things are slipping away

not in a dramatic way

just quietly

even the version of yourself you once knew starts fading

sometimes you’re holding on

and sometimes you don’t even realize you’ve already let go

and in moments like that stoicism feels like learning to accept the flow

to stop fighting what is already leaving

to understand that loss is part of living

epicureanism is softer in a different way

it’s about finding happiness in simplicity

like drinking tea in silence after a long day laughing with a family and cousins eating your comfort food watching the sky change colors

it reminds you that peace doesn’t always come from doing more sometimes it comes from appreciating what is already here

one leans toward endurance

the other leans toward ease

and somewhere between the two i found myself wanting to understand more than just quotes on a screen

so i started reading letters from a stoic by seneca

and honestly his words feel like someone gently shaking you awake

he writes

“we suffer more often in imagination than in reality.”

and that line stays with me because it’s true

so much of what hurts us hasn’t even happened yet

it’s just living inside our minds

he also says

“it is not that we have a short time to live but that we waste much of it.”

and i think about how easily life slips away

in waiting

in worrying

in scrolling

in holding on too tightly

seneca reminds you again and again that peace comes from within not from the world finally becoming soft

“no man is free who is not master of himself.”

and that feels like the heart of stoicism

freedom isn’t escaping life

it’s learning how to stay whole inside it

and still even with all this understanding

i know i return to the same thoughts sometimes

like a cycle

like a loop

because i know how honest i am with myself

i know my patterns

i know what i try to heal from

and even when i move forward

some feelings come back quietly

not because i’m failing

but because that’s what being human is

we don’t heal in straight lines

we circle back

we relearn

we remember

we grow slowly

and maybe that’s why these philosophies matter

because they don’t promise a perfect life

they just offer a way to hold it better

and maybe the simplest truth underneath all of it is this

that at the end of the day we die

and that’s not meant to sound hopeless

it’s meant to sound honest

because when you remember life is temporary

you stop wasting it on things that don’t matter

you stop giving your peace away so easily

you start living softer

living truer

epicureanism tells you to enjoy the quiet joys

stoicism tells you to endure the storms

and both are trying to lead you back to the same place

a life that feels lighter

a heart that feels calmer

a mind that feels less trapped

not perfection

just presence

maybe stoicism teaches us strength

maybe epicureanism teaches us softness

and maybe we all need a little of both in real life

some days we survive by enduring

and some days we heal by simply living

thank you for reading <3