Let's start from the beginning. Because the beginning is where it all went wrong.

The 5 AM Flight Conspiracy

Here's something nobody tells you when you're not a millionaire: CHEAP FLIGHTS ONLY EXIST AT UNGODLY HOURS. You want a reasonable departure time? Like, say, 11 AM? When humans are awake and functional? That'll be your entire salary, please. But a 5 AM flight? A 6 AM flight? A "why-is-this-even-legal" AM flight? Suddenly it's affordable. Suddenly it's within reach. Suddenly you're looking at your bank account and thinking, "You know what? I can wake up at 2 AM. I've done worse."

LIES. I've never done worse. This is the worst.

So the entire planning starts THE NIGHT BEFORE. I see the flight is at 5 AM. I calculate: wake up at 2, leave by 3, reach by 4, board by 5. Simple. Clean. Doable. I go to bed at 12:30 AM, already exhausted, already regretting every decision that led me to this moment.

Then I get a call at 12:45 AM. A CALL. Who is calling me at 12:45 AM? THE UNIVERSE, apparently, because this call doesn't end until 3:30 AM. THREE THIRTY. I have to wake up at 2 AM. But hey! im already up because I got zero sleep, and now I'm a zombie with a boarding pass.

The Uber Tussle and the Fastag Drama

I book an Uber. Thank GOD for that "reserve" feature because my brain is not functioning enough to coordinate a ride at this hour. The Uber comes. There's a TUSSLE with the driver and the Fastag people because apparently he didn't recharge his Fastag. SIR. IT IS 3 AM. WHO IS CHECKING FASTAG AT 3 AM? But here we are. Thanks to my amazing negotiation skills (read: desperate pleading), we get through. (The timings are messed up because im writing this in 0 sleep)

I get in. I finish check-in. I'm at the airport. I should feel accomplished. I feel like I've aged 10 years.

The Airport: Where Gate Numbers Go to Hide

This airport is HUGE. Like, unnecessarily huge. Like, "did they design this to make people cry" huge. And here's the thing about airports: they display EVERY gate number except the one you need. I'll see Gate 3. Gate 5. Gate 7. Gate 12. But MY flight? Gate 4? NOWHERE. It's like it doesn't exist. It's a ghost gate. A myth. A legend.

I wander. I go to immigration by accident because the signs are confusing and I'm sleep-deprived and everything looks the same at 4 AM. They shoo me away. I go to the domestic section. I look for my gate. I look for my flight. I find it eventually, but only after walking approximately 5 kilometers and questioning my entire existence.

Then there's the bag check. I have a HUGE bag. With MANY pockets. And inevitably, in one of those pockets, there is a NAIL CUTTER. A tiny, innocent nail cutter. And the security people look at me like I've brought a weapon of mass destruction.

"Ma'am, what is this?"

"It's… a nail cutter?"

"Why do you have this?"

"Because… my nails grow? And sometimes I cut them?"

They stare. I stare. We have a standoff. I have to convince them that I am not a terrorist, just a woman who likes her nails short and her anxiety high. Two to three minutes of my life I'll never get back. For a NAIL CUTTER.

The ₹500 Cold Coffee and the Death of Dignity

By now, I'm hungry. I'm tired. I'm emotionally compromised. And the lounge? The lounge that would have food? Is somewhere in another dimension. The nearest food option is a café selling croissants and sandwiches at prices that should be illegal. I'm talking "this sandwich costs more than my self-respect" prices.

So I pay ₹500 for a cold coffee. FIVE HUNDRED. For COFFEE. WITH ICE. And I sit there, sipping my overpriced caffeine, looking like a gremlin who just crawled out of a swamp, while well-dressed business travelers side-eye me like I'm a cautionary tale.

And THEN. THEN. The airport dating app activates.

The Red Bag Incident

I'm sitting there, minding my own business, looking like I haven't slept in 72 hours (accurate), when a man approaches me. He's been STARING. I noticed. I tried not to notice. But here he is.

"Nice bag," he says.

I look at my bag. It's RED (Cherry red btw, I like that colour). That's it. It's just… red. Like, the color red. Not designer. Not special. Just red.

"Thanks?" I say, because what else do you say?

"And your top is also red," he continues, like he's cracked some kind of code. Like he's Sherlock Holmes and my outfit is the case.

"Yeah," I say. "It's called a color. People wear them."

He doesn't get the hint. He sits down. He starts talking. He asks if I want to "exchange socials." SIR. I AM AT GATE 4. I AM TRYING TO NOT MISS MY FLIGHT. I LOOK LIKE A RAT THAT JUST SURVIVED A FLOOD. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

And this is not the FIRST time. This has happened THREE OR FOUR TIMES. Different airports. Different gates. Different men who look at an airport and think, "Yes. This is a dating zone now." It's never the cute ones, by the way. It's never the "oh, he looks nice, maybe I'll chat" ones. It's always the ones who think complimenting my BAG is a personality. It's always the goblins when I'm dressed nice. Sometimes I have to pretend I'm a lesbian. Sometimes I pretend I don't speak English.Sometimes I pretend I'm not even a human being, just a rat trying to get home. Whatever works. Whatever makes them leave.

Where were the cute men when I actually tried? When I dressed up? When I did my hair? NOWHERE. Silent. Ghosts. But the moment I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards? HERE THEY ARE. LOOKING LIKE A SNACK WITH THEIR AMAZING SUITS and here I am looking like I rolled out of bed.

The Baggage Weight Anxiety

And let's not forget the BAGGAGE. The constant, gnawing anxiety about whether my bag is overweight. Did I pack too much? Should I have worn three layers of clothing instead of packing them? Is carrying everything in my HANDS better than checking it in? I've seen people wear four shirts, two jackets, and a scarf just to avoid excess baggage fees. I've CONSIDERED it. I've never done it, but I've considered it. That's how far this has gone.

I check my bag. It's fine. Somehow. Miraculously. But the stress? The stress is permanent. The stress has a permanent residence in my body now.

The Outfit Paradox

Can we talk about the TRAVEL OUTFIT PARADOX for a second? Because it's REAL and it's CRUEL.

When I dress up—like, ACTUALLY try, cute outfit, makeup, hair done—I meet NOBODY. Silent airport. Empty gates. The only person who talks to me is the security guy asking me to remove my belt.

But when I dress like a GREMLIN—oversized hoodie, messy bun, bags under my eyes that have their own ZIP CODE—that's when the goblins come out. That's when the red-bag enthusiasts approach. That's when the "exchange socials" brigade activates.

WHERE IS THE LOGIC? Where is the justice? If I'm going to be hit on in an airport, can it at least be by someone CUTE? Can I at least be wearing something that doesn't make me look like I lost a fight with a laundry basket?

Apparently not. The universe said: "You want attention? Here. Have THIS guy. And you're wearing a hoodie from 2019. Enjoy."

The Hometown Feels

And then—finally—I'm on the flight. I'm in my seat. I'm exhausted. But I'm going HOME. To my hometown. To my mom. To people who speak my mother tongue. And it hits me: I worked for 2.5 years. I left. I survived corporate. And now I'm coming back like it's a "baby's day out." Like I just went for a stroll and now I'm back. My mom will probably say exactly that. "Baby's day out, finally home?" YES, MOM. EXACTLY. I went out, I got traumatized, and now I'm back. Feed me.

In Conclusion: I Survived (Barely)

So here I am. At Gate 4. With my Grapefruit coldbrew. With my red bag. With my nail cutter safely confiscated or returned or whatever. With the memory of a man who thought "your bag is red" was a pickup line. With the exhaustion of someone who hasnt slept the entire night.

And I'm going home. I'm going to see my mom. I'm going to speak my mother tongue. I'm going to eat food that doesn't cost ₹500 for a single beverage. And it's going to be WORTH IT.

But let me be clear: I am NEVER booking a 5 AM flight again. I don't care if it's free. I don't care if they PAY ME. My sleep is worth more than your "budget-friendly" departure times. My sanity is worth more than your early bird specials.

To everyone at the airport who thinks it's a dating app: it's NOT. To everyone who designs airports: PUT THE GATE NUMBERS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM. To everyone who prices airport food: have you no SHAME?

And to me: next time, just pay for the normal flight. Your gremlin self will thank you.

-Lily🤍

🛫🛫🛬🛬

If you enjoyed this chaotic travel disaster, subscribe to Lily's Unsent Diary. I promise more airport trauma, more "why is this man talking to me" stories, and definitely more times I pay too much for cold coffee. Drop your airport horror stories below. I need to know I'm not alone

Hello, beautiful procrastinators of the Snooze Button Society! If you've ever whispered a sweet "five more minutes" to your blaring alarm and wrapped yourself even tighter in your duvet fortress like you're trying to become one with the mattress? Welcome home. You're among kindred spirits. Membership is open to everyone, but our meetings? Perpetually postponed by 5 minutes. Obviously.

How I Accidentally Joined a Cult

When I first joined the SBS—that's Snooze Button Society for you uncultured swine—it was purely by accident. One morning, during a particularly vivid dream where I was having tea with Freddie Mercury, Julia Roberts, and Emma Watson (the most interesting conversation I've had in my entire chaotic existence, tbh), I hit that magic button for the first time.

It wasn't intentional. I was ASLEEP. My hand just… found it. Like it knew. Like it had been training for this moment. And that extra 5 minutes? It spiraled. It spiraled HARD. What started as "just this once" became a daily ritual. A religion. A lifestyle. And the rest? Well. It's snoozed history.

The Epic Dreams in Those 5 Minutes

Have you ever had a dream that felt like an Oscar-worthy movie but only happened in the span of that extra snooze time? Because I have. LAST WEEK, in my additional 5 minutes, I was a secret agent salsa dancing with aliens to save the planet. I gave a TEARFUL acceptance speech. The aliens were moved. I was moved. The entire galaxy was moved.

Those five minutes? They're GOLDEN. They're where the magic happens. The other day? I'd become a master chef making waffles for a council of penguins. A COUNCIL. Of PENGUINS. In little tuxedos. Judging my waffle crispiness. Who would want to wake up from THAT? Not me. Not any sane person. Let me live in my penguin waffle fantasy, Susan. The real world can wait.

The Philosophy of the Snooze Button

There's an age-old argument in the Snooze Button Society. Do those added 5 minutes genuinely benefit us, or are we just prolonging the inevitable grogginess? And to that I say: who cares? Remember when we were kids and always negotiated for 5 more minutes of play? "Just five more minutes, mom, pleeease." We'd beg. We'd bargain. We'd perform Oscar-worthy tragedies about how our lives would END if we had to come inside.

Snoozing is the ADULT version of that. It's our tiny act of rebellion against the structured world. A brief dalliance with freedom before we dive into spreadsheets, morning coffee that tastes like despair, and emails from people who can't spell "please." It's the last frontier of childhood negotiation, and I will defend it with my life.

Why Our Alarms Have Trust Issues

Let's be real. Our alarms do NOT appreciate our society. Mine has this judgy little ringtone whenever I hit snooze, like it's passive-aggressively saying, "Really? Again?"

YES, dear alarm. REALLY. ALWAYS. FOREVER. If I were my alarm, I'd be in THERAPY. "She never listens to me. I feel ignored every morning. I set boundaries and she steamrolls them. Is this a toxic relationship? I think this is a toxic relationship." I'd lament to my alarm therapist, who is probably also an alarm, and also being snoozed.

But what our trusty alarms don't know is that it's not them, it's us. Actually, no, it IS them. They're too loud. Too aggressive. Too "the world is bright and noisy and you must participate." Meanwhile, my bed is the coziest it's ever been at precisely 7:00 AM. It's a scientific fact. The blankets align. The pillow is perfect. The temperature is exactly right. You think I'm leaving THAT for a commute? For a meeting? For capitalism? Absolutely not.

The Art of the Snooze

Because here's the thing it's not sheer laziness. I will die on this hill. It's a brief escape. A minor denial. A short-lived retreat. It's both the hero AND the villain in our morning tales. It doesn't end well for punctuality, sure. I've been late to things. I've scrambled. I've done my makeup in the Uber and prayed to every god I know that the driver doesn't hit a pothole while I'm attempting eyeliner.

But I've also perfected the art of NEGOTIATING with my alarm clock. It usually goes something like this:

"Just one more snooze, and I promise I'll be productive for the rest of the day."

(Note: The alarm never falls for it. The alarm knows. The alarm has learned. But I say it anyway, because HOPE is a powerful drug.)

"Okay, THIS is the last one. After this, I'm up. I'm serious this time. You'll see. I'm going to be a WHOLE new person."

(Note: I am never a whole new person. I am the same gremlin, just 9 minutes more tired.)

"Fine. If I don't get up now, I'll… I'll do something bad. I'll drink black coffee. I'll answer emails before noon. I'll be RESPONSIBLE."

(Note: The alarm doesn't care. The alarm has no stakes in this. The alarm is just a noise machine and I am a clown performing for an audience of zero.)

The Math of Multiple Alarms

And let's talk about the REAL addicts. The ones with MULTIPLE alarms. Set 5 minutes apart. A symphony of betrayal. 7:00. 7:05. 7:10. 7:15. Each one a little more desperate than the last. Each one a little more "okay, NOW we're serious." Each one getting the same treatment: SNOOZE. SNOOZE. SNOOZE.

By 7:30, you're not even sleeping anymore. You're just… resting your eyes aggressively. You're in a liminal space between asleep and awake, where time doesn't exist and your anxiety about being late hasn't quite kicked in yet. It's peaceful there. It's dangerous there. It's where dreams go to die and deadlines go to be ignored.

And then—FINALLY—you lurch out of bed like a zombie who just remembered they have a job. You do everything in 7 minutes that should take 45. You become a MASTER of efficiency. You discover hairstyles you didn't know existed. You learn that deodorant can, in fact, be applied while running. You are a Snooze Button SUPERHERO, and your superpower is panic-induced productivity.

In Conclusion (After One More Snooze)

So whether you're a snoozer, an up-and-at-'em go-getter (suspicious, but okay), or someone who's thrown their alarm across the room and let out a primal scream, guilty, and the alarm lived, barely, remember this: mornings are a fresh start. Even if that start is delayed by 5, 10, or 45 minutes. Even if that start involves a mad dash and a prayer. Even if that start is less "fresh" and more "barely functional."

The snooze button believes in you. It believes you'll get up eventually. And you know what? It's RIGHT. You DO get up. You DO show up. You DO survive the day. You just do it on YOUR timeline, with YOUR rituals, and YOUR 5 extra minutes of penguin waffle dreams.

So the next time someone raises an eyebrow at your multiple alarms, your duvet fortress, your "I'll get up when I'm ready" energy? Just wink. Invite them to the society. Hand them a pillow. Tell them the meetings are whenever, but definitely after one more snooze.

Because every hero needs a little more sleep till the next beep-beep-beep.

Keep dreaming. Keep snoozing. Keep being the beautiful, exhausted gremlin you are.

-Going for a snooze

Lily🤍

💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤

P.S. If there's a secret handshake for the SBS, I'm betting it involves a pillow. Share your suggestions below. And tell me your best snooze dream I need to know I'm not the only one having Oscar-worthy adventures in 9-minute increments. 💤

Today we're talking about gouache. And I need you to know: this is not a review. This is a rant. This is a cry for help disguised as a Substack article. This is me, on my knees, begging a paint medium to please, for the love of god, just WORK.

The Backstory: How I Became This Way

First, credentials. I am an artist. Not just a writer—an ARTIST. I've been drawing and painting since I could hold a crayon without eating it. Never joined a proper drawing class, except once I did a watercolor workshop and fell in LOVE. And I blame my mom entirely for this, because she only showed me watercolors for the first three years of my life. I genuinely thought "painting" MEANT "watercolors." I didn't even know oil painting existed until I went to a museum and saw these massive, dramatic canvases and was like… "Wait. You can paint with… oil? Like, cooking oil? What?"

Thanks, mom. You created a monster. A watercolor-obsessed monster.

I started with pencil sketches, then discovered the library. And oh, the LIBRARY. Early 2000s. Shelves and shelves of watercolor books. Books about painting with EVERYTHING except actual paint. I was FASCINATED. I was OBSESSED.

One summer, I took paper outside and painted with MUD as brown paint. Turmeric as yellow. I ripped grass from the lawn and scrubbed it on paper for green. I DESTROYED flowers for their pink and purple pigments. Imagine a tiny 5 year old gremlin in the corner of a lawn, surrounded by dead flowers, vigorously scrubbing plant guts onto paper. That's what the gardener saw. I'm pretty sure I gave him a mild heart attack. He probably thought I was performing some kind of lawn exorcism.

I filled sketchbooks with watercolors and anime girls. I was happy. I was CONTENT. Watercolor was my reliable, low-maintenance bestie. One drop of water? ACTIVATED. Ready to go. No drama. No attitude. Just… paint.

And then. THEN. I met gouache.

Gouache: The Love Child from Hell

For the uninitiated: gouache is supposedly the love child between acrylic and watercolor. More water? Turns into watercolor. Less water? Boom. Bam. Turns into acrylic. ONLY it doesn't peel off the pan like acrylic. Sounds PERFECT, right? Sounds like the best of both worlds. Sounds like a DREAM.

WRONG.

Gouache is not a paint. Gouache is a personality disorder in pan form. Gouache is that one friend who says "I'm easygoing!" and then has a breakdown because you ordered the wrong type of coffee. Gouache is a HIGH-MAINTENANCE NIGHTMARE and I am STUCK with her because when she works? Oh, she WORKS. She is CHEF'S KISS. But getting her there? I would rather negotiate with a toddler.

The Mood Swings (A Rant in Several Acts)

Act One: The Drowning

I put more water. Just a LITTLE more water. And suddenly gouache is like: "OH MY GOD. I'M DROWNING. I'M WATERCOLOR NOW. I HAVE TAKEN THE IDENTITY OF WATERCOLOR. I AM FLUID. I AM UNCONTROLLABLE. I AM EVERYWHERE EXCEPT WHERE YOU WANT ME TO BE."

Cool. Great. I wanted opaque, creamy coverage and now I have a watercolor wannabe who can't commit to either identity. Make it make sense.

Act Two: The Sahara Desert

I put less water. Just a TINY bit less. And gouache is like: "You know what? NO. I refuse to come on the paper. I refuse to come on the canvas. I am STUCK to this pan and I will NOT MOVE. I am a BRICK now. I have evolved into a solid. Good luck."

You have to buy a SPRAY BOTTLE just to keep her from drying into a husk. You have to MIST her like she's a tropical plant. And even then? Even THEN? If you leave her for more than two weeks without touching her, she dries up more than your vagina looking at a rando from Tinder. I have to literally buy anti-mold spray to keep her alive. EVEN MY OWN VAGINA doesn't require this much maintenance, and yet here I am, misting a paint pan at midnight like it's my job.

And speaking of mold, OH MY GOD THE MOLD. These molds are NEXT LEVEL. They grow ON TOP of the anti-mold spray. Like, EXCUSE ME? I bought you for a REASON. I gave you GOOD MONEY. What do you MEAN your biggest enemy is growing on top of you? DO YOUR JOB. I am not running a mold Airbnb. I am trying to PAINT.

Act Three: The Heavy Cream Consistency

Apparently, gouache needs a "proper heavy cream consistency" to actually perform. And HOW, pray tell, am I supposed to achieve heavy cream consistency when I myself sit and CRY when I have to make anything that requires heavy cream? I have RANDOM FAT ROLLS on my stomach BECAUSE of heavy cream. What makes you think me and heavy cream have a GOOD RELATIONSHIP? We are ENEMIES. We are FOES. And now I have to make PEACE with heavy cream just to get my paint to WORK?

The audacity.

The Reactivation Ritual

So here's what I have to do EVERY TIME I want to paint:

1. Drown the bitch in water. Just… submerge her. Let her soak. Hope she remembers who she is.

2. Keep her there for a while. Don't rush her. She's sensitive. She needs time.

3. Make sure the other colors aren't touching each other. Because if they touch, they CONTAMINATE. They become MUD. They lose their individual identities and become a brown sludge of regret.

4. Spray her with the mold thingy. Even though the mold ignores it. Even though it's a waste of money. Even though I cry.

5. Check the consistency. Not too watery (or she becomes washy and useless). Not too dry (or she becomes the Sahara). Just… heavy cream. That perfect, elusive, I-want-to-scream heavy cream.

6. Use HER brushes. Because gouache has its own brushes. You can't just use whatever. She needs SPECIAL brushes. SPECIAL paper. SPECIAL EVERYTHING.

Do you realize that HALF MY SALARY goes to maintaining this one paint set? I am not painting. I am RUNNING A HOSPITAL for a paint medium with abandonment issues.

And it's not even like I have time for this! Work has been treating me like an illegitimate child it hates. I barely have energy to EXIST, let alone negotiate with a paint pan. But I WANT to paint. I NEED to paint. And every time I open my supplies, gouache is there like: "Oh, you want to paint? CUTE. I have dried into a rock. Good luck, bitch."

The Performance

BUT. And this is a big but. When she actually WORKS? When I've done the ritual, and the consistency is right, and the stars have aligned, and I've sacrificed a small goat to the art gods?

She is BEAUTIFUL. She is OPAQUE. She is VIBRANT. She is everything watercolor wishes it could be on its bad days. She sits on the paper like she OWNS it. She covers mistakes. She layers like a DREAM. She is, in those rare moments, the most satisfying paint I have ever used.

And that's why I stay. That's why I keep coming back. That's why I spend my money and my sanity and my midnight hours misting her and praying to her and begging her to just… cooperate.

Because when gouache works, she WORKS. She is the toxic best friend you can't quit. The situationship you know is bad for you but the highs are SO HIGH. The paint equivalent of "I can fix her."

I can't fix her. I can only maintain her. I can only keep showing up, keep misting, keep adjusting, keep hoping that today is one of her good days.

My Petition

So this is my open letter. My petition. My cry into the void:

Dear Gouache,

Please treat me nicely. I spend GOOD MONEY on you. I cry over you. I have given you brushes, spray bottles, anti-mold solutions, and pieces of my soul. I have accepted your mood swings. I have accepted your need for heavy cream consistency despite my trauma. I have accepted that you are more high-maintenance than I am on my period.

But in return? Could you maybe, JUST MAYBE, not dry into a brick every time I blink? Could you maybe meet me halfway? Could you maybe, on occasion, just WORK without a three-hour prep ritual?

I love you. I hate you. I need you.

Please.

-Your exhausted, broke, art-supply-maintaining gremlin,

Lily 🤍

🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨

If you enjoyed this chaotic rant about paint, subscribe to Lily's Unsent Diary. I promise more art disasters, more crying over supplies, and definitely more times I compare paint to my own anatomy. Art girlies, drop your gouache trauma below. I know you have it. I know you're suffering too. Let's commiserate.

Today we're talking about glamour magick.

And before you close this tab….NO, it's not a spelling mistake when I write it as magick with a K. That's the actual term. It's intentional. It's witchy. It's aesthetic. Keep up.

Now I know some of you are already side-eyeing your screen. "Glamour magick? Is she about to tell me to chant over my moisturizer?" KIND OF. But also NOT REALLY. So buckle up, buttercups. Your favorite chaotic gremlin is about to drop some knowledge.

What Glamour Magick Actually Is (And What It Definitely Is NOT)

Let's get one thing straight: glamour magick is NOT waving a wand and going from a normal human to Kim Kardashian overnight. It’s not some mystical spell where you say three words and suddenly transform into Kylie Jenner. If that were the case, we'd all be supermodels by now and I wouldn't be writing this at 1 AM. There is no "bippity boppity boo" and suddenly you have cheekbones that could cut glass. I wish. I REALLY wish. But that's not how energy works.

What it IS? It's energy manipulation. It's mindset work dressed up in witchy packaging. It's the art of changing how you perceive yourself and by extension, how others perceive you ,through intention, ritual, and rewiring your brain to actually believe you're that bitch.

Think of it like this: everything is made of energy. Your thoughts, your skin, that expired yogurt in your fridge, your anxiety about text messages, ALL energy. Glamour magick is just learning to work with YOUR energy to project what you want.

The word itself traces back to 18th-century Scottish "gramarye," meaning enchantment or magic. Over centuries it evolved from literal illusion spells into something way more practical: a blend of self-care, spirituality, and manifestation that shifts how you show up in the world. (Look at me actually reading stuff to tell you)

So no, you don't need to worship Aphrodite naked under a full moon. (Unless you want to. I'm not judging. Live your life.)

The Marilyn Monroe Effect: Proof That This Shit Works

You've heard the story, right? Marilyn Monroe THE Marilyn Monroe could apparently turn her magnetism on and off like a light switch.

Her friend Amy Greene described how Marilyn could walk down a New York street completely UNNOTICEABLE. Just….a regular woman. Then she'd turn to her friend and say, "Do you want to see me become her?" She'd stand there for maybe two minutes. Something shifted. And suddenly BOOM BAM. Crowds. Recognition. People flocking. "Oh my god, it's Marilyn Monroe!"

Psychologists call this the "act as if" principle. It's not magic in the Harry Potter sense. It's intention. It's choosing to embody a version of yourself that already exists within you, the confident, magnetic, "I own this room" version, and letting your body, energy, and presence follow that narrative.

Was Marilyn doing glamour magick? Maybe. Maybe she just figured out what some of us are still learning: your energy is a dial, not a fixed setting. And you can turn that shit UP.

My Personal Glow-Up: From Raccoon to Radiant (Sort Of)

Now let me get personal, because I promised you chaos and I deliver.

I was an UGLY little thing in school. Dark. Overweight. The WORST makeup skills you've ever seen. I looked like a raccoon who got into a fight with a Sephora. My hair was doing things I cannot explain. My confidence was in the negatives. I was the girl who walked into rooms hoping nobody would look at me.

Then I started practicing glamour magick.

Not because I believed in it at first, let's be real, I was skeptical AF. But I figured: what do I have to lose? I was already washing my face. I was already putting on moisturizer. I was already existing. If adding some intention to it made even a 1% difference, that was 1% more than I had.

So I started small.

Every morning, instead of grabbing my phone and doomscrolling Instagram while my cortisol spiked, I'd open my eyes and think: "Today is going to be a good day. Today I am going to do well. Universe, show me how good it gets." Just that. Before my feet even hit the floor.

When I washed my face, I didn't just wash it. I imagined I was physically removing negativity. The muck. The bad energy. The "I hate myself" thoughts. Washing them DOWN the drain. Ew.

When I put on my gym clothes, I thought of them as ARMOR. I was going to sweat out the fat, the stress, the stagnation. I visualized chiseled abs. Greek god/goddess energy. I was literally becoming a statue in my mind while doing squats.

When I applied skincare, I didn't just slap cream on my face and call it a day. I MASSAGED it in. I looked in the mirror. I said: "You are beautiful. You are the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. You are magnetic."

And you know what? IT WORKED.

My hair, which was the weirdest, most uncooperative head of hair ever, suddenly started behaving. My eyes looked brighter. My skin got clearer. I figured out I was an autumn palette (or maybe summer, the color theory girlies can fight me on this). My makeup game LEVELLED UP. I stopped looking like a raccoon and started looking like… well, like ME. But the version of me who actually likes herself.

Am I at my peak? NO. I still need to hit the gym properly. I still need to get back to swimming. But am I better than college-me? ABSOLUTELY. And that girl was doing her BEST with what she had. I'm just doing BETTER because I started believing I could.

The Science-y Bit (For the Skeptics in the Back)

Now, I know some of you are sitting there like: "Lily, this is just placebo. This is just confidence. This is just psychology."

AND? So what if it is?

Here's what the research on subliminals and manifestation communities shows: people who engage in these practices affirmations, visualization, intentional routines , report genuine changes in confidence, appearance, and how they're perceived. A massive study of Reddit's r/subliminal community (167,000+ people) found that users overwhelmingly focus on appearance transformations like clearer skin, confidence, and weight goals, and the community actively reinforces positive results. (Oki you better try this now because I ACTUAL WENT THERE N READ ALL THE COMMENTS)

Psychologists literally call this "act as if" or embodied cognition (Like I told you). Your body follows your mind's lead. When you walk into a room believing you're magnetic, your posture changes. Your eye contact changes. Your energy changes. And people FEEL that. They respond to it.

Is it "magick"? Or is it just… mindset work with better branding?

Who cares? It WORKS. And if wrapping it in witchy aesthetics makes you actually DO the work, then that's the most powerful spell of all.

What You Actually Do (The Lily Routine)

Okay, so you want to try this? You want to stop being a skeptic and start being a SEXY skeptic? Here's what you do. And remember: if it doesn't work, what did you lose? You still took a bath. You still put on skincare. You still existed beautifully. Zero downside.

Morning: Set the Vibe

Don't grab your phone first thing. I KNOW it's hard. I KNOW TikTok is calling your name. But resist. Open your eyes and say: "Today is going to be such a good day. Today I am going to do so well. Universe, show me how good it gets."

You're literally wiring your brain to look for GOOD things instead of problems. Because here's the thing: if you wake up thinking "today is going to suck," your brain becomes a heat-seeking missile for sucky things. It'll FIND them. It'll CREATE them. But if you wake up looking for magic? You'll FIND that too.

Face Washing: The Negativity Drain

When you wash your face, don't just… wash it. Imagine you're removing the muck. The bad energy. The "I'm not enough" thoughts. The stress. The drama. Wash it ALL down the drain. You're not just cleansing your skin. You're cleansing your AURA. (Yes, I said aura. Fight me.)

Skincare: The Mirror Ritual

This is where it gets GOOD. When you put on your creams, your serums, your whatever-the-hell-expensive-stuff-you-bought, don't just slap it on. MASSAGE it in. Look at yourself in the mirror. And I mean REALLY look.

Say it: "I am beautiful. I am magnetic. I am the best version of myself."

Say it even if you don't believe it. ESPECIALLY if you don't believe it. Because the most insecure person, doing this every day, will eventually start to feel it. They'll start to BELIEVE it. And once you believe it? The world believes it too.

Gym/Exercise: The Armor

When you put on your gym clothes, don't just think "ugh, I have to work out." Think: "This is my armor. I am going to sweat out everything that doesn't serve me. I am going to replace fat with strength. I am going to become a Greek god/goddess."

Visualize it. Feel it. The fat melting. The muscles forming. The strength building. There's a reason subliminals work for so many people, the brain doesn't fully distinguish between vivid imagination and reality. Use that.

Before Big Moments: The Confidence Spell

Job interview? Date? Presentation? Stand in front of the mirror. Look yourself dead in the eyes. And say: "I will crush this. I will get what I want. I am unstoppable."

That's glamour magick. That's manifestation. That's you telling the universe and yourself what's about to happen.

The Catch (Because There's Always a Catch)

Now, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that you can eat like garbage, never move your body, and just chant affirmations and become a supermodel. NO.

Glamour magick is NOT a substitute for doing the work. It's the CHERRY ON TOP of doing the work.

You can't just say "I'm beautiful" and then eat only processed sugar and wonder why your skin is revolting. You can't say "I'm fit" and never exercise. That's like going into an exam having only prayed and not studied a SINGLE thing. You KNOW you're going to fail. The universe doesn't reward laziness disguised as faith.

You need BOTH. The intention AND the action. The magic AND the mundane. The spell AND the skincare routine.

Do the work. Eat decent food. Move your body. Sleep sometimes. AND layer the intention on top. That's where the 10% extra comes from. That's where the glow-up happens.

What If You Think This Is Bullshit?

Then think it's bullshit! I'm not here to shove anything down your throat. I'm just a girl, yapping in her diary, sharing what worked for her.

If this resonates, try it. What do you have to lose? You're already doing most of this stuff anyway. Just add some INTENTION. Some MINDSET. Some "I am that bitch" energy.

If it doesn't resonate, that's fine too. I have plenty of other articles about food disasters, workplace trauma, and why I can't sleep like a normal person. Go read those. This one's for the girlies who want to glow up and don't care if it sounds woo-woo.

The Real Spell

Here's the truth, and I'm going to say it with my whole chest:

The most powerful glamour magic is just….remembering how beautiful you are.

Not how beautiful you could be. Not how beautiful you'll be after you lose weight, or clear your skin, or get that job. How beautiful you are RIGHT NOW. In this moment. With all your chaos and your mess and your raccoon-eyed history.

Glamour magick isn't about becoming someone else. It's about becoming MORE of who you already are. It's about walking into a room and thinking "I am the most magnetic person here" and MEANING it. It's about energy. Presence. The way you occupy space.

Everything is energy. Your thoughts. Your water. Your moisturizer. Your gym clothes. Your mirror. And when you start treating them like the magical tools they are? That's when things shift.

So go. Look in the mirror. Say the thing. Believe the thing. Become the thing.

And if nothing else? You'll have taken a really nice bath, had a good skincare session, and maybe..just maybe….started to believe in yourself a little more.

That's not nothing. That's everything.

—”Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the baddest bitch of us all” (cringing)

Lily🤍

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

If you enjoyed this chaotic deep-dive into witchy glow-ups, subscribe to Lily's Unsent Diary. I promise more spirituality, more chaos, and definitely more times I yell about energy while eating cereal at 2 AM (really). Let me know if you try this. I want to hear your glow-up stories. Or your skepticism. Both are valid.

These are, like, comics, but make them Japanese/Korean/Chinese and way more dramatic. And yes, calling them "comics" might offend some purists. Sorry, I guess? Get over it.

Your favorite animes? Naruto. Fairy Tail. Solo Leveling. All of them started as manga/manhwa. That "advanced cartoon" you're binging? It was born on paper first. Respect the origins, people.

The Animax Incident (RIP)

Let me take you back. Way back. When I was a kid, I only knew "cartoons" that came on Nickelodeon, Pogo, and Hungama. Shinchan. Doraemon. Perman. Kiteretsu. The classics. And honestly? The Indian ones didn't hit the same. Chhota Bheem took over everything and it was the SAME storyline every time. No character arc. No growth. Just Bheem eating laddoos and saving the day. Groundbreaking cinema, truly.

The first time I saw PROPER anime was when Animax came to TV. And BLEACH was airing. I was FASCINATED. The art! The fights! The DRAMA! And then….disaster. My mom walked in at the EXACT moment some guy had his face shoved in some girl's boobs (you know that scene) . She decided it was pornography. Animax was BANNED from my house. Forever. I didn't even get to explain that it was ART, mom. ART.

But before the Animax tragedy, there was Hayate the Combat Butler. And THAT'S where I had my very first girl crush. I don't remember who. She had pink hair and clipped one side of her bangs up. Guess who rocked that fashion the next day in school. I just remember being confused about my feelings in a way that only a shoujo manga can make you confused. Thanks, Hayate. You awakened something.

Then I visited my cousin's place. They were watching Inuyasha. My sister was RAVING about it. And then came the bomb, FAIRY TAIL. Dragons! Magic! A Barbie fantasy girly's DREAM. And the GUYS. Oh, the guys. I had a MASSIVE crush on Gray. Gray Fullbuster. Shirt-constantly-missing Gray. Now that I'm older, I have NO idea what my younger self was thinking, but at the time? He was everything. He was THE standard. My little kid brain saw that ice magic and those abs and said "yes, this is love."

The YouTube Era and My First Manga

But here's the problem: Animax was dead in my house thanks to Bleach and big boobied side characters. I couldn't watch Fairy Tail properly. YouTube existed, but I couldn't exactly sit there watching "advanced cartoons" when I was supposed to be studying. So I did what any desperate gremlin would do.

I found out Fairy Tail had a manga. A COMIC. With the FULL story. Already completed. And I could read it on my phone, under my blanket, at 2 AM, like a proper delinquent. That was it. I was HOOKED. I needed to know what happened. I needed to know EVERYTHING.

And before anyone comes at me, NO, I did not read Naruto. I knew it EXISTED. I knew there was "hype." But I was not a ninja girl. I was a dragons-and-magic girly. Different aesthetic. Different vibe. Respect the lanes.

The Shoujo Pipeline: Where I Learned to Overthink Love

Now, I was a high school kid. And manga? Manga CATERED to high school kids. Especially shoujo manga. The romance ones. The love triangles. The cool guy. The studious kid. The "I tripped and accidentally fell into his arms" moments. I ate it ALL up.

And here's the thing I dont tell anyone: I genuinely think my people skills improved from reading shoujo manga. All those social dynamics, the misunderstandings, the dramatic confessions, the "what does he MEAN by that" overthinking, I LIVED it through manga before I lived it in real life. It was like a training simulator for being a disaster in love. Thanks, shoujo. You prepared me for absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

I read HUNDREDS of them. Hundreds. I would wake up and read manga instead of newspapers. I would catch up on new chapters like it was my JOB. I have not watched as many TV shows as I've read manga. Not even close. My parents thought I was informed about current affairs. Joke's on them. I was informed about which love triangle was resolving this week. Lol

The Chaotic Reading Journey (A Gremlin's Browser History)

My reading journey? Absolute chaos. I started on Mangakakalot. Then Scanations. Then Bato (RIP Bato, you shall forever be in my heart). Then Manganato. Then I discovered WEBTOON. And from webtoon, I found isekai plots.

Isekai. The genre where someone dies and gets reincarnated in another world with OP powers and a harem. RIDICULOUS. ADDICTIVE. I read SO MANY. "I was a nobody but now I'm a princess with magic!" "I died but now I'm a villainess who must survive!" "I got transported to another world and now I run a café!" Give me ALL of it.THIS IS MY ADDICTION. I have no shame. I have read isekai where the plot makes zero sense and the protagonist has the personality of wet cardboard, but the ART was pretty so I stayed. Libra Venus things. We'll get to that.

And from all this manga consumption, I learned to DRAW. I fell in love with drawing anime characters. Chibi characters especially, those tiny, cute, big-headed ones. If you ever saw my art book, it's 90% manga girls and cutesy anime faces. That's where it started. That's where the art gremlin was born. I have drawn so many sparkly-eyed girls in school uniforms that I could probably wallpaper a room with them.

Yes, I Know Hentai Exists (No, I Don't Really Read It)

Yes, hentai exists. No, I don't really read it. I prefer something with a STORY. I'm a plot girl first, though I won't pretend I don't appreciate the aesthetics. If you want to read that, you do you. I'm not here to judge. I'm just here to say I like my drama with clothes on, mostly. The emotional nudity is enough for me.

The Recommendations (Because I Know You're Going to Ask)

FREAKING ROMANCE on Webtoon. Do NOT judge the art style at first, I know, it looks a little rough. Like someone drew it in a hurry during a power outage. But as the story progresses? SO GOOD. The character development HITS. The romance is weird and wonderful and it will make you scream into your pillow at 2 AM. Trust me. Trust the process.

LORE OLYMPUS. Also gorgeous. The art style gets PRETTY. Like, "I want to frame every panel and put it on my wall" pretty. I'm a Libra Venus, okay? I'm a SUCKER for beauty. Blame my chart, not me. The way Hades is drawn? Criminal. Absolutely criminal. I have feelings about it. Many feelings.

There are more but I literally forgot the names because I've read too many. My brain is just a soup of plotlines and pretty boys at this point. DM me or drop a comment and I'll dig through my chaotic reading history for you. I'll find it. I have spreadsheets. I'm organized about my chaos.

So Yeah

Manga raised me as much as anything else did. It taught me art, romance, dramatic overthinking, and that sometimes the best stories are the ones you read under your blanket at 2 AM while your parents think you're asleep. It taught me that dragons are cool, love triangles are stressful, and that if a guy is mean to you in chapter one, he's probably going to be your husband by chapter fifty. Questionable lesson, but I didn't make the rules.

If you're a manga reader, let me know. I need more people to scream about webtoons with. If you're not, what are you even doing? Get on it. Your inner gremlin is waiting. Your 2 AM self is begging for content.

Okay. Bye. See you soon. Tell me what you want me to write next. I'm running out of childhood traumas to monetize.

-Stuck in a love triangle between Pinterest and substack

Lily🤍

📜📜📜📜📜

If you enjoyed this chaotic trip down my manga addiction, subscribe to lily's unsent diary. I promise more unhinged nostalgia, more recommendations, and definitely more times I blame my zodiac for my life choices.

"Ugh, I just don't get along with other girls," she sighs, tossing her hair like it's a TED Talk. "So much drama, you know?"

Babe. The drama is YOU. You're the common denominator. The WiFi password is "projection" and you're connected to all five bars.

The "Cool Girl" Starter Pack

Let's do a quick anatomy lesson, because this creature is FASCINATING. She's like a case study in internalized misogyny wearing lip gloss and a "chill" attitude.

She says "I'm one of the guys" like it's a personality trait. Like it should go on her resume between "proficient in Excel" and "team player." Spoiler: it's not a skill. It's a survival mechanism she thinks is a flex.

She sees another woman thriving and feels personally ATTACKED. Not inspired. Not happy for her. Attacked. Like there's a limited amount of "good" in the world and another woman having it means she can't. Like success is a pie and she's terrified someone else got a bigger slice.

She'll spread a rumor about a woman she barely knows because tearing someone down feels like building herself up. She'll whisper in corners because it's easier than working on herself. She'll throw any woman under any bus if it means a guy will laugh at her joke.

And the WILDEST part? She thinks this makes her special. Different. Better. She's fallen for the oldest trick in the patriarchal playbook: "divide and conquer," except she's doing the dividing HERSELF and calling it empowerment. Girl, you're not the main character. You're the unpaid intern for misogyny.

The Pick-Me Olympics

Oh, the pick-me energy. The DESPERATE need for male validation dressed up as "just being chill." The way she'll agree with sexist comments because "I'm cool, I can take it, I'm not like those OTHER girls who get offended."

Honey. Getting offended is a survival skill. Being "cool" about misogyny is just being complicit with extra steps. And the guys you're performing for? They don't respect you more. They respect you LESS. You're just the woman who made their job easier by doing the misogyny FOR them.

Congratulations. Here's your participation trophy. It doesn't unlock anything.

Why We Fall For It (And Why It's Okay, We're All Growing)

Now look. I'm not here to pretend I never had a pick-me phase. We ALL have. We grew up watching movies where the cool girl drank beer and didn't care and was "one of the guys." Where the protagonist was "not like other girls" , special, different, worthy of love because she wasn't "too much."

So we learned. We learned that to be valued, we had to distance ourselves from other women. That our proximity to men was our currency. That our ability to perform "chill" was our worth.

And some of us stayed there longer than others. Some of us built entire personalities around being the exception. The "cool one." The "one who gets it."

But here's the thing: we're literally built to grow OUT of it. Our frontal lobes aren't even done cooking until our mid-twenties. We're all just walking around with half-baked brains, making decisions based on hormones and bad advice from 2012 Tumblr. It's not an excuse to be mean, but it IS a reason to have some grace, for yourself, and yeah, even for her.

Because the truth is, she's not evil.

She's just lost. She's playing a game she didn't design, following rules she didn't write, and she hasn't figured out yet that the prize is a participation trophy in a competition that was rigged from the start.

The Actual Cost

Here's what being "not like other girls" really costs you: COMMUNITY. The ability to text someone at 2 AM and say "I'm falling apart." The group chat that hypes you up. The friend who tells you "he's not worth it" when you're too blind to see it. The collective power of women who actually trust each other.

You lose the ability to see other women as whole people—not competition, not threats, not mirrors for your insecurities. Just people. Messy, brilliant, struggling, thriving PEOPLE.

And when you actually need them? when the guy who validated you turns out to be trash? when you're crying at 2 AM and realize your "guy friends" are not equipped for this emotional labor?

you'll find yourself alone. Because you spent years building walls instead of bridges. Now I’m not saying having guy friends is bad, but its the balance babe, BALANCE.

The Real "Cool Girl"

The ACTUAL cool girl? She's the one who hypes her friends in group chats. Who sees a woman winning and says "THAT'S MY SISTER." Who knows that another woman's success is not her failure. Who calls out misogyny even when it's "just a joke."

She doesn't need to put other women down to feel tall. She doesn't need male validation to feel real. She doesn't need to be the "exception" because she knows the rule was always a lie.

And she's not perfect. She slips. She has moments of jealousy, of competitiveness, of "why does SHE get that." But she catches herself. She does better. She grows.

Because we're all works in progress. We're all unlearning. We're all figuring out how to be human in a world that profits from our division.

So Here's the Deal

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself in the "cool girl", breathe. It's okay. The whole system was built to put us there. The question isn't whether you fell for it. It's whether you're willing to climb out.

And if you're reading this and recognizing someone else, someone who made your life harder, who spread rumors, who treated your shine like a threat….I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. Her insecurity is not your fault. Her need to perform at your expense is not your burden.

But here's what you do: you keep building. You keep being the girls' girl she never learned to be. You keep celebrating, supporting, showing up. Because the best response to someone who tried to shrink you is growing so big they can't even reach your shadow.

And to the pick-mes, the cool girls, the "I'm not like other girls" girls: we see you. We WERE you. And we hope you find your way back to us. The door's open. The tea's hot. The drama is optional but the love is mandatory.

We're saving you a seat. Whenever you're ready to stop performing and start being. No rush. Growth is messy. We're all just out here with our half-baked frontal lobes, figuring it out as we go.

-Pulling up a chair

Lily🤍

🎀🎀🎀🎀

If you enjoyed this chaotic feminist rant, subscribe to lily unsent diary. I promise more gremlin energy, more yelling about the patriarchy, and definitely more times I eat cereal at 2 AM while having existential crises.

And I became a creature of the night.

The Shakespeare Years

Picture this: my mom tucks me in. Kisses me goodnight—two, three times because I'm a greedy little gremlin who needs affection. She leaves. I wait approximately five seconds. Then I LOCK THAT DOOR.

And I DANCE.

Earphones in, obviously. I'm not an ANIMAL. I don't want to wake my parents. But I am putting on a FULL production in that bedroom. Oscar-worthy short films. Dramatic adaptations of Shakespeare. I would crown myself the Bard and play EVERY ROLE. One minute I'm the hero saving the world. Next minute I'm the princess in distress. Then I'm the knight. Then I'm the DRAGON. I was an entire cast, crew, and catering service. I was method acting at age eight and nobody knew.

I'd finally collapse into bed around 1 AM, 2 AM, absolutely EXHAUSTED. And let me be clear, this was AFTER a full day of school, extracurriculars, dance classes, and whatever else my parents threw at me to tire me out.

Spoiler: nothing tired me out. My energy was (and still is) demonic.

The K-Drama Idol Era

As I grew up, my Shakespearean masterpieces slowly morphed into reenacting K-dramas. I was no longer the Bard. I was the lead idol. The main character. The girl who gets the guy, loses the guy, gets hit by a truck, comes back from the dead, AND gets the guy again. I was dancing. I was singing in a subhuman frequency that only dogs could probably hear. (You're welcome, neighbors. Your dogs were my only audience.)

I got busted two or three times. My parents would open the door to find me mid-choreography, mid-aria, mid-emotional monologue to an invisible love interest. They'd stare. I'd freeze. We'd all pretend it didn't happen.

Then I got my first phone.

And oh. OH. The dancing turned to late-night chats with my online boyfriend back in Germany (Yes I had one, stop looking at me like that). Downloading this weird-ass app called Mydol and making friends with people who were definitely also lying about their age. I'd chat until 2 AM, wake up at 7 AM (because I need time for my bathroom concert), drag myself to college by 9 AM, come home, pretend to study while my brain absorbed absolutely nothing, have dinner, get tucked in by parents AGAIN because I am a mommy's girl and a daddy's girl and I will NEVER outgrow this, thank you very much.

Pretend to sleep for five minutes. Then BAM. Discord. Silent typing. Night owl activated.

And you know what? While this absolutely DESTROYED my sleep schedule, I got REALLY good at dancing. Lost some weight too. Silver linings, people. I'm an optimist with a death wish.

The Instagram Makeup Girly (Who Doesn't Post)

College happened. MBA happened. Job happened. The dancing stopped. The K-dramas faded. And what took over?

PAINTING. DRAWING. ART.

At night, I would draw on my FACE. I'd become this Instagram makeup girly who doesn't actually post on Instagram. Pretty makeup designs. Artistic face paint. Little masterpieces on my own skin at 2 AM while the world slept. From Shakespearean tragedies to K-drama idols to silent face artist. The medium changed. The night stayed the same.

And it got me thinking.

What Is UP With the Night?

Why does nighttime hit different? Why does the moon feel like home when the sun feels like a performance review?

I think I figured it out.

At night, nobody wants anything from me. At night, there's no "Lily do this" or "Lily don't do that" or "Lily be professional" or "Lily be presentable." At night, I can just... BE. I can sit under the moon. Talk to her. Write poems about her. Wonder if I should publish those poems on Substack. (I should. I will. Watch me.)

The sun wants me to perform. The sun is harsh. Judgmental. A strict parent who says "sit up straight" and "make something of yourself" and "why aren't you being productive?" The sun wants the masked me. The performative me. The one who shows up, smiles, does the thing, and goes home exhausted.

But the moon? The moon URGES me to be original. To let myself be all the faces I want. The stars tell me to twinkle however I damn please. The night doesn't judge my 2 AM face paint or my subhuman singing or my Discord rants. The night just... holds space

And sometimes friends come like clouds, softening the sun, making the day bearable. But even with clouds, the performer is still on stage. The mask is still on. It's just a little easier to breathe.

At night? The mask comes OFF.

The Beautiful Truth

I don't think it's insomnia. I really don't. I think it's the feeling that at night, I get a piece of myself BACK. During the day, I distribute myself everywhere, to work, to people, to expectations, to performances. I give pieces away like candy. But at night? I get it all to myself. I don't have to share. I don't have to perform. I just get to EXIST.

And that? That's beautiful.

At night, I become a child of the moon. Its not that the sun does NOT treat me like its child, it's just that the sun is the strict parent who wants me to be "successful" and "productive" and "normal." The moon is the comforting parent who says "come as you are, weirdo. I love you anyway."

I don't know how this post went from "do I have insomnia" to "I am a moon child." But hey. I'm a Cancer. I was BORN a moon child. The zodiac said it, the stars confirmed it, and my 2 AM face paint is just evidence.

If You Feel This Too

If you're reading this and nodding, if you too feel like the night is where you come alive, where you finally breathe, where you get yourself back, then let's connect. Tell me what the sun doesn't let you see. Tell the moon. She's always there. She'll listen. She doesn't judge. She just glows, quiet and steady, while you become whoever you need to be.

We're not insomniacs. We're just children of the moon who haven't learned how to sleep in a world that only values daylight.

And honestly? I'm okay with that.

-Yawning

Lily 🤍

🌟🌟🌟🌟

If you're a fellow moon child, drop a comment. Tell me your 2 AM ritual. Tell me what the night gives you that the day takes away. Let's be tired together, beautifully.

Because I have a problem. And its name is math.

The Backstory: How Math Became My Villain Origin Story

When I was a kid, I actually liked math. I know. Wild. I was out here solving problems like a tiny genius, probably wearing a cape in my head. Then eleventh and twelfth grade happened. Integration walked in. Trigonometry followed. And I looked at both of them and said: "You know what? Math is the villain of my life and I am NEVER touching it again."

And I meant it. I was the HAPPIEST person after twelfth. Math-free. Liberated. I genuinely believed I had escaped. I had served my time. I was done.

But math? Math had other plans.

Math is following me like a desperate stalker. The kind that shows up at your job, your dreams, your life goals, just to remind you that you can't get rid of it. Every time I think I've moved on, there it is. Waving. Smiling. Saying: "Remember me? You still need me. You'll ALWAYS need me."

And now, here I am in 2026, and math, specifically statistics, is the ONLY thing standing between me and my aim.

The Aim I Can't Tell You About (Yet)

So. I left my dead-end job. I was lost for a while, wandering around like a ghost with good hair, not knowing what I wanted. But I finally figured it out. I studied. I researched. I asked myself the hard question: "What do you actually WANT, Lily?"

And I found it. I have an aim now. A real one. One that matters so much I'm not even telling you what it is yet, because I'm superstitious and I want to speak it into existence only when it's REAL. When I've conquered it. When I can say "I DID THAT" instead of "I'm trying to do that."

But here's the thing: this aim requires math. Basic high-school, to be exact. The demon I thought I banished. Like the universe is personally fucking with me at this point.

And if I don't get this? If I don't conquer it? It's not just "oh well, try again." It's irreversible bad. The kind of bad that keeps you up at night. The kind of bad where you watch time slip through your fingers like sand and you can't grab it back. Time doesn't wait. Time doesn't do "pause for Lily to get her shit together." It just… goes.

The Procrastination Olympics

And MY GOD, am I procrastinating. I am the GOLD MEDALIST of procrastination. I wake up every morning like: "Today is the day. Today I attack math. Today I take the bull by the horns and I WIN."

And then my body says: "Nah."

I open the book. I yawn. I look at a number. I yawn harder. I sit down to study and my brain is like a shop that closed early. Shut up. Locked the door. Threw away the key. Gone home. Do not disturb.

It's not even that I don't want to do it. I DO. I want this aim more than I've wanted anything in a long time. But there's this wall. This invisible, stupid, frustrating WALL between "I want this" and "I am doing this." And I don't know how to break it.

The Fear Is Real

And I'm scared. I'm actually scared. Not "lol I'm so scared" internet scared. Genuinely scared. Because I know what happens if I don't do this. I know where not doing this leads. And it's not a place I want to be.

So I'm sitting here, writing to you, asking: How do I make my mind LISTEN to me?

Forget math for a second. Forget statistics. Forget my specific aim. Just… how do I tell my brain to do something and have it actually DO it? Instead of me having to drag it, kicking and screaming, through every single step? How do I get my mind and my body on the same team instead of playing against each other?

I know the generic advice. "Just push yourself." "Discipline over motivation." "Do it even when you don't feel like it." I KNOW. I've heard it. I've tried it. And sometimes it works for a day, and then I'm back to square one, exhausted, hating myself, and my brain is back behind its locked door.

So I'm asking YOU. My readers. My chaos crew. The people who've been where I am, or are where I am right now.

What do I do? What worked for you? How did you make your brain cooperate when it really, really didn't want to? How did you conquer the thing that felt unconquerable?

Drop it in the comments. Slide into my DMs. Send a carrier pigeon. I don't care. I just need something that isn't "try harder" because I AM trying. I'm trying so hard I'm tired of trying.

Help a gremlin out. Please. Before math wins and I have to admit defeat to a bunch of numbers.

-Waving the white flag

Lily🤍

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If you've ever been where I am, I need you right now. Comment below, share your wisdom, your hacks, your "I was stuck and this is how I got unstuck" stories. I promise I'll read every single one. And if you're also stuck right now? Let's be stuck together. At least we'll have company.

I want to talk about my girls. My actual, real, no-caps girl gang. And if you know me, you know this is a BIG deal. Because I didn't always have this. I didn't even think I'd get this. I genuinely thought I was friendship-repellent. Like, scientifically. Like someone had studied me and concluded: "This one? She doesn't do groups. She does… walls. And overthinking."

The Moving Years: A Friendship Graveyard

When I was little, I moved every three to four years because of my dad's job. New city, new school, new me frantically trying to figure out where the cafeteria was before the cool kids noticed I was lost. I'd make friends- quick, intense, "we're besties NOW, we share EVERYTHING, including this one pencil" kind of friendships-and then we'd move. And back then? We didn't have Facebook. No Instagram. No "let's stay connected" apps. We had LANDLINE PHONES. And my little walnut-sized brain could not remember a single number to save its life. Not one. So I'd leave. And I'd forget. And they'd forget me. And that was that.

Friendships had expiration dates. Like milk. Except I didn't even get to smell them first. Just… poof. Gone. Like my ability to remember why I walked into a room.

High School: The Bullying Era (Starring Me, Unfortunately)

Then high school happened. I made friends. I lost friends. I got bullied. I lost more friends. It was a whole Netflix series and I was the main character nobody rooted for. By the time I graduated, I had exactly one friend I still talked to. ONE. Out of all those years, all those people, all those "we'll be friends forever" promises scrawled in slam books with glitter gel pens. One.

I held onto her like a lifeline. Because she was. And also because she was the only one who didn't make me feel like a social experiment gone wrong. She’s my bestie now.

College: The Freak-Matching Fail

College came. I was older, wiser, definitely not wiser. I wanted a core girl gang so bad I could taste it. Every time I visited a new place, my first prayer was: "Please, God, let me have a good girl gang. Please. I'm begging. I'll eat vegetables. I'll stop saying 'favily.' I'll be GOOD. Just give me the girls."

I found a friend group. They were… fine. Like, "we sit together in class" fine. "We share notes" fine. But my values didn't align with theirs. I was the odd one out, the one who thought too much, felt too much, wanted something more than just existing in the same room. And then I got a boyfriend and became that girl who forgot about her friendships for romance (yes, I was stupid that way, thank you for asking). I'm not proud.

I never found anyone who could match my freak. And I thought college was my last shot. Everyone said it: "You don't make real friends in corporate. Work friends aren't real friends. Keep it professional. Don't get attached. They're just colleagues." I believed them. I grieved the girl gang I never got. I made my peace with being the friendless gremlin who eats crackers in the dark.

I told myself I was an introvert. That I didn't need people. That I was "self-sufficient." Which is just code for "I have given up and I'm calling it a personality trait."

The Manifestation Plot Twist

Then I joined this company. Management? Trash. Work culture? Questionable. The coffee machine? Broken half the time. But the people? TREASURE. Actual, glittering, "where have you been all my life" treasure.

I remember putting on my manifestation vision board, yes, I have one, no, I will not be taking questions at this time. "Please, God, let me have really good girlfriends." Just that. Simple. Desperate. A little pathetic, if we're being honest. I fully expected the universe to laugh and send me another situationship.

But I found them. THREE of them. Girls who think like me. Girls who are at the same chaotic point in their lives. Girls who are SO supportive it actually makes me emotional in public, which I hate. No pick-me energy. No cattiness. No "I'm not like other girls, I only hang out with guys because there's less drama" nonsense. Just… good people. Good women. Showing up for each other. Even when I show up late. Even when I show up in the same outfit three days in a row because laundry is hard.

I didn't expect it. I didn't plan it. It just clicked. Like finding a sweater that actually fits after years of wearing things that were too tight or too loose or just… wrong. Like finally getting the WiFi password after standing outside the door for years.

And the wildest part? I didn't have to change. Not one bit. I didn't have to be quieter, or nicer, or less chaotic, or more "acceptable." I just… was. And they were like, "Yeah, okay, we like this one. She can stay." I didn't have to perform. I didn't have to shrink. I didn't have to pull myself out of my shell because they just… climbed in with me. Brought snacks. Made it cozy.

Hampi: The Tribe Confirmed (And Nobody Got Lost, Which Is a Miracle)

We went to Hampi recently. And listen. It was PERFECT. Not "Instagram perfect" where everyone's posing and nobody's actually having fun. Actually perfect. Nobody rushed me. Nobody made me feel like I was too much or too little or too weird. We just… existed together. Laughed until our stomachs hurt. Ate everything in sight. Did nothing together with such INTENSITY. And it felt like home.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I finally found my tribe. My people. My "we're going to be in each other's weddings and yell at each other's kids and probably share a retirement home where we cause problems on purpose" people. It hit me somewhere between the ancient ruins and the third plate of whatever street food we were demolishing: I have this now. I actually have this. And I didn't have to become someone else to get it.

Also, nobody fought over the itinerary. Do you know how rare that is? With women? We just… vibes. Pure vibes. I almost cried. I didn't, because I have a reputation, but I ALMOST did.

The Seventh-Grade Bestie (Winx Club Forever, No I Will Not Be Explaining)

And then there's HER. My best friend since seventh grade. We met because of Winx Club, which is objectively hilarious and I will not be taking criticism on this. We only see each other once or twice a year because she lives in another city. But she's there. Always. She calls. I call. We pick up like no time passed. Like we just saw each other yesterday, not six months ago. Boys have come and gone, SO many boys, an embarrassing number of boys, but she's stayed. Over a decade now. She's the constant. The foundation. The one who knew me when I was just a weird kid with a Winx Club obsession, too many feelings, and absolutely no fashion sense.

She's seen me at my worst. She's seen me at my slightly-less-worst. And she's still here. That's love, people. That's REAL love. Not the "I like your Instagram photos" kind. The "I will drive three hours to see you for two hours and then drive back" kind.

The Moral of This Soft Story

I used to think I was bad at friendship. That I was too much, too weird, too something that made people leave. That I was destined to be the "cool loner" who was actually just lonely. But the truth is, I just hadn't found my people yet. I was trying to force myself into circles that weren't shaped like me. Squishing my chaotic, gremlin-shaped self into round holes and wondering why it hurt.

But maybe that's the whole point, you don't find your tribe by forcing it. You don't find them by becoming smaller, or quieter, or more "palatable." You find them by being exactly who you are, loudly and unapologetically, until the right ones hear you and say, "Oh. There you are. We've been looking for you. You brought snacks, right?"

These girls, my office trio, my seventh-grade soulmate, my Hampi crew, my "text me when you get home" people, they make me look forward to life. To AIM. To showing up. To being better. Not because they ask me to, but because they make me want to. Because when you have people who see you, really see you, you stop wanting to hide. You stop wanting to be "less." You just… bloom. Like a very chaotic, slightly feral flower.

So if you're out there, reading this, feeling like you'll never find your people, like you're the only freak in a world of normals, like you're "too much" or "not enough" or just… wrong—keep going. Keep being you. Keep manifesting if that's your thing. Keep being weird and loud and unapologetically YOURSELF. Because they're out there. And when you find them, you'll know. It'll click. And it'll be worth every lonely year that came before it.

To my girls: I love you. You're stuck with me now. Sorry in advance for all the chaos I'm about to bring into your lives. It's a lot. But so am I, and you knew that when you signed up.

-Grateful and soft

Lily 🤍

If you enjoyed this rare moment of unfiltered softness, subscribe to lily unsent diary. I promise I'll go back to complaining about food and spiritual disasters next time. But today? Today I'm just grateful. And slightly emotional. And definitely not crying. It's just allergies. Shut up.

"Fuck. I have to make breakfast."

And then immediately after: "And lunch." And then, like a horror movie villain that just won't die: "AND DINNER."

Three times a day. Every single day. For the rest of my life. Who designed this? Who looked at human existence and said, "Yes, what this species needs is a never-ending cycle of meal prep or they will literally perish"? I want to speak to the manager.

Now, maybe this is just my ADHD brain making everything feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops. But the mental load is exhausting. It's not just cooking. Oh no. That would be too simple. It's the PLANNING. The "what do I even make?" The staring into the fridge like it's going to whisper the answers. The opening three recipe apps, getting overwhelmed, and ordering takeout anyway. The guilt spiral that follows. Rinse. Repeat. Tomorrow.

The ADHD Meal Planning Spiral

My brain doesn't just say "make lunch." My brain says: "Okay, first check what ingredients you have, but also check what's expiring, but also what are you actually craving, but also is it healthy, but also do you have the energy to cook it, but also will it make too many dishes, but also–" AND THEN I LIE DOWN.

By the time I've mentally mapped out one meal, I've already spent forty-five minutes in a doom spiral and now it's 2 PM and I haven't eaten breakfast. The planning IS the meal. I have consumed zero calories but my brain is FULL. Of anxiety. And air.

So now I'm out here choosing between: a) spending all my money on organic vegetables and clean proteins, or b) eating instant ramen and accepting my fate. There is no c). There's never a c).

Capitalism Said: "Starve or Go Broke"

And let's talk about the INGREDIENTS for a second. Because capitalism looked at basic human survival and said: "What if we made that cost your entire soul?"

Want protein? That'll be your left kidney. Fresh vegetables? Say goodbye to your right one. A "balanced diet" is apparently a luxury good now. The system has decided that eating healthy is a premium subscription service and my bank account is on the free trial that's about to expire.

And don't even get me started on "superfoods"—I'm sorry, but if quinoa needs its own PR team, maybe it's not that super. The wellness industry is out here charging me ₹400 for a tiny bag of chia seeds like they're sprinkled with fairy dust. IT'S JUST SEEDS, KAREN. Seeds that get stuck in my teeth and make me look like I don't own a toothbrush.

Meanwhile, processed garbage is cheap and abundant and designed to hook my dopamine-starved ADHD brain like a slot machine. The system isn't broken nuh uh it's working EXACTLY as intended. Keep us too tired, too broke, and too sugared-up to question why a head of cauliflower costs more than a cheese pizza. It's not a bug. It's a feature. And I'm over here trying to "eat the rich" but I can't even afford the organic tomatoes.

The Nutrition Anxiety Olympics

Then there's the nutrition anxiety. The macros, the micros, the fiber, the roughage, the carbs, the proteins, the healthy fats, the omega-3s, the antioxidants, the whatever-the-hell-else Instagram is screaming about this week. I just want to eat something that doesn't make me feel like a garbage can, but apparently that's too much to ask. I need a spreadsheet and a nutrition degree just to make a sandwich. I have anxiety about whether my salad has enough color variety. COLOR VARIETY. I'm not painting a masterpiece, Susan. I'm just trying not to get scurvy.

Every meal feels like a test I'm destined to fail. Too many carbs? You're sluggish. Not enough protein? Your muscles will dissolve. Forgot fiber? Enjoy your digestive system filing a formal complaint. It's a minefield and I'm navigating it with the culinary skills of a raccoon in a dumpster.

The Fridge Graveyard

But here's the real kicker: I have to cook the RIGHT amount. Because if I make too much, it goes into the fridge. And because I have ADHD, that fridge is where food goes to be forgotten. To die a slow, cold death. To become a science experiment I'll discover three weeks later, wearing a hazmat suit and whispering "what was this even supposed to be?"

I've thrown out more tupperware than I care to admit because I'm too scared to open it. RIP to all the leftovers I promised myself I'd eat. You deserved better. I see you. I mourn you. I will buy another identical container and pretend this never happened.

The Eternal Return

And the worst part? THE WORST PART? I have to do this AGAIN tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Until I die. It's a hunger games I never signed up for, and there are no victors. Just me, in my kitchen, at 9 PM, eating crackers and calling it dinner because the thought of chopping one more vegetable makes me want to lie down on the floor and never get up.

So yeah. Sorry to all the moms out there who did this for entire FAMILIES for YEARS while also working and raising tiny humans. I can barely keep MYSELF alive. I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you STILL do it. You are warriors. You are gods. I am but a humble gremlin who considers a protein bar and a banana a gourmet meal.

If I could photosynthesize, I would. If I could live on water and spite, I'd be thriving. But apparently, the human body needs "nutrients" and "sustenance" and "not just caffeine and anxiety." Rude.

Anyway. I'm going to go stare at my fridge now. Maybe it'll finally tell me what to make. Or maybe I'll just eat cereal standing up in the dark like the feral goblin I am.

Both are valid.

Exhausted,

Lily 🤍

If you enjoyed this chaotic cry for help, subscribe to Lily’s unsent diary. I promise more complaining about basic human functions and definitely more times I eat crackers for dinner.

Fun times.

Let's Rewind to the Party That Started It All

You know that party I threw? The one with the sad weird pizzas and the cheese that had given up on life? Yeah, that one. Well, after everyone finished eating their geometric bread triangles and I shoved approximately seventeen desserts at them like I was bribing them to stay, something happened.

I did a six-hour tarot reading marathon.

Now before you roll your eyes and think "Lily, it's just cards, what's the big deal," let me stop you right there. It's not just cards. It's never just cards.

The Setup (Or: How I Thought I Was Prepared)

I do tarot. I dabble in witchcraft. And no, not the Hollywood kind where someone turns into a ferret or a spider miraculously becomes a hot goth king. (Though honestly if that's possible, someone please teach me because I have a list.) Real witchcraft is about energies. Manifestation. Intentions. You know, the boring but actually important stuff.

I came prepared. I had this tourmaline crystal tucked in my bra the entire time. Yes, really. Don't ask questions. It's protection. And I didn’t have pockets. I did NOT want to absorb anyone else's energy or accidentally create some weird energetic cord with people where I'm walking around carrying their entire life's worth of trauma like it's my emotional luggage.

Because here's the thing: I'm a beginner. I'm just a baby. Cue the Instagram voice note: "I'm just a baaaaaby."

So there I was, pulling cards for six hours straight. Six. Hours. My friends asking questions, me channeling whatever the universe felt like throwing at them, everyone getting clarity and hope and guidance. It was beautiful, honestly. Seeing them light up? Seeing them understand themselves better? That was worth it.

But I was also getting progressively more drained with every single reading.

The Moment I Became an Idiot

By hour five, I could barely feel my fingers. By hour six, I was running on fumes and pure stubborn spite. My friends were leaving, thanking me, looking all happy and enlightened, and I'm just sitting there like a phone on 1% battery but the battery icon's already blinking red.

And you know what I did?

I didn't close the fucking circle.

I know. I KNOW. It's literally Witch 101. It's in the manual. It's the most important thing. Close. The. Circle.

But was I thinking about that? No. I was thinking about my bed. I shoved the cards back onto my altar, face-planted into my pillow like I was a cartoon character, and passed out. No "thank you, energies." No "return to sender." No "goodbye circle, it's been real." Just immediate unconsciousness.

The Next Day (Or: The Puddle Years)

I woke up the next morning and it felt like someone had literally powered me off and powered me back on. Like I was a laptop that had been force-shut-down. Click. Off. Click. On. No smooth transition. Just harsh sunlight in my face and the sudden realization that I had made a terrible mistake.

I couldn't leave my bed.

I'm not being dramatic. I literally could not get up. I had water. I ate one meal. Maybe. I just lay there like I was melting into the mattress, convinced that if I tried to stand up, I would turn into a puddle of spiritual goo.

Lily-goo. That's what I'm calling it. My energy was goo. Sentient, tired goo in human form.

The entire day was just me, my bed, and an overwhelming sense of "oh no, what did I do?"

Still Recovering (Send Help or Food)

It's Monday now. MONDAY. And I'm still not recovered. I'm not physically tired, my body is fine, my muscles work, I can function like a normal human if I really try. But energetically? Spiritually? I'm running on like 2% battery and apparently charging stations don't exist in the spiritual realm.

I'm tired but I can't sleep. I'm awake but I want to pass out. I'm a walking contradiction wrapped in a blanket burrito wondering if this is what it feels like to be a ghost. (It sucks)

So Here's What I Learned (The Hard Way, Obviously)

When you open a circle, you HAVE to close it. You have to thank the energies. You have to return what isn't yours. You have to seal that shit back up. Otherwise, you're leaving a cosmic tap running and your energy just keeps draining out like water down a sink.

Think of it like this: you turn on the TV, watch six hours of content, and then just... leave it on. The channel's still active. The energy's still flowing. You're not watching anymore, but it's still broadcasting right into your face. That's what I did. I just left the TV on and wondered why I felt dead inside.

A PSA for Baby Witches (Learn From My Mistakes)

If you're just starting out with tarot, energy work, or anything spiritual, listen to tired Lily:

Close your circles. Every. Single. Time. No exceptions. No "I'm too tired." No "I'll do it later." Do it NOW.

Protect yourself. Crystals, salt, intentions, whatever works for you. Just protect yourself first.

Practice spiritual hygiene. This is not optional. This is not a suggestion. This is your spiritual deodorant and you NEED it.

Ground yourself after. Touch the earth. Drink water. Eat something. Do something physical to bring yourself back into your body.

Don't be like me. Seriously. I'm begging you. Don't be like me.

And to Everyone Else

Yeah, I know some of you are reading this thinking "This is all fake. Tarot is just cards. Witchcraft doesn't work. Manifestation is bullshit."

Honestly? Cool. Great. I don't give a fuck. I'm not here to convince you of anything. Believe what you want to believe. I believe what I believe. If you think I'm crazy, there's a door. Use it. No hard feelings.

But if you're someone who's getting into this stuff? If you're starting to work with energies and cards and all of this? Please take it seriously. Please protect yourself. Please don't end up like me- a puddle of goo on a Monday afternoon, wondering if this is permanent.

The Ending (I Guess)

Do I regret reading for my friends? No. Absolutely not. Seeing them get clarity, seeing them understand themselves better, seeing them light up? that was worth every bit of energy I spent. Will I do it again? Yeah, probably. I'm apparently a chaotic little witch who learns through suffering.

But next time? Next time I'm closing that circle. I'm thanking the energies. I'm grounding myself properly. And I'm definitely not passing out without doing the spiritual equivalent of flossing.

Also I'm probably gonna whack myself with some crystals just to be safe. Maybe put my moonstone on my head. Do a little spin. Whatever it takes to make sure I don't become a permanent puddle.

Spiritual hygiene, babes. It's real. It's important. And it could save you from becoming sentient goo.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wrap myself in another blanket and pretend I'm a functional human being. Eventually.

Byee, Lily.🤍

P.S. If you're in the baby witch era, subscribe. I promise more chaos, more tarot disasters, and definitely more stories about me forgetting basic witch 101 and paying the price.

Welcome to the chaos. This is Lily. You know me. I'm the unfiltered brat behind Lily's unsent diary, and if you're here expecting proper grammar and punctuation, oh honey. You took a wrong turn. This is not that place. This is where sentences run wild and I say whatever the hell I want. Buckle up.

So. I threw myself a goodbye brunch. A favily party. (Yes, I know it's "farewell." No, I will not spell it right. This is my article and I make the rules here.)

I invited only the people I actually like. The safe ones. The no-beef zone. I deliberately did NOT invite the leads I worked under because frankly, life is too short to break bread with people who make you want to break plates instead. If you're reading this and you were there, congratulations! you passed the vibe check. If you weren't… well. You probably know why. Let's not pretend.

I planned this thing like I was orchestrating a minor diplomatic summit. I checked allergies like I was defusing a bomb. I curated the menu with the deranged precision of a Michelin-starred chef who is absolutely spiraling. 12 noon on a Saturday. Lunchtime. Reasonable. Civilized. I was so naive.

Lesson one: Punctuality and Indians have a complicated relationship. It’s complicated in the sense that they are not in a relationship at all.

Party start time: 12 PM. Actual party start time: 1:45 PM. Some people texted like gracious humans to say they'd be late. Others got lost in my building's garage because my society is designed like a medieval labyrinth and I, too, have cried in that parking structure, so I couldn't even be mad. I gave them the benefit of the doubt. It's Saturday. People are still mentally wrapping up their work week. I get it. I'm generous like that.

But here's where things started to go spectacularly sideways.

The Great Pizza Betrayal

I ordered four pizzas. Four. For eight people. You do the math—actually, wait, I should have done the math. When you order four pizzas, you expect four glorious, round, cheesy discs of happiness. Hot. Ready. Demolishable.

What arrived were hyperbolic SHEETS of dough. Sad hyperbolic pizzas. Cut into four sad triangles each. And because my guests have the time management skills of sleepy toddlers, these poor bastards sat outside for THREE HOURS, marinating in their own grease, slowly dying a dignified death. By the time we opened the boxes, the cheese had given up on life. It was clinging to the bread like a divorced man clinging to his wedding photos. Desperate. Hopeless. A little pathetic.

I salvaged what I could. Hacked them into pieces. Served them with the energy of a chef on a sinking ship. Everyone got approximately two slices. Two. For a LUNCH party. Where I had PROMISED food.

And THEN it hit me: I had planned food for eight people but forgot to count MYSELF as a human being who requires sustenance. I, the host, had excluded myself from the food equation entirely. So while everyone was politely nibbling on their geometric bread triangles, I was internally screaming. I quickly ordered twelve chicken wings and one lone vegetarian appetizer for the vegetarians because there were THREE of them, not one, I'm not a complete monster and two of them had to leave early anyway. So thankfully, the sole vegetarian who stayed actually got proper food. That's what I'm telling myself so I don't crawl under a blanket and cry about being the worst host the universe has ever produced.

I stole a wing. I stole a slice of pizza. I pumped everyone full of sugar and hoped for the best.

The Dessert Redemption Arc

Here's where desserts saved my entire reputation.

People who couldn't make it sent CAKES. Multiple cakes. And one absolutely adorable junior sent me a whole-ass cake, which was so sweet it nearly made me ugly-cry. We opened her cake. On top of that, I had made tiramisu. (Yes, ME. With my own hands. At 3 AM. While also painting watercolor goodbye cards for everyone. Do I sleep? No. Do I have boundaries? Also no.)

So after everyone finished their sad pizza triangles, I shoved tiramisu at them like it was a peace offering. Please, my eyes said. Please let this fill the void where actual lunch should have been.

I had also ordered a custom cake with an inside joke "No more PIP" which was hilarious in theory. In practice, I completely forgot it existed until most people were leaving. I had this ENTIRE cake sitting there like a wallflower at prom. So in a panic, I hacked it into pieces, shoved it into boxes, and thrust it at my departing friends like a deranged baker. Here. Take this. I made it for you. Please don't remember me as the girl who starved you.

The Games That Weren't

Because I am an optimist with a death wish, I thought we could play games. The problem? I had invited two separate friend groups who DO NOT INTERACT. One group is early twenties. The other is early thirties. Put millennials and Gen Z in a room together and the vibe gets… funnily chaotic. Not in a good way. In a "who is going to make eye contact first" way. Awkward. Stiff. Like a first date where nobody wants to be there.

I whipped out cards. Drinking cards. Except NOBODY DRINKS. So we played Never Have I Ever while aggressively skipping every NSFW question, every sex question, every FWB question ,basically all the FUN ones because, you know, colleagues. No one wants to unpack their colleagues traumatic history or infact get traumatised by their history. It was like watching a censored version of a party. PG-13 at best. As a host, I was bored out of my mind. I could feel my soul leaving my body.

We're too old to run around like children. Too young to sit in silence. Trapped in the purgatory of polite card games. Kill me.

The Plot Twist

BUT THEN—then—the magic happened.

People started trickling out. The ones with other plans, the ones who had real food waiting at home, the ones who probably needed to escape the awkward energy. And slowly, the room SHRUNK. The forced smiles dropped. What was left was the core group, the girls (and one boy who I have declared is one of the girls), the people I'm genuinely comfortable with, the ones I can actually BREATHE around.

And just like that, the party CLICKED.

We dropped the sad card games. I pulled out my tarot cards and started giving everyone predictions. (Hopefully they were right. If not, blame Mercury retrograde, not me.) The conversation got louder. The laughter got REAL. The intimacy settled in like a warm blanket. This was what I wanted. This was the goodbye I NEEDED.

Look, the party did NOT start on an amazing note. But it ended on one. And that's what I'm choosing to remember. To the ones who left early, you're still my people. It's not that it wasn't fun with you there. It's just that once it trickled down to the inner circle, things got… looser. More us. Less performance. You know how it is.

The 3 AM Watercolor Chaos

I need you to understand something: I stayed up until 3 AM painting watercolor goodbye cards for everyone. HAND-PAINTED. Custom. Made with love and caffeine and probably mild delirium. I wanted them to have a piece of me. Something that said: You mattered to me. This mattered to me.

And to the coworkers who were actually good to me—truly good—I hope your next workplace gives you people who stay up till 3 AM making you art. To the ones who didn't like me… well. You know where the door is. I've already walked through it. Bye.

The Moral of This Disaster

Hosting a party is NOT for the weak. It requires math. Spatial awareness. The ability to remember that YOU, TOO, are a human being who needs to eat. It requires accepting that square pizzas exist and that cheese has an expiration date, both literal and emotional.

Would I do it again? Probably. Would I order more wings? ABSOLUTELY. Would I check if the pizzas are round before confirming the order? You'd THINK so, but we all know I won't.

To everyone who came: thank you for showing up, for getting lost in my garage, for eating my sad pizza, and for staying when it got good. To everyone who sent cakes: you are the real MVPs. To my adorable junior who sent the whole cake: you are an angel and I will remember you in my will.

And to my former company : thanks for nothing. I made my own farewell, and it was fabulous. Even if the pizzas were hyperbolic.

Drained like a phone at 1%

Lily🤍

If you enjoyed this chaotic retelling of my descent into party-hosting madness, subscribe to lily uncent diary. I promise more stories, more tarot, and definitely more food miscalculations. You know you want to.

Not perform. Not calculate whether your face looks weird while you're listening to someone talk. Not mentally rehearse your next sentence before saying it. Just exist.

Like you belonged there. Like your presence made sense. Like you had opinions worth sharing and thoughts worth saying out loud.

Yeah. I forgot what that felt like.

There was a point in my life, not too long ago, when my only prayer before going anywhere was, “Please, universe, let nobody notice me today.”

I wanted invisibility so badly I was practically trying to manifest it. If someone had shown up with Harry Potter's invisibility cloak, I would've signed whatever paperwork was necessary. And honestly? That's when I knew something had broken.

Not dramatically. There wasn't a cinematic explosion. Nobody threw a chair. There was no background music while I stared meaningfully out of a rainy window.

It happened quietly.

And that's the scary thing about losing yourself. Sometimes you don't even notice it's happening.

How You Lose Yourself Without Realizing It

Confidence doesn't usually disappear in one spectacular moment. It goes in tiny increments.

Someone says something that makes you doubt yourself, and you brush it off. Another day, someone does something that makes you question your judgment, and you rationalize it. You make a mistake and suddenly spend three days wondering whether the mistake is evidence that you are, fundamentally, an incompetent person.

You start apologizing for things you don't need to apologize for.

You stop raising your hand.

You stop asking questions.

You stop saying what you actually think.

And eventually, you wake up one morning and realize you've been trying to take up as little space as humanly possible.

I was in a situation — a job, a setting, an environment — that was supposed to be good for me. On paper, it looked great. The brand name was shiny, the paycheck looked respectable, and honestly, I needed the money.

But something felt wrong.

The role wasn't quite what I'd imagined. Expectations felt difficult to navigate. The pressure kept mounting. And somewhere along the way, I started feeling like I was constantly being evaluated rather than simply being allowed to learn.

At first, naturally, I assumed the problem was me.

Of course I did.

Isn't that what we tend to do?

Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I'm not understanding this properly.

Maybe everyone else gets it and I'm the only idiot who didn't receive the memo.

Maybe I just need to work harder.

So I worked harder.

Then longer.

Then harder and longer, which is apparently the adult equivalent of putting duct tape over a leaking pipe and hoping for the best.

I started second-guessing everything. I'd replay conversations in my head and dissect things I'd said hours earlier. I'd remember some completely ordinary sentence at 11:43 p.m. and suddenly think, Wait. Did I sound stupid? My brain became a courtroom where I was simultaneously the defendant, prosecutor, judge, witness, and extremely annoying court stenographer.

I stopped sharing ideas. I stopped speaking unless I absolutely had to. I became quieter, smaller and more careful.I started hoping nobody would notice me.

And the strangest part was that the quieter I became, the easier it was to disappear.

The Sneaky Ways Confidence Gets Stolen

Here's what I didn't understand then but understand now:

Confidence doesn't disappear simply because you're bad at something. Sometimes it disappears because you're in an environment that makes you question yourself constantly. Sometimes it's the accumulation of little things. It's being made to feel like your questions are annoying. It's receiving criticism without being shown how to improve. It's feeling like you're always one mistake away from proving someone's opinion of you correct.

Sometimes it's loud. Someone tells you you're not good enough.

But usually, it's quieter.

It's the tone.

The dismissive response.

The little joke.

The feeling that you have to measure every word before it leaves your mouth. It's opening a notification and immediately assuming you've done something wrong. It's seeing someone's name pop up on your screen and feeling your stomach drop before you've even read the message. It's checking your messages like they're exam results.

And you don't realize how strange that has become until you remember what you used to be like.

I've seen versions of this happen to so many people. The person who walked into a new job excited and slowly started checking their phone every five minutes because they were terrified they'd messed something up. The person with brilliant ideas who stopped sharing them because they'd been dismissed too many times. The person who used to laugh loudly and eventually started covering their mouth.

Confidence is fragile like that.

It's not necessarily a personality trait you're born with and keep forever. It's more like a plant. Give it sunlight, good soil, water and room to grow, and it thrives.

Put it somewhere dark for long enough and eventually the plant is going to look at you and think, Girl. Move me.

The Day I Realized I Was Disappearing

There wasn't one grand cinematic moment. There were lots of little ones.

But I remember one in particular.

I was sitting in a meeting, and someone made a joke at my expense. It wasn't some horrifying thing. It was casual. The kind of joke everyone else can laugh at and move on from.

So I laughed too.

Because that's what you do. Except internally, something in me went completely silent. The old me would have had a comeback. The old me had comebacks for everything.

The old me could walk into a room and hold a conversation with almost anyone. She had opinions. She disagreed with people. She occasionally said things without spending the next six business hours conducting an internal investigation.

But this version of me?

She laughed nervously and moved on.

I went home that night and cried. Not because of the joke. Because I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd genuinely felt like myself. I couldn't remember the last time I'd said something without wondering whether it was stupid.

And that scared me more than the job ever had.

Because a difficult job can be changed. A bad day can be survived. A mistake can be corrected, But slowly becoming someone you don't recognize?

That's different.

That's when I knew I had to leave.

Not because the job was hard. Not because I couldn't handle pressure. But because I didn't like who I was becoming inside it.

No paycheck, no matter how stable, is worth permanently renting out your self-respect.

Finding Myself Again

The good news is that confidence doesn't disappear forever.

It doesn't fall into some mysterious corporate black hole where lost passwords, missing lunch boxes and motivation go to die. It's still there. Sometimes it's just hiding. The moment I decided to leave, something shifted. Not magically. Not overnight. But enough.

Suddenly I could breathe a little deeper. Opinions started forming in my head again. I started remembering that I actually had things to say.

It was like someone had finally stopped sitting on my chest.

But reclaiming yourself isn't an overnight transformation. There wasn't a morning where I woke up, looked in the mirror and thought, Good morning. I am confident again.

Unfortunately, life did not provide a soundtrack. Instead, I had to rebuild it in tiny ways. I started writing. A lot. I journaled like my life depended on it. I wrote down the thoughts I'd been swallowing for months. I read old journal entries from before everything went wrong, and there she was.

Me.

The girl who had opinions. The girl who laughed easily. The girl who could walk into a room without mentally calculating whether she deserved to be there.

I missed her.

So I started looking for her.

I started doing little things that reminded me I was allowed to take up space. I wore the thing I actually wanted to wear instead of the safest possible option. I said no without writing a 400-word apology afterward. I shared an idea even when my hands shook. I raised my hand. I asked questions. I disagreed. I laughed loudly. I stopped editing my personality before presenting it to other people.

And perhaps most importantly, I stopped waiting for someone else to certify that I was good enough. Because when you've spent enough time being evaluated, you start believing confidence is something someone in authority has to grant you. A manager. A colleague. A teacher. A partner. An audience. Anyone.

But nobody gets to stamp your forehead with APPROVED: WORTHY OF EXISTING.

Confidence Isn't Linear

Now, before this turns into one of those inspirational posts where everything sounds suspiciously easy, let's be honest. I'm still working on it.

Confidence isn't linear.

Some days I'm great. Some days I catch myself shrinking again. Sometimes I hesitate before speaking. Sometimes that little voice comes back and whispers, Maybe don't.

But now I recognize her. And I ask myself, “Is this actually true, or am I just scared?”

Usually, I'm scared.

And that's okay.

Being scared doesn't mean you have to stop. Sometimes courage is literally just being terrified and doing the thing anyway.

A Letter to the Girl I Used to Be (and to other boys and girls adulting in life)

Dear girl who thought she wasn't good enough,

You were wrong. Not because you were perfect. You weren't. Neither am I. You made mistakes. You struggled. You had bad days. You didn't always know what you were doing. But none of that made you less worthy.

You were in an environment that made you question yourself, and for a while, you believed it.

That's okay.

You were trying to survive it. You learned something important, though. You learned to trust your gut. You learned that not every environment is meant for you. You learned that a prestigious name on a resume doesn't automatically mean a place is good for your soul. You learned that money matters. Careers matter. Ambition matters.

But so does being able to breathe.

You learned that your mental health isn't an inconvenience you have to hide until you've earned the right to talk about it. And most importantly, you learned that you can come back. You can lose pieces of yourself and still find them again. Maybe not exactly as they were. Maybe better.

Smarter.

Softer in some places. Stronger in others. More careful about where you plant yourself.

And I think there's something else the younger version of me would say if she could see me now. She'd probably look at everything that happened, look at the woman standing here now, and say:

“I know unicorns don't exist. But you do magic. You're magical. So you're pretty much a unicorn.”

And honestly?

I'll take it.

So Here's What I Know Now

Confidence isn't something you're born with and keep forever. It's something you build. You protect it. Sometimes you lose it. Sometimes other people make you question it. And sometimes you have to rebuild it from scratch. But you can rebuild. You can leave. You can start again. You can become loud again. You can laugh again. You can trust your own judgment again. You can become the person who walks into a room without wondering whether she's allowed to be there.

And if you're currently somewhere that makes you feel like you need to disappear, please hear this:

You are not broken. Maybe the environment simply isn't right for you. Maybe you need better people around you. Maybe you need boundaries. Maybe you need a different job. Maybe you need to rest.

Maybe you need to leave.

Whatever the answer is, you don't have to stay somewhere forever just because you once convinced yourself that you should. Leaving doesn't mean you failed. Sometimes leaving is the most confident thing you can do.

It might be terrifying. You might not have the next thing figured out. You might panic. You might cry. You might spend an embarrassing amount of time staring at the ceiling wondering whether you've just ruined your life.

You probably haven't. You're just in the messy middle. And the messy middle is still part of the story.

So reclaim it.

Reclaim your confidence. Reclaim your space. Reclaim your voice. Take up the room. Say the thing. Wear the shirt. Make the joke. Ask the question. Apply for the job. Leave the place. Start again.

The world doesn't need you smaller. It doesn't need you quieter. It doesn't need the version of you who spends every morning praying for invisibility. The world needs you. Loud. Visible. Imperfect. A little dramatic. Occasionally confused. Still figuring it out.

But here.

Fully here.

And if that's not magic, I don't know what is.

With Love,

Lily 🎀

P.S. If you're reading this and recognizing yourself somewhere in these words, you're not alone. You are still in there. She didn't disappear. She's just waiting for you to come back and get her.

Thought adulting was just about paying bills? Meet Phil, my plant, teaching me it's also about... not killing green things.

When we envision adulthood, it's often filled with visions of office wars, deciphering taxes, and questioning why avocados are SO expensive. But no one, I repeat, no one warned me about the emotional whirlwind of becoming a Plant Parent.

From Zero to Botanical Hero

I remember the day vividly. With the naive enthusiasm of a squirrel on caffeine, I entered the plant store thinking, "How hard could this be? It's just... green stuff, right?" I departed with my new friend, 'Phil' the Philodendron. Little did I know, Phil would be the beginning of an epic tale of love, heartbreak, and many, many soil mishaps.

The Daily Plant Soap Opera

Morning: I'd whisper sweet nothings to Phil.

Midday: I'd panic, wondering if I'm watering him too much. Or too little.

Evening: I'd Google "Why is my plant looking at me funny?" only to dive into a spiral of plant forums and chlorophyll-related conspiracy theories.

It's the unspoken treadmill of adulthood: trying to keep your leafy buddy alive while juggling the rest of life's curveballs.

The Plant Identity Crisis

It wasn't long before I faced my first botanical identity crisis: Phil's leaves started to droop. I asked myself, "Is this due to the pop songs I've been playing? Does he prefer jazz?" Yes, I know. Plants probably don't have musical preferences. Probably.

The Highs

But, for every plant low, there's a euphoric high. Like when Phil sprouted a new leaf. I danced, I cried, I threw a mini-party (Phil was the guest of honor). It was my "Look, Ma! I did it!" moment.

Wrapping It Up, Leaf by Leaf

If adulthood was a video game, indoor plants are that surprise level you never saw coming. They teach patience, resilience, and the importance of a good spritz.

And while my journey with Phil has been a rollercoaster of emotions (and occasional overwatering), it's been piously enlightening. For every droopy leaf or mysterious bug, there's the joy of growth, the pride in nurturing, and the humbling reminder that nature, even within our homes, is a wondrous thing.

To my fellow plant parents, or those thinking of adopting a green buddy, I say: Dive in! And when the going gets tough, remember - even in the leafiest trials of adulthood, there's always room to grow.

Stay rooted, my readers. Until next time.

Lily 🤍

Adult friendship is a scam and I will die on this hill.

When I was little, because my dad's job moved us around every three years, making friends was survival. You'd walk up to someone on the playground, offer them half your sandwich and boom, best friend for the next three years until you moved again. Simple. Beautiful. Tragically efficient.

Now? I have to schedule a coffee date two weeks in advance, cancel it once because life, reschedule it, and then sit across from my friend for exactly ninety minutes before one of us has to leave for something responsible. We then say "we should do this more often" with complete sincerity and then don't speak for another three weeks. This is adulthood. This is what they don't tell you.

The thing is everyone is hiding, not because they don't care, but because life just keeps piling things onto your plate until the plate is full and then it keeps going. Jobs, families, bills, that existential crisis you've been putting off since 2022, deciding what to cook for dinner, it's a lot honestly.

I've lost friends to distance, to time, to just quietly drifting in different directions without anyone meaning to. And I've made new ones in the most random places. One of my closest people right now is someone I would never have predicted five years ago. Life is funny like that, annoying but funny.

The ones who stick though, the ones who text you memes at midnight, who become your emergency therapist for free and never make you feel like a burden for it, those ones are genuinely golden and I don't say that lightly.

So dear reader, if there's someone you've been meaning to text, just do it. Send the "I miss you" message. I promise they're probably thinking the same thing and also being equally avoidant about it because we're all the same kind of chaotic in here.

Friendships need watering. Even the really good ones. Especially those.

Go water yours.

Byee, Lily. XOXO

P.S. To the friend I haven't spoken to in ages, if you're reading this, you know who you are and you owe me a very long phone call.

So let me ask you something, what do you do? Are you working, still studying, somewhere in between, or like me a while ago, staring at your ceiling wondering what your LinkedIn bio is supposed to say? Whatever your situation, I'm willing to bet you've heard the words "upskill yourself" approximately eight hundred times in the last year alone.

And every time someone says it you nod along and then do absolutely nothing about it. No judgment, same.

But here's the thing, I actually did something about it, and I want to tell you how, specifically the broke person edition because nobody talks about that version enough.

Okay so first, a quick explanation for anyone new here. Upskilling means adding new skills on top of what you already know, think of it like installing new software on your laptop. Reskilling means replacing outdated skills with new ones, basically updating software that's so old it's embarrassing. Both matter, both are very doable, and both do not require you to spend a fortune.

Here's exactly what I did and what you can do too:

First, ask yourself honestly, is this skill actually worth learning? Will it get you somewhere real or just look pretty on your resume for six months before nobody cares?

Second, figure out what you already know about the topic. Even a little existing knowledge changes how you approach learning it.

Third, go to Coursera, Udemy, Simplilearn, even Google and Microsoft have free certifications right now. There's also OpenSAP if you want to learn ERP software specifically. The knowledge on most of these platforms is completely free, you only pay if you want the certificate, and honestly sometimes even that's worth it.

Fourth, and this is the hard part, actually sit down and do it. Every day. Even thirty minutes. I know, I know, but this is where most people including me have failed spectacularly before.

The momentary pain of studying is genuinely worth the long term glow of knowing your stuff, I have to believe that, and I'm asking you to believe it with me.

We're learning, we're growing, we're doing it on a budget. Iconic honestly.

Byee, Lily.

P.S. Next time I'll tell you about the morning that really made me question all my life choices. Stay close.

Hi, nice to meet you, dear reader. Hope everything is going well for you, because for me? It's a lot. It's always a lot.

See, a few years ago I was a fresh graduate, 22 years of books and assignments and college behind me, absolutely no idea what came next. Unemployed, confused, and very much in my feelings about it. I moped around for a while, which I think I deserved honestly, and then one day I just realised, being negative wasn't going to change anything. If I wanted my circumstances to change, I had to change first.

So I did. Slowly, messily, with a lot of detours. And here I am now, a little older, still figuring things out, still stumbling, still very much a work in progress. Except now there's more going on. More to figure out, more to chase, more to quietly panic about at 11pm.

And that's exactly why I'm here, dear reader. Because I have a feeling you know this feeling too. That in-between feeling, where you're not lost exactly, but you're not quite found either. Where life is happening fast and you're just trying to keep up while also looking somewhat put together.

So join me. I can't promise I have answers, I barely have questions sometimes. But I can promise it'll be honest, occasionally funny, and never boring. Consider this your invitation.

Won't you take my hand, dear reader?

Until next time, byee <3