I love observing a scene in my life that I know will one day live somewhere in the depths of my mind, tucked into a folder labeled the good old days, and wanting some kind of physical reminder attached to it. A picture that can transport me back to exactly what I was looking at. A video that brings back the voices in the room. Something that strengthens a memory I know my brain will inevitably start to blur around the edges.

But memory is a funny thing.

Sometimes I wonder how many of my earliest “memories” are actually mine. How many are stories I’ve heard so many times that my brain eventually built a scene around them. How many details came from photographs I studied growing up until I could picture the room, the clothes, the people standing around me, even though I probably couldn’t have remembered any of it on my own.

And still, I love pictures.

I love ending every milestone with a full camera roll. I love taking random videos that nobody else would care about. Since I was fifteen, I have made a video montage at the end of almost every trip I’ve taken, usually for an audience consisting exclusively of myself and my close family and friends.

So this is absolutely not going to turn into one of those essays telling you to put your phone down and “live in the moment,” because I would be the biggest hypocrite of them all.

But sometimes I wonder why the older ways of capturing a life feel so different.

Why is it so special to find a baby picture of someone you love buried in a dusty photo album in the depths of an apartment across the world? Why does it feel almost foreign to find an old letter that somehow became a part of your family’s history? Why does a photograph suddenly become so much more meaningful when you flip it over and find someone’s handwriting on the back?

Maybe it’s because there aren’t thousands of them.

Someone had to choose that picture. Someone had to decide that this moment was worth using one of the limited pictures on the roll of film. Someone sat down, found a piece of paper, wrote out what they wanted to say, put it in an envelope, and sent it somewhere. Someone kept that photograph or letter long enough for another person to stumble upon it decades later.

Meanwhile, I have approximately seventeen pictures of the exact same sunset because I couldn’t decide which one had the best lighting.

I say all of this while writing on my laptop and preparing to post it on social media from my phone, but seriously, what happened to the era of handwritten notes?!?!?!

Anyways.

Recently, I’ve been trying to allow my mind to wander more, and I must say, it is difficult.

There was an era of my life where I was fascinated by the ’90s. I loved the juxtaposition of our world with a world where having a home phone that the whole family shared was peak technology. The idea that when you went to a waiting room, you would read a magazine or converse with those around you instead of doomscrolling. That you could wait in line and maybe start a conversation with someone. The intimacy of turning on the car radio and knowing that many of the cars sharing the road with you were listening to the same thing.

And yet, I cannot fathom going a day of my life without having a metal rectangle somewhere on my person at all times.

The idea of not being able to update the people I love on my whereabouts, send them a picture of something funny I ran into, or immediately tell them the random thought that just crossed my mind feels almost foreign to me.

But there was once a time when all of this was foreign.

A time when our modern day-to-day life was merely a far-off idea in a dystopian novel. When the hidden earbuds we walk around with every day were “seashells” in the world of Ray Bradbury and not AirPods.

It wasn’t until I recently tried to write a story that takes place in the ’90s that I realized how hard it is for me to actually imagine that world. I kept accidentally giving my characters technology they wouldn’t have had yet. I would have someone look something up. Nope. Call someone while they’re out. Nope. Take a picture and immediately see how it turned out. Also nope.

It was surprisingly difficult to imagine a world in which you could have a question and simply...not know the answer.

You might wonder about something on Tuesday and not find out until Thursday. You could hear a song in a store and never learn what it was called. You could think of someone and have absolutely no idea what they were doing.

And you could be bored.

At first, that sounds like an inconvenience we’ve successfully eliminated.

But then I started wondering what we used to do with all of that time.

I’m not talking about the hours. I’m talking about the minutes. The tiny little pockets of nothing scattered throughout a day.

Sitting in a waiting room with nothing to do but analyze the details of the drab carpet lining the floor. Eventually turning your attention to the neat stack of glossy magazines and newspapers sitting on the coffee table because, well, what else were you going to do?

Standing in line and looking around. Riding in the passenger seat and watching the buildings pass by. Waiting for someone who said they’d be there ten minutes ago. Sitting at a restaurant after the person across from you gets up to use the bathroom.

What did people do?

I guess sometimes they just sat there.And now that concept feels almost uncomfortable.

I’ve started noticing how quickly I reach for my phone the second there is nothing else demanding my attention. Sometimes I don’t even have anything to check. There is no text I’m waiting for. No email I need to answer. Half the time I open an app, close it, and somehow open the exact same app again thirty seconds later as though something life-changing must have happened while I was gone.

And I started wondering what our brains used to do with all of those empty moments before we became so good at filling them. Because, as it turns out, doing nothing does not necessarily mean your brain is doing nothing, or that you’re unproductive.

When our attention isn’t completely occupied by something happening around us, a collection of brain regions known as the default mode network becomes involved in a lot of the thinking that turns inward. Remembering the past. Imagining the future. Daydreaming. Thinking about ourselves and other people. Letting one thought somehow turn into another (Beaty, Seli, & Schacter, 2019).

And this is where the neuroscience starts connecting and getting interesting.

Creativity doesn’t come from one magical “creative” part of the brain. Different parts of our brain actually work together to help us come up with ideas. One network helps our minds wander, make connections, and generate thoughts on their own. Another helps us sort through those thoughts and figure out which ones are actually worth doing something with (Beaty et al., 2019).

Basically, part of your brain gets to wander off and come up with the idea, while another part figures out what to do with it.

Which makes all of those strangely timed ideas a little more interesting. The sentence that comes to you in the shower after you spent an hour staring at a blank document. The answer to a problem that appears halfway through a drive when you finally stopped trying to solve it. The random connection between two completely unrelated things that somehow turns into an entire blog post right when you put your head down to go to bed.

Maybe giving your mind somewhere to wander isn’t doing nothing after all.

Now, I am not saying that scrolling Instagram in a waiting room is killing your creativity. There isn’t research that allows me to confidently make that claim, and I don’t want to manipulate science into saying something just because it would make my argument sound better. To be honest with you, I also find myself filling empty moments too.

But I am interested in what happens when we no longer give our minds very many opportunities to wander at all.

Because we can now give our brains a constant stream of outside information almost every second that we are awake. A song ends and another starts. A video ends, and another appears. There is always another message, headline, picture, podcast, notification, reel, story, comment, or random fact waiting for us.

We’re so attached to our phones that they’ve almost become another character, setting, and narrator in our lives. They’re there when we wake up, when we eat, when we wait, when we travel, when we’re bored, when something exciting happens, and when absolutely nothing is happening at all.

And I wonder what gets quieter when something else is always talking.

Because the deeper I went into this rabbit hole, the stranger it got.

I started wondering why everyone in old TV shows seemed to have somewhere they just went. Central Perk. Luke’s. MacLaren’s. There’s actually a name for places like that, and researchers have studied what happens when some of those spaces move online.

I started thinking about all those shows where a high schooler casually complains that they have to write a ten-page paper. No Google. No ai. No endless stream of summaries telling them what the book meant. Even if they were completely BS-ing the assignment, they still had to skim through the book, come up with something, and find a way to connect it back to the prompt.

Which made me wonder what happens when we start outsourcing some of those tiny moments of figuring things out for ourselves.

Somehow that led me to research on hearing aids and dementia.

I know... Stay with me!

Then I ended up reading about what happens when our brains lose opportunities for everyday stimulation. Then about why the fictional lives we watch and read can feel strangely real to us. Then about something called possible selves and how the people and lives we see can actually influence the futures we’re able to imagine for ourselves.

And suddenly my little question about why I can’t stand in line without checking my phone had become a much bigger question:

What is all of this actually doing to us?

I don’t think the answer is that technology is bad. But maybe… just maybe… our parents were onto something when they would tell us that it was those dang phones.

Sometimes the world inside my phone is wonderful. Technology has given us access to people, information, art, communities, ideas, and possibilities that generations before us could not have imagined. I can write something from my little corner of the world and somehow have someone thousands of miles away read it.

That is incredible!!!

I just think the question is what we do with all of that access.

Do we use it to expand our worlds? Or do we sometimes use it to make sure we never have to spend thirty seconds alone with our own minds?

Because somewhere along the way, we became really uncomfortable with nothing happening.

I’ve started paying attention to how often I reach for my phone specifically because there is nothing else to do. Not because somebody texted me. Not because I need directions. Not because I need to look something up. Just because there is a blank moment.

And I’ve been trying, every once in a while, not to fill it.

To sit in the passenger seat and look out the window. To stand in line and just stand there. To listen to a song without doing something else at the same time. To let a question exist for a little while before immediately Googling the answer.

It is surprisingly uncomfortable. But sometimes I notice something. Or remember something. Or come up with something I want to write down. And it makes me wonder if maybe boredom was never something our brains desperately needed us to fix. Maybe sometimes it was just space.

We now live in a world where almost every question can be answered immediately. Almost anyone can be reached. Almost every silence can be filled.

That is incredible.

I just don’t know that every silence needs to be filled.

So I’m not going to tell you to stop using your phone. I’m certainly not going to stop using mine. But maybe the next time you reach for it simply because there is nothing else to do, wait a minute.

See where your brain goes first.

And as for the hearing aids, the coffee shops, the fictional characters, what any of this has to do with your brain, and the question that sent me into an even deeper rabbit hole...

I’m saving that part for Episode #5 of Nadine’s Corner: A Podcast 👀

Consider this your sneak peek, because we have a lot to talk about!!

References

• Beaty, R. E., Seli, P., & Schacter, D. L. (2019). Network neuroscience of creative cognition: Mapping cognitive mechanisms and individual differences in the creative brain. Current Opinion in Behavioral Sciences, 27, 22–30. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cobeha.2018.08.013

• Dijkstra, N., & Fleming, S. M. (2023). Subjective signal strength distinguishes reality from imagination. Nature Communications, 14, 1627. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41467-023-37322-1

• Han, S. W., & Kim, C. H. (2022). Neurocognitive mechanisms underlying internet/smartphone addiction: A preliminary fMRI study. Tomography, 8(4), 1781–1790. https://doi.org/10.3390/tomography8040150

• Lin, F. R., Pike, J. R., Albert, M. S., et al. (2023). Hearing intervention versus health education control to reduce cognitive decline in older adults with hearing loss in the USA (ACHIEVE): A multicentre, randomised controlled trial. The Lancet, 402, 786–797. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(23)01406-X

• Livingston, G., Huntley, J., Liu, K. Y., et al. (2024). Dementia prevention, intervention, and care: 2024 report of the Lancet standing Commission. The Lancet, 404, 572–628. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(24)01296-0

• Markus, H., & Nurius, P. (1986). Possible selves. American Psychologist, 41(9), 954–969.

• Memarovic, N., Fels, S., Anacleto, J., Calderon, R., Gobbo, F., & Carroll, J. M. (2014). Rethinking third places: Contemporary design with technology. The Journal of Community Informatics, 10(3).

• Müller, M., Sindermann, C., Rozgonjuk, D., & Montag, C. (2021). Mind-wandering mediates the associations between neuroticism and conscientiousness, and tendencies towards smartphone use disorder. Frontiers in Psychology, 12, 661541. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.661541

• Taruffi, L., Pehrs, C., Skouras, S., & Koelsch, S. (2017). Effects of sad and happy music on mind-wandering and the default mode network. Scientific Reports, 7, 14396. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-017-14849-0

• Wilson, R. S., Mendes de Leon, C. F., Barnes, L. L., Schneider, J. A., Bienias, J. L., Evans, D. A., & Bennett, D. A. (2002). Participation in cognitively stimulating activities and risk of incident Alzheimer disease. JAMA, 287(6), 742–748.

What if the hardest chapter of your life isn’t the end of the story?

In this episode, I reflect on growing up between two worlds, navigating a new experience of grief, and one of the ways I’ve learned to cope with life’s unexpected plot twists: by imagining that I’m reading my own life like a book instead of writing it.

Through stories from my grandfather’s balcony in Egypt, changing dreams, and the surprising neuroscience behind ACL injuries, we explore how our experiences don’t just give us memories. They shape the way we think, move, trust, love, and ultimately, the people we become.

One of my favorite parts of creating this podcast is hearing your stories. So after you listen, I’d love to know: What’s one chapter of your life that didn’t go according to plan, but you’re grateful for now? Leave a comment or send me a message. I have a feeling there are a lot of stories that only make sense in hindsight.

Inspired by my recent blog, The Buildup of Failures

For anyone interested in learning more, I’ve linked the articles and research that inspired today’s neuroscience discussion below.

Sources referenced in this episode:

• University of Michigan. More Than a Knee Injury: ACL Tears Cause Harmful Changes in Our Brain Structure.

• Oxford Centre for Functional MRI of the Brain. ACL Injuries and the Brain.

• Summit Orthopedics. Did You Know That Joint Injuries Can Affect Your Brain?

• Healthline. An ACL Tear Can Affect Your Brain in Addition to Your Knee.

In this episode, I reflect on our tendency to search for patterns, brace ourselves for loss, and become suspicious of joy. Why does happiness sometimes feel like dreaming? Why do we prepare for endings that haven’t happened yet? And how can we appreciate the good things in our lives without becoming afraid of their impermanence?

This episode is about neuroscience, gratitude, dreaming, and what it means to live fully in a world where nothing is promised.

It is also, unexpectedly, an episode about grief.

Inspired by my recent blog, Fleeting Good:

This episode is dedicated to the memory of my beloved cousin and brother, Kareem. Thank you for the love, laughter, and memories that make saying goodbye feel impossible. Please keep him and our family in your prayers.

Tell the people you love that you love them. 💛

And isn’t that so real? So human?

Have you ever experienced a moment in life where you felt incredibly grateful? A moment where you felt loved, supported, and genuinely excited about what the future might hold? Maybe you were surrounded by people you care about. Maybe you had just achieved something you worked hard for. Maybe life wasn’t perfect, but for a second, you could clearly see how much good was already in front of you.

And yet, instead of fully enjoying it, part of you pulled back.

Almost like there was a warning somewhere in the background, reminding you not to get too comfortable. Don’t get too excited. Don’t get your hopes up. Because if you let yourself enjoy this too much, it’ll hurt even more when it’s gone.

I think most of us have felt that way at some point. We treat life like there has to be a plot twist. Like if things feel good, then something must be falling apart soon. We start preparing ourselves for an ending that hasn’t happened.

But I want to tell you something. That feeling isn’t a character flaw. There is nothing wrong with you.

Neuroscientists actually have a name for part of what’s happening here: the negativity bias. Research shows that our brains tend to process negative experiences more intensely than equally positive ones. Negative information captures more attention, leaves stronger impressions, and often influences our decisions more than positive experiences of the same intensity. Our brains evolved to keep us safe, and because of that, they naturally pay close attention to things that could hurt us.

The problem is that the same system that helps protect us can sometimes make us overly cautious when we encounter something good. When something starts to matter, we become aware of the possibility of losing it. And sometimes we mistake that awareness for a prediction.

But lately I’ve been wondering if we’re looking at this feeling the wrong way. Maybe the fear isn’t evidence that something bad is coming. Maybe it’s evidence that something good is already here.

After all, what a blessing it is to have something so beautiful in your life that you’re afraid of losing it. What a blessing it is to care about something enough that the thought of losing it would hurt. The fear itself points to something meaningful. It points to a relationship, a dream, an opportunity, a memory, or a season of life that matters deeply to you.

Maybe the fear isn’t the story. Maybe the story is that you’ve been lucky enough to experience something worth missing.

It’s true that good things are fleeting. Relationships change. Opportunities come and go. Seasons of life begin and end. But maybe the reality isn’t that good things are fleeting. Maybe the reality is that everything is fleeting.

The difficult seasons are fleeting, too. The uncertainty is fleeting. The stress, the waiting, the heartbreak, and the confusion all pass eventually. Everything in life is temporary.

For a long time, I thought that was a sad thought. Now I think it’s what makes life beautiful. Because if nothing lasts forever anyway, why spend the good moments preparing for them to end? Why stand in the middle of a beautiful chapter worrying about the next one?

I’ve always been a firm believer that everything is going exactly according to plan. Not because life is easy and not because everything happens the way we want it to, but because I believe the things that hurt us often become essential parts of our story. There are experiences I would never choose to repeat, but I can still recognize the role they played in shaping who I am today. Some lessons only make sense in hindsight.

Interestingly, this idea also exists in my faith. There is an emphasis on gratitude not only as a response to blessings, but as a way of recognizing and fully receiving them. One verse states:

I’ve always loved that perspective because it feels like both a permission and a promise. A permission to enjoy the good things in front of you without immediately worrying about losing them. A permission to appreciate a blessing while it’s here instead of keeping it at arm’s length out of fear.

And it’s a promise that gratitude is never the wrong response to happiness. So often we’re afraid to fully embrace good things because we think doing so will somehow make losing them harder. But this verse encourages the opposite. It encourages us to recognize blessings, celebrate them, and be thankful for them. To trust that gratitude doesn’t diminish what we have. It increases it. Maybe not always in the exact way we expect, but often in ways that are even better.

The negativity bias encourages us to focus on what could go wrong, while gratitude gently redirects our attention to what is going right. It allows us to recognize blessings while we’re living them instead of only appreciating them after they’re gone.

You still haven’t met all of the people you’re going to love. You still haven’t had your favorite memories. Some of the milestones that will mean the most to you haven’t happened yet. That’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. An invitation to remain hopeful. To stay open. To believe that there is still good waiting for you.

The fact that something won’t last forever doesn’t make it less meaningful. If anything, it makes it more meaningful.

So here’s the main thing I want you to leave with: you deserve to enjoy your life while you’re living it. The good things, the quiet things, and the unexpected things. You don’t have to earn joy by suffering through it first.

Everything in life is fleeting, the hard things and the beautiful things alike. So you might as well be here, fully, for the beautiful ones. You might as well allow yourself to enjoy them.

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If you enjoyed this topic, keep an eye out for my next podcast episode ;)

In this episode, I talk about perception, beauty standards, identity, and the invisible “lenses” we inherit long before we’re old enough to choose them for ourselves.

Inspired by my essay, The Lens of the Beholder, this episode explores how neuroscience, culture, memory, and repetition shape the way we see ourselves and the world around us. From vision neuroscience and neuroplasticity to stories about my Egyptian-American upbringing, my grandma, Twilight Zone episodes, and even my childhood glasses fascination, this became a conversation about one question I keep coming back to:

…says who?

Maybe the way you see yourself was never as objective as you thought it was.

Thank you so much for all the love on the first episode. I genuinely can’t explain how much it means to me ♡

In this episode, I talk about neuroplasticity, mindset, self-belief, identity, and the stories we accidentally teach our brains to believe. Through personal stories about soccer, running, becoming a morning person, and finally starting this podcast after years of overthinking it, I explore how our thoughts shape the lives we build and the people we become.

This episode was inspired by a question someone asked me after reading my post, “The Delusion of Becoming,” and honestly… this is my very long-winded answer.

Maybe this is your sign to try the thing you keep talking yourself out of. Please give me feedback, and I hope you enjoy!

They say that good things happen when you least expect them. But what if you have always expected good? Are positive people meant to be disappointed more often? Can expecting the worst be a protection mechanism people develop after life does not go the way they imagined?

Everyone dreams, and everyone expects. It is inevitable. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that disappointment is often what loosens our grip on the wholehearted expectations we once had. At face value, that might feel like it is dimming your sparkle, but everything is about perspective. Maybe it is not dimming your sparkle at all. Maybe it is shaping you into the person you were always meant to become.

Every single time you get disappointed, you might actually be one step closer to getting everything you have ever wanted, and more.

“If you knew you were 100 rejections away from your dream, think how excited you would be every time someone told you no.”

In every phase of my life, I am grateful my dream life did not come true exactly the way I imagined it. Looking back, I realize that all the times things did not work out are what make life interesting. Every failure adds to the buildup of the moment your dream finally happens.

Looking back, I can see that the dreams I had before were shaped by the version of me I was at the time, and sometimes we have to outgrow those versions of ourselves before we understand what we really want

I often think about the life I dreamed of in different phases of my life. In every past experience, I can see in hindsight that my dreams were limited by my limited life experience at the time. There is no doubt that one day I will feel that way about the dreams I have right now, too. That is the beauty of life. Our dreams evolve as we evolve. As we grow, we begin to value different things, and what once felt like everything slowly becomes only a small part of a much bigger picture.

And I think there is comfort in believing that when something doesn’t work out, it is not because you lost it, but because something better is taking its place. If you were that excited about a particular outcome that never happened, then maybe you can be even more excited now, knowing that whatever is meant for you will be greater than what you were able to imagine at the time. Maybe that is part of the process of becoming the person you are meant to be.

Life would be boring if we followed a blueprint exactly the way we imagined it. If everything were guaranteed, you would not appreciate it. If every time you tried something, you succeeded, you would not value the success the same way. If every time you studied for an exam, you got the grade you wanted, the grade would not feel special anymore. If life were that easy, then everyone would be doing all the difficult things you dream of, and those dreams would not feel meaningful at all.

I do not believe in coincidences. I believe that even the hard experiences are ones you were meant to go through, even if you cannot understand why at the time. Oftentimes, it is the hardest tests that shape you the most. The ones that feel impossible in the moment are the ones you become most grateful for in hindsight. One day, everything will make sense, even if right now it does not. And if that day is not today, then trust that it will come. Sometimes what feels random at the time later feels like it was placed exactly where it needed to be.

They say that when everything feels like it is falling apart, it actually means everything is starting to fall into place. In the moment, it can feel like nothing is going the way it was supposed to, like everything around you is breaking at once. But maybe it is not falling apart at all. Maybe it is just falling into place in a way that you don’t have the capacity to understand yet.

Sometimes life does not change direction all at once. Sometimes it starts as a small feeling, a small doubt, a small nudge. And if you do not listen to the nudge, life has a way of pushing you harder until you end up exactly where you were meant to be.

Believing that everything is going according to plan does not mean the tests are not hard. It does not mean you are not allowed to react. We are human beings, and human beings feel things deeply. We are meant to process, to question, to hurt, and to grow. Trusting the path does not mean the path is easy. It just means you believe there is meaning behind it, even when you cannot see it yet.

I believe that we aren’t actually in control of the dreams that we dream. I believe that dreams are placed inside of us because you are destined for that dream in some way. If that specific dream doesn’t come true, then I believe that a future you has something far better than that dream, you just didn’t have the capacity to dream of it at the time. But nonetheless, if a dream doesn’t come true, I believe that even a small part of it will manifest in the future some way, somehow, so that you can always be reminded of how it turned out better than you dreamed for.

There is a future version of you telling the story of this moment, explaining how that exact experience was what pushed you into the next level of your life. Maybe this moment feels unbearable right now, but maybe it is a critical part of your story. Maybe you would never become the person you are meant to be without going through exactly what you are going through.

Sometimes I really believe that when everything feels like it is going wrong all at once, it means something is shifting behind the scenes. Like the story is building toward something bigger than you can see yet. Like the part that feels like failure is really just the buildup before the moment everything changes.

It is also important to remember that while you are the main character of your own life, you are only a side character in everyone else’s. Everyone is living their own plot, their own chapter, their own story, even when we forget that. You may never understand how someone could hurt you in the way that they did, but that’s okay, because everyone is innocent when they are the main character of their own story. There is no person who truly sees themselves as the villain in the moment, maybe only after experience, and only in hindsight.

And what a blessing it is to not understand how someone could treat you that way. What a blessing it is to realize that not everyone was given the same soul as you, and not everyone sees the world the way you do. Maybe the actions that hurt you were never given a second thought. Maybe that person found a way to clear their conscience, and while it may haunt you for some time, they have already moved on with their lives. In their version of the story, they were never the villain.

“The beauty you see and expect from others is a reflection of yourself.”

While that feels evil, cruel, and unfair, it is part of reality. It is something that we have to learn to be okay with in order to move forward with our own lives, because it is not our job to serve justice. I have faith that everything is always going according to plan, even when we cannot see how. Sometimes the way we see a situation is shaped by the lens we are looking through, and that lens can change with time. One day, long after you have forgotten about the hurt and the confusion, you may realize that justice was served in a way far better than anything you could have planned for yourself.

Sometimes the only thing you can do is accept what happened, let go of what you cannot control, and trust that the story is still unfolding the way it was meant to.

We put so much pressure on ourselves not to feel, but feeling is part of being human. There is nothing wrong with being disappointed when life does not go according to the plan you made for yourself. There is nothing wrong with reacting to that. But deep down, you also have to believe that there is something better waiting for you in the future. Not because you can see it right now, but because the One who planned your future can see things you cannot.

The most relieving part about being human is realizing that it is not our job to control everything. It is not our job to understand every delay, every rejection, or every closed door. Our only job is to do our part, to keep our intentions pure, and to trust that what is meant for us will never miss us. Sometimes the only thing we are asked to do is keep the promises we made to ourselves, even when the path looks different than we expected.

“Always remember, things not working out is a blessing too.”

There is no such thing as something not working out. There is only the reality that every single thing is still unfolding the way it was meant to. Even when it feels like everything is falling apart, maybe that is the exact moment everything is falling into place. Maybe the moments you think are setting you back are actually the moments setting you up for something better than you could have planned for yourself.

Maybe the truth is that life was never meant to follow the exact plan that we made for it. If it did, there would be no plot. No turning points. No moments that force you to grow into someone you never expected to become. The twists, the delays, and the failures are not interruptions to the story. They are the story.

Not every chapter is supposed to make sense while you are living it. Some chapters only make sense when you look back and realize why they had to happen that way. So maybe the best thing we can do is stop trying to control every detail and allow our story to unfold the way it was always meant to.

Trust that the timing is not random.
Trust that what is meant for you will never miss you.
Trust that the plan is still working, even when you cannot see it.

Because sometimes the moment you think everything is falling apart is actually the moment everything is falling into place.

And sometimes the part of the story that feels like failure is just the buildup before the life you were meant to live finally begins.

When you look back, you can probably think of moments that once felt like everything was falling apart, but ended up leading you somewhere better than you planned.

What is one dream that didn’t work out, but you are grateful for now?
I would love to hear about the better things that took their place!

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Bienvenido a otro lado de mi mente. El lado español.

Creo que cada idioma que hablo es una versión alternativa de mí. Hablo tres idiomas y tengo el sueño de hablar aún más en el futuro. Pero por ahora, existen tres versiones de Nadine. Y hoy vas a conocer la versión española.

A veces tengo miedo de que solo soy una estudiante de español. Pero no quiero ser solo una estudiante. Quiero ser hablante. Quiero viajar por el mundo y hablar como hablan los nativos, con fluidez, con naturalidad, sin pensar tanto.

Pronto me voy a graduar y las clases de español van a terminar. Y no sé exactamente cómo voy a seguir practicando. Eso me asusta un poco.

Mis estudios de español son algo muy importante para mí. No lo hago por nadie más. Para ser honesta, no lo hago por mi promedio ni por mi diploma. Mi minor en español probablemente ni siquiera será algo grande en mi título final. Pero no lo estudio para que aparezca en un papel. Lo estudio para mí.

Todo empezó en la escuela secundaria. Nos preguntaron si queríamos estudiar español o francés. Era un requisito. Muchos eligieron un idioma porque sus amigos lo hacían. Tal vez yo elegí español porque mi hermano mayor lo estudiaba. Tal vez porque en mi familia siempre nos ha encantado el fútbol.

Especialmente el fútbol español. Siempre me ha encantado ver los partidos del FC Barcelona. Era mi equipo favorito y mi obsesión silenciosa. Después de los partidos, veía las entrevistas con los jugadores y el entrenador. Escuchaba con atención, intentando entender algo, cualquier palabra. Durante mucho tiempo no entendía casi nada. Solo asentía frente a la pantalla, fingiendo que captaba el contexto. Pero un día, sin darme cuenta, entendí una frase completa. Luego otra. Y otra. Recuerdo la emoción que sentí. Fue como si una puerta se hubiera abierto. Empecé a ver más entrevistas, más contenido en español, no solo por el fútbol, sino por el placer de entender.

Pero mientras continuaba estudiándolo, me di cuenta de algo más profundo.

Había muchas similitudes entre el español y la cultura y el idioma de mi familia. El español se convirtió en una mezcla entre la parte estadounidense de mí y la parte egipcia. Como un puente entre dos mundos.

Después de mi primer año de universidad, me arrepentí de no seguir con el español porque sentía que lo estaba olvidando. Entonces decidí hacer un minor. Fue una decisión difícil. Podría haber tomado menos clases y graduarme antes. Podría haber elegido el camino más fácil.

Pero el español es más que una materia para mí.

Quiero poder expresar ideas complejas sin dudar tanto. Sin traducir mentalmente cada frase. También quiero conectar mejor con los medios en español. La media es una prueba real. Muchas veces el problema no es vocabulario ni gramática. Es cultural. Son referencias, historia, humor que requieren contexto. Y entender eso también es parte del idioma.

También he aprendido que estudiar un idioma sin estar rodeada de él es una experiencia muy diferente. Una gran parte del aprendizaje es la inmersión. Escuchar el idioma en casa. Hablarlo con amigos. Vivirlo todos los días. Y cuando tu familia y tus amigos no lo hablan, el proceso puede sentirse solitario. Ellos están orgullosos de ti, siempre me apoyan, pero eso es lo máximo que pueden ofrecer. No pueden corregirme en la mesa. No pueden cambiar el idioma de la casa. Y a veces eso hace que el progreso sea más lento, más silencioso. Pero también lo hace más intencional.

Pero hay algo más que casi nunca digo en voz alta.A veces, cuando estoy sola o en clase, siento que mi español es muy bueno. Me siento orgullosa. Tengo confianza. Pero cuando llega la prueba más grande y más oficial en mi mente, hablar con un hablante nativo, todo cambia. De repente, olvido palabras básicas. Dudo de mi gramática. Mi mente se queda en blanco. Siempre me pongo nerviosa cuando hablo español, pero especialmente con un hablante nativo, y no entiendo completamente por qué. Lo curioso es que cuando alguien intenta hablar inglés o árabe conmigo, idiomas en los que soy fluida, nunca siento juicio ni superioridad. Al contrario, siento orgullo por esa persona. Sé lo difícil que es aprender otro idioma. Esta experiencia me ha hecho más comprensiva y más compasiva, especialmente cuando el idioma y la cultura se convierten en barreras. Creo que mientras estamos vivos, debemos buscar todo el conocimiento que podamos. Y si no puedes aprender otro idioma, al menos puedes informarte sobre otras culturas. Tener la mente abierta. Ser respetuoso. Porque al final, todos estamos intentando hablar en un mundo que no siempre es nuestro.

Y luego está Barcelona.

Durante muchos años tuve el sueño de estudiar allí. No sé exactamente por qué me obsesioné tanto con esa ciudad. Con el equipo de fútbol. Con la energía. Solo sabía que quería ir con todo mi corazón.

Era curioso, porque yo misma sabía que el español que se enseña en los Estados Unidos se parece más al español latinoamericano. Y Barcelona, irónicamente, era probablemente el lugar más “lejano” lingüísticamente. Ni siquiera hablan solo español, hablan catalán.

Pero aun así, me enamoré de una ciudad que nunca había conocido.

Barcelona siempre tendrá un significado especial para mí. No es solo un lugar en el mapa. Es una versión de mí. Una meta. Un sueño que me acompañó durante años. Algo que parecía completamente aleatorio para mi familia y mis amigos, pero que para mí tenía sentido.

Tal vez ese sueño fue lo que me ayudó a seguir adelante cuando las cosas se volvieron difíciles. Porque fue difícil. Mis clases de ciencias eran intensas, y mi incapacidad de hacer un semestre en el extranjero siempre fue algo que me decepcionaba. Sentía que me estaba perdiendo una parte importante de la experiencia que había imaginado por tanto tiempo.

Aun así, tengo esperanza. No sé exactamente cómo, pero creo que haré algo aún mejor con mi vida. Tal vez Barcelona no era un destino fijo. Tal vez era una chispa. Algo que necesitaba en ese momento para motivarme durante los tiempos difíciles.

Una vez, una profesora me dijo algo que nunca olvidé. Me dijo que podía ser la mejor estudiante en la clase, que estaba muy orgullosa de mi trabajo, pero que nunca me daría una nota perfecta porque nunca voy a ser hablante nativa. Que puedo estudiar toda mi vida, pero nunca voy a ser como ellas.

Y, para ser honesta, eso no me desanimó. Me dio motivación.

Es obvio que no soy nativa. Y no quiero fingir que lo soy. Estoy orgullosa de mi cultura. Estoy orgullosa de mi identidad. Y también estoy orgullosa de que quiero ser hablante de español, aunque no haya nacido dentro del idioma.

Ser hablante no es borrar quién soy. Es expandir quién soy.

Este es el lado español de mi mente.

Y esta es otra versión de mí.
La que sueña en otro idioma.
La que piensa diferente.

Bienvenido a conocerla.

Being the bookworm I am, I light up.
“What word? What word?”

“Serendipity.”

It was like seeing an old friend after years of not speaking to each other. A friend who used to be a big part of my life. A friend that I once thought about every single day. A friend who filled me with hope. A friend who helped me first believe that there was no such thing as coincidence.

I first learned the word when I was eleven. A girl had just moved to town, carrying pieces of another life with her. One afternoon, almost casually, she told me that her best friend back home was named Serendipity.

I remember pausing. I told her I didn’t know what the word meant. So she taught me. She explained it in her own eleven-year-old way. Something about happy accidents, about good things happening when you don’t expect them. I remember thinking it was the most beautiful name I had ever heard.

It felt magical. Like the kind of word that made the world feel softer.

She probably doesn’t remember that conversation. But I do. She had no idea that the word would stay with me. That it would become a small part of who I am.

The younger version of me was very hopeful. She didn’t believe in bad endings. When life changed her plans, she grew excited about the serendipitous surprise waiting at the end of the tunnel. She believed that any detour must be leading to something better than what she had originally imagined. She was always looking forward. Always expecting goodness.

That night at the table, someone asked me if I knew what the word meant. The question startled me. How could I not? This was my old friend. But with everyone’s eyes fixed on me, I drew a complete blank.

Days later, I sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and a book, thinking about that moment. I pull out my phone and look up the definition.

I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary. I missed this old friend of mine.

I missed the version of me who searched for good in everything. The one who believed that if you didn’t want to go somewhere, maybe it was only because there was a beautiful surprise being prepared for you on the other side. The one who thought plot twists existed to make the story richer in hindsight.

I glance back down at my book. I smile as I read the very first word under the chapter title.

Serendipity.

A few days later, I almost skip a seminar for class. I was tired and having a long day. I go anyway. That’s where I meet her.

An amazing professor who somehow seems to understand me within minutes. For some reason, she chooses to believe in me and support my interests. When we meet for the first time after that seminar, she tells me that our meeting must have had a purpose. She tells me that she believes that there is no such thing as coincidence. Weeks later, she introduces me to someone as a student she met “serendipitously.”

I freeze for a second. There it is again.

The word keeps following me.

I’ve always carried this seemingly silly philosophy. I tell my best friends often, “The goal is to find my way back to my twelve-year-old self. She was a ball of sunshine.” It sounds childish, but it’s true. I’ve always believed that if someone meets that version of me today, then they truly know me. Because that version only comes out when she feels safe.

Sometimes I think the community I’ve built here on Substack knows that girl better than people in my everyday life. In real life, people tell you to be realistic. They tell you not to dream too big. But here, I let you into my whimsical, serendipity-believing mind. I let you meet her.

Maybe serendipity isn’t something that happens to us. Maybe it’s something we choose to see.

I don’t think she ever left me. I think I just stopped expecting her. And I want to live like I believe in her again.

The more you look, the more you find.

I always want to keep looking for my dear friend Serendipity.

Every print tells a story.
The hurried steps of a child late for the bus.
The narrow bike tracks of someone braving the cold to get to work.

I have come to believe that noticing these small things is a kind of superpower. Finding beauty in the mundane. Romanticizing life, even on an ordinary morning.

Later, I sit in my car as a train rumbles past. In the warmth of the heated car, I dread being late to class. I glance at the rearview mirror, counting the cars that have formed a line behind me. But then something shifts. Instead of counting cars, I begin noticing faces.

The middle-aged woman quieting rowdy children in the backseat.
The person speaking aloud with a furrowed brow.
The group of teenagers piled together, laughing.

And in that moment, it dawns on me. Every person is the main character of their story. Every car carries a plot. Every person shivering on the sidewalk is living an episode of a show we will never fully see. Every window in every tall building is quietly unfolding a storyline.

We tend to forget that this life is shared. That while we romanticize our own lives, everyone else is doing the same. We are all simply humans.

The concept of “main character syndrome” has been on my mind lately. I am a huge supporter of romanticizing your life. Of acknowledging that your life is yours to live.

If someone notices that you repeated an outfit, that you talk about your favorite show often, that your mascara is smudged, or that you mention your best friend in every other story, they are paying close attention. And if someone is paying that much attention to you, they probably care more than you think. They must be a big fan.

If someone does notice the small things you are worried about, they must be a really big fan.

We often forget that we are all living our lives for the very first time. That our parents had us without an instruction manual. That our educators are not all-knowing beings. That doctors do not have every answer, and sometimes it is not anyone’s fault.

There is so much value in romanticizing life. In seeing beauty in the mundane. In realizing that you are becoming a version of yourself through every ordinary day. But romanticizing life should not only lead to grace for yourself. It should lead to grace for others, too.

My faith emphasizes giving people the benefit of the doubt. Thinking the best of others. Assuming goodness before assuming harm. Because you never know what someone else is going through. And maybe you never will. It is not your story.

Every person around you is navigating something that feels like the biggest deal in the world to them. And meanwhile, you are over here interpreting their words and actions through your own plot. You assume they are choosing their tone, their silence, their distance, or their frustration because of your biggest problem in this moment. As if they are reacting to your storyline.

But they are living theirs.

The person who cut you off in traffic. The classmate who responded curtly. The friend who seemed distant. They are not side characters written for your development arc. They are wrestling with something that may feel enormous to them.

I have grown to appreciate the phrase “for the plot.” Because my story would be painfully boring without tension, without detours, without moments that stretch me. The best stories are layered. They have conflict. They have depth. There has to be a plot.

And not all good plots are dramatic. Some of the most beloved shows are loved because they show everyday life. Think about Friends. So many episodes revolved around simple, ordinary moments. Conversations in a coffee shop. Awkward dates. Apartment mishaps. And we loved it. We grew attached to the characters. We felt like we knew them.

I notice this in interconnected standalone books, too. The friend who was simply a side character offering advice in one book suddenly becomes the main character in the next. The person who felt secondary is revealed to have an entire inner world we never saw. That is real life.

Finding beauty in the mundane is a superpower. Noticing how snow sparkles in the sunlight on a freezing morning. Choosing to see meaning where others see inconvenience. But we also have to remember that this life is shared.

I once heard someone ask, “What happened to inconveniencing yourself for the people you love?” The idea that you have to be a villager to have a village.

Romanticize your life. Treat yourself with grace. But extend that same softness outward. Be the main character. But do not forget that you are also a supporting character in someone else’s story.

And maybe that is the most beautiful part of all.

We wait to feel ready. We wait to become the version of ourselves we think we’re supposed to be. We wait so much that we forget this is our life.

One of my goals this year is simple: I don’t want to wait anymore.

All the things we save for “later.”
Outfits we’re too scared to wear.
Songs we don’t want to “ruin” by playing too much.
Questions we’re too shy to ask.
Dreams we postpone until we feel more qualified, more confident, more certain.

We treat joy like something that expires if opened too soon. What if we replaced “later” with “why not now?”

Why not wear the outfit now?
Why not ask the question now?
Why not play the song again now?
Why not try the thing you’ve been quietly thinking about now?

Yesterday, I got into a car accident.

I’m okay. Truly. I’m more grateful than I can put into words. But moments like that shake something loose inside you. They make the mundane feel fragile. They make the ordinary feel sacred. They remind you how quickly life can shift from routine to surreal.

I found myself doing the things that make me feel most like myself. I read. I ran. The truth is that these things make you reflect. And of course, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t cope by writing out my reflections and sharing it with you. Because what else do humans do when faced with uncertainty other than try to make meaning out of it?

I am grateful that it can be considered a minor accident. I am a faithful person, and I truly believe that I was protected. I also believe in divine timing. The idea that things unfold the way they’re meant to, even if we don’t understand why.

But even with that belief, I still find myself reflecting. Because things could have been so much worse. With that thought comes the creativity of imagination. The human brain is magnificent like that. It doesn’t just acknowledge that something could have gone differently. It tries to picture how. It wanders into the “what ifs”. Not out of doubt, but out of the natural way we try to make sense of the world.

We call our lives “mundane” so casually. But life changes in an instant. Beautifully. Painfully. Unexpectedly. The day you meet your soulmate, you won’t care how long you spent yearning before. It will just have happened. The day you get into your dream school, you won’t measure the time it took. It will simply be your reality.

Because what if your entire life changes this year? This month? This week?

I’ve always liked to think of my life like a book. There has to be a plot. There has to be growth. There has to be conflict, or it wouldn’t be a story worth reading. I don’t need to understand every twist while I’m inside the chapter. The stories that move us aren’t the typical or mundane ones; they’re the ones with a plot.

Maybe what we thought was the storm that we were waiting to pass was just the light drizzle before the actual storm. I have been reflecting on this a lot, even before the accident. The ability for things to change in an instant. The idea that maybe what you wanted to end is something you’ll wish you were more grateful for in hindsight. We spend so much of our lives waiting. Maybe one day I’ll look back at this exact chapter of my life and realize it was the beginning of something bigger.

I believe everything unfolds in perfect timing, even when it doesn’t feel like it in the moment. But believing in timing doesn’t mean pausing your life until it arrives.

I want to find joy in every part of my life. The slow days are shaping us. The waiting is building us. Nothing is wasted, not even the parts that feel uneventful.

I don’t want to keep saving my joy for a future version of me. Because later is never promised.

There is so much to look forward to in life. I am a huge advocate of being a dreamer and dreaming big while always keeping your dream life in mind. But I am also an advocate for being present. To live in the so-called mundane like it’s already meaningful.

To dance in the rain, even if my clothes get drenched.
To stand out a little.
To be the only one spinning on the sidewalk while everyone else waits under the awning.

Because sometimes we wait out of fear of what others might think. We imagine them judging us for dancing while the rain pours down and our clothes cling to our skin. But surviving the storm doesn’t come from hiding under the awning. It comes from stepping into it. And what if the people watching aren’t judging at all? What if they’re just wishing they had the courage to dance like you?

So maybe the point isn’t to wait for the storm to pass. Maybe the point is to dance anyway.
To wear the outfit.
To ask the question.
To play the song again.
To live in the so-called mundane like it’s already the good part.

Because one day, it will be.

So I’m done waiting for the storm to pass.

I’d rather be soaked and alive
than dry and waiting.

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“She’s going to need glasses.”

It’s all a blur, but I remember the feeling of difference. Seeing the edge of my classroom table a little clearer. Noticing the tiny fibers in the carpet during story time. I never thought about the fact that everyone else had been seeing like this all along. I was just ecstatic about my adorable new accessory. My plastic pink frames slid down the bridge of my nose and kissed the tops of my cheeks.

At the time, I didn’t realize that needing glasses would teach me something much bigger than how to see clearly. It would teach me that the way we see the world depends entirely on the lens we’re given.

Over time, my vision got worse, but I always looked forward to picking new frames. My glasses felt like a magic wand. My imperfect vision became something I loved. When life felt overwhelming, I would take them off and look at the world through an untampered lens. Softer. Blurrier. Kinder. This was what I believed the world’s natural state was. I could always tell when I was dreaming because the world was a little too clear.

I think about that often. How quickly we accept the version of reality we’re handed. How we don’t know something is “wrong” or “bad” until someone tells us.

My need for glasses was inherited by both of my parents, so it was never treated as a flaw. It just was. Out of my control. Neutral.

I wish we treated beauty that way.

You get so used to your features that you don’t realize how magnificent they are. Beauty, like vision, is relative. Maybe if you lived in another time, gaining weight easily would signal wealth and abundance. Maybe in ancient Rome or Greece, your nose would be admired for its strong shape, worthy of marble. Maybe your big brown eyes would be envied by a blue-eyed grandmother who wished she had them. Maybe your olive complexion would be admired by friends whose skin burned and peeled in the sun.

We get used to the reflection we see every day. We forget that we’re looking through a lens we didn’t choose.

I think of a Twilight Zone episode I watched in middle school called Eye of the Beholder. The episode hides everyone’s faces. A woman is undergoing yet another surgery to “fix” her deformity. The doctors speak about her condition with pity. If the surgery fails, she’ll be sent away to live only with others like her.

The bandages come off. The doctors gasp. The surgery has “failed.”

But when we finally see her face, she looks beautiful by today’s standards. The shock comes when the camera turns to the doctors and nurses and their faces resemble pigs.

Nothing about her changed. Only the perspective did.

That episode reconstructed my understanding of beauty. Because maybe the things we wish we could change about ourselves only feel like flaws because of our environment. Because someone, somewhere, told us they were.

If the character’s surgery in that episode had been a “success,” the viewers would have thought it was a tragedy. A waste of beauty. A shame to erase a face so striking, so human.

Maybe someone would think that about you and the insecurities you carry. Maybe what you hate about yourself would be seen as desirable, admirable, even iconic. If only in another context, through another set of eyes.

We lose sight of the point sometimes. We are living our lives, not curating ourselves for a standard that shifts with history. Not sculpting ourselves to match a lens we didn’t choose.

And maybe my superpower was never just about seeing clearly. Maybe it was about learning that clarity itself is relative. That perception shapes reality. That the world looks different depending on the lens you wear, and so do you.

So before you rush to fix yourself, pause. Ask who handed you the lens in the first place.

Sometimes the only thing that needs adjusting isn’t you, but the lens you’ve been looking through. Your superpower might just be learning to see yourself without the wrong lens.

Maybe that is why I hesitated to share my thoughts here. To write is to hand someone a key to your inner world and hope they treat it gently. But there’s also a voice in my head that reminds me that words matter. That vulnerability is what gives writing its power. Someone pours their heart onto a page, lets the ink dry, and offers it to you. You get to decide whether you will absorb it or let it pass through you.

When I read, I escape to another universe. It is the best kind of escape. The kind that pulls you in so deeply that the real world softens at the edges. I live inside the story with the characters, feeling their joys and fears as if they were my own. Then suddenly, it’s over. But then I open another book and live another life all over again.

Whenever I get back into reading binges, I feel so… capable. More hopeful. I start many books feeling bored with the story, the life being narrated too mundane and moving too slowly. But as I continue, I begin to relate. It must be quite a skill to write a story so specific yet so loosely relatable that almost anyone can find a piece of themselves within it. To make a stranger’s thoughts feel familiar is a rare kind of intimacy. Or maybe not everyone relates, and I simply search for something familiar in every story.

As I read, I’m reminded how quickly life can change. Characters go from feeling lost to discovering purpose, from everything falling apart to working toward resolution. And I am allowed to witness those changes from inside their minds, as if their thoughts were briefly entrusted to me. Sometimes, I get to experience these entire transformations and journeys in as little as a single day. The last book I read spoke about painting over old memories with new ones. I loved that perspective. I loved the idea that the things that once brought you despair could one day make you smile. That you do not have to love something from the start for it to become meaningful. That which is meant for you will find you in time, because it will never miss you.

I would not say that I am lost right now, nor that everything is falling apart. But I do find myself worrying about the future. And when I am not worrying, I am deeply curious. I think of the goals I hold right now and wonder if they will manifest in my future in some form or another. I like to believe that I do not question life. I ponder it. I reflect. I remain curious.

The more I read, the more I fall in love with it. Reading feels like a quiet superpower. I realize this when there are adaptations of books I love. The characters and settings are nothing like I imagined, but more than that, they lose their depth and emotional complexity. I feel bad for the people who only watched the adaptation. They never really got to meet the characters. They don’t know their backstory. They don’t know the thoughts running through their minds during pivotal scenes. They don’t know the reasoning behind every action. There isn’t the same rush, the same feeling.Everyone read the same words, yet lived an entirely different story in their mind.

What a blessing it is to be able to read and get lost in a world that exists nowhere else but in your imagination. To be trusted with someone’s inner world, even fictionally, feels like a gift.

Not everyone enjoys reading. But for me, it is a way to travel without leaving my room. I have always wanted to see the world. Maybe I was not able to travel during my last few breaks, but I visited places through stories. I still hope and pray that I can see those places with my own eyes one day. In the meantime, this will suffice.

Reading allows access to characters’ thoughts. It is a form of intimacy that feels safe. It’s a way to hold someone’s inner world without the fear of being exposed in return. Simple phrases I’ve come to recognize across genres, like a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, or a mouth that twitched before speaking. Maybe I overanalyze, but reading has made me more attentive to people in real life. More aware of the subtle signals they give. It has also made me more careful with the thoughts I share with others.

Because thoughts are not small things. They are keys into who we are. And I am learning that not everyone is meant to hold those keys.

So if you’re still here, welcome to my thoughts. Handle with care.

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Allow me to nerd out for a second. I promise it will be worth it.

Your brain is made up of neurons, and those neurons are constantly communicating with each other. Those communications are what cause every single thing you experience. A neuroscience podcaster I listen to, Emily McDonald, talks about vision research and says something that always sticks with me. You don’t actually see with your eyes. You see with your brain.

I know that sounds like something that would make you question my scientific credibility, but hear me out. Your eyes gather information and send signals, but it is only when those signals reach your brain and are processed that you actually “see.” The same is true for hearing, touching, tasting, and everything else. Your brain is not just observing reality. It is constructing your experience of it.

And it does not stop at the senses. Your movement, your thoughts, your memories, your fears, and your beliefs all come from patterns of neurons communicating. When certain patterns are repeated, those connections get stronger. Over time, you build what I like to think of as neural highways.

This idea is part of something called neuroplasticity. Neuroplasticity means your brain can change based on how you use it. There is a “use it or lose it” principle. The pathways you activate often get stronger and easier to access. The ones you rarely use can weaken. And that includes the things you surround yourself with. The media you consume, the conversations you have, and the environments you spend time in all feed patterns into your brain.

Now let’s talk about thoughts.

Your brain forms pathways based on experience. When you think about something, your brain pulls from past experiences, things you have seen, heard, or imagined. Then it prepares you for what it expects to happen next. Your brain is constantly predicting outcomes.

Here is the wild part. Your brain is incredibly complex and amazing, but it is not always that smart. It is not this wise being sitting in your head making perfect decisions. It is more like a protective prediction machine. It wants to keep you safe. So it scans for risk.

If it predicts a bad outcome, it sounds the alarm. Fear kicks in. Hesitation shows up. Avoidance feels logical. That is helpful when there is real danger. Not so helpful when the “danger” is trying something new or going after a goal that matters to you.

But your brain also believes what you repeatedly tell it. In a way, your brain is like code. The thoughts and inputs you repeat are what it keeps running.

If you feed your brain labels, you start to live inside them. If you tell yourself you are not a morning person, mornings will feel awful. If you tell yourself you are bad at time management, your brain will look for evidence to support that. Those neural pathways get stronger.

But this works both ways.

Because of neuroplasticity, the more you activate positive beliefs, the stronger those pathways get too. The less you activate the negative ones, the weaker they become over time. You are literally shaping which mental highways get built.

There is a concept in psychology called the self-fulfilling prophecy. It means we subconsciously act in ways that prove our expectations right. Your brain does not wake up wanting to prove you wrong. If you tell yourself you will fail an exam, you might procrastinate, avoid studying, or panic during it without even realizing why. If you tell yourself you are capable of running a marathon, you start making choices that move you in that direction.

And this is where the “delusional” part comes in.

I love the whimsy of that word, but I use it carefully. What I mean is this. You have to believe in a future version of yourself before there is full evidence.

Imagine the dream version of you. Physically healthy. Mentally strong. Successful in the ways that matter to you. Happy. Loving and loved. What does their life look like? Maybe they wake up early to move their body. Maybe they studied for years to build their career. Maybe they showed up for people and built a strong community.

Now here is the important part. Believe that that future is meant for you. Even if the details are blurry. Even if you do not know exactly how you will get there. If you ever think, “That would be nice,” let yourself go for it.

Now, whenever you go to do anything, ask yourself, what would that version of me do? Then live like that life is already yours. Believe it fully, without constantly questioning whether you deserve it. Move through your days as if you are already that person, and let your choices slowly shape your life in that direction.

Because every dream depends on your ability to believe in yourself enough to carry it through. If you believe you cannot do something, your brain will help you sabotage it to stay consistent with that belief. If you believe you can grow into something, your brain starts looking for ways to support that story.

Your brain also shapes how you see other people. If you are deeply insecure about something, you might start interpreting everything through that lens. A neutral comment feels like criticism. A normal look feels like judgment. Your brain filters reality through the pathways you have built.

I know this is easier said than done. I really do. But I urge you to practice it.

The more you look for something, the more you find it. I once saw something that said,

“Maybe the number of blessings you notice depends on how willing you are to look for them.”

I saw a video of a girl saying she had the best day because everyone seemed so happy. Every time she looked at someone, they were smiling at her. Later, she realized they were smiling because she had been smiling at them first. Self-fulfilling prophecy. She expected warmth, so she brought warmth, and then she found it everywhere.

You are living and perceiving through your brain.

So I want you to genuinely believe that you deserve the good things you long for. Because you do. This is not about blaming yourself when you have a bad day. Life is still life. Things still go wrong. Be gentle with yourself. Treat yourself with grace and kindness.

But also believe this. There is no one else with your brain. No one else with your exact wiring, your experiences, your perspective. Something that did not work for someone else might work for you because you are not living the same story.

You are capable of becoming more than you think. Sometimes being a little “delusional” is just choosing to believe in your own potential before the proof shows up.

You are not stuck with the brain you have today. You are shaping the brain that will carry you into tomorrow with every thought you rehearse and every belief you return to. Your brain is always listening, always building around the patterns you feed it. So maybe being a little “delusional” is not denial of reality, but faith in the person you are becoming.

Tell your brain a story worth growing into.

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I feel like starting a Substack is the embodiment of truly doing something for yourself, because in this beginning phase, there is no guarantee that anyone will read your work. But there is a thrill and a relief every time I post something. Like a promise fulfilled.

I had an epiphany the other day that maybe motivation comes from viewing life as a series of promises we make to ourselves. Maybe what gets us out of bed early in the morning is simply the fact that we said we would, and we do not want to let ourselves down. Maybe the reason to challenge yourself is just that. You promised yourself that you would.

A few months ago, I went down memory lane. Not the typical picture-filled kind. I found my old journals and read through them, which led to a lot of introspection. But something broke my heart.

When I was a teenager, I made a decision that if I was going to pursue a degree in STEM, I had to center my interests around related things. I convinced myself that maybe I was not that good of a writer, because if I were, I would have chosen it as a career. Maybe leaving it behind was a way of avoiding overthinking. I worried that if I acknowledged how much joy writing brought me, I would regret my degree and wish I had studied literature instead.

So I stopped reading as much.

Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the plot, because those were two very important parts of who I am. But what truly broke my heart was finding an unfinished writing project from when I was merely sixteen years old. I remember abandoning it because I decided writing was a good pastime, but that maybe I wasnt good enough for it to become anything.

When I read it again at twenty-one, I was astonished. I was impressed, but more than anything, heartbroken that I had given up on myself so easily.

So I decided this dream needs to be revisited. Writing is an unfulfilled promise I made to myself, and I refuse to leave it that way. Maybe no one will ever read these posts, but at least I will have given myself a chance.

Every dream depends on your ability to believe in yourself enough to carry it through. Maybe no one will read my work. Maybe, at this point, that is a good thing because it allows me to be vulnerable in my writing.

As I near the end of my degree, I am deeply thankful for the path I chose. I just wish I had realized earlier the value of diversity in education. Studying science while loving literature does not make you divided. It makes you a better scientist. And maybe, it makes you someone who keeps promises to herself, even the ones that took years to return to.

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Still, I wonder if we notice romantic love more because we seek it. Some people spend their time watching rom-coms and reading romance novels. But even when we turn to other genres, love follows. In action movies and sci-fi stories, there is almost always a romantic thread woven in, even if briefly. It can feel like romance is subliminally planted everywhere we look.

For a long time, I wondered why.

What is it about humans that draws us so strongly to love?

I think it’s innate. Biology tells us reproduction is central to our survival as a species. Psychology and neuroscience point to subtle patterns of attraction. Women subsonciously dress up more when they’re ovulating. Men often befriend females they are attracted to. Geographical proximity is one predictor of attraction. Of course, none of this is absolute. These are tendencies, not destinies. Still, there is truth in the idea that we are wired to connect.

Deep down, I think everyone is a romantic. I avoid the phrase “hopeless romantic” because I don’t believe that everyone is hopeless. But I do believe everyone longs, in some way, to love and be loved. That desire is nothing to be ashamed of. It is part of being human.

Sometimes the people who claim they don’t want love are the ones most overwhelmed by how deeply they do.

Waiting for romantic love can be a form of self-love. It reflects self-respect and a refusal to settle for something that does not feel right. Someone may not have experienced romantic love yet and still be deeply shaped by many other forms of love.

There is nothing wrong with admiring romantic love and desiring it, while not actively seeking it in this season of life. Maybe that balance is a testament to commitment to oneself. A quiet kind of self-trust.

It’s important to enjoy the process of becoming. During that process, it’s easy to fall into the trap of trying to become someone else’s dream partner. But what if you could become your own dream?

What if you could fall in love with the process of becoming the person you’ve always wanted to be?

In stories, characters often fall in love with quirks and imperfections. It’s sweet and wholesome. But what if you could be that someone for yourself? What if you could love every part of who you are?

You could fall in love with your mind: the way you think, your curiosity, your capacity to learn and care. You could fall in love with your body: its strength and everything it has carried you through. You could admire your beauty, both physical and internal.

When you genuinely fall in love with yourself as a whole, gratitude follows.

It’s time to become the person you’ve dreamed about for so long. The person who is deeply in love with you. The one who studies now to make a future you’re proud of. The one who protects your health, cares for your mind, and speaks to you with kindness. The one who encourages you to grow.

You would never want a future partner to constantly criticize you or tear you down. So why let your own inner voice do that?

The truth is, you will live with yourself far longer than you will live with any future partner.

So you might as well fall in love with who you are becoming.

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But I felt comforted when I looked outside, and the snow settling around my childhood home sparkled back at me like a familiar friend, reminding me that it carries remnants of the glitter bomb that was my personality when I was younger.

Pieces of me are scattered in every corner of this house. No matter how much I try to distract or move on, there will always be remnants of her.

She’s always a part of me.

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It’s important to let it happen.

The nudge begins as something small, like unremarkable whispers that cause you to question, just briefly. You brush it off, because why would you question yourself? You’re so sure of what you want.

But the whispers don’t stop.

Over time, nudges turn into pushes. Pushes turn into shoves. And if you still don’t listen, life will shove you into the life you’re meant to live.

Because no matter how hard you resist, you will only ever live the life that was always meant for you.