And somewhere between becoming better, I think we’ve forgotten to live.

This week, instead of trying to become a better version of myself, I accidentally got a life.

I watched Midnight in Paris for the first time, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the golden age syndrome that quiet belief that life would have been more beautiful if we had lived in another era. The artists in Paris longed for the Renaissance. The people from the Renaissance longed for Ancient Rome. It made me wonder if we spend so much time wishing for another life that we forget the beauty of the one we’re already living. Nostalgia is seductive because it asks nothing of us. The present, however, asks us to participate.

I found goodness in yoga again.

Not because it burned calories or made me more flexible, but because for one hour, there was nowhere else I had to be. No notifications. No goals. No productivity. Just breathing. Just existing inside my own body. It reminded me that movement can be an act of gratitude rather than self-improvement.

Then I picked up The Upanishads.

There is a verse that hasn’t left me since:

“You are what your deepest desire is. As your desire is, so is your will. As your will is, so is your deed. As your deed is, so is your destiny.”

I’ve been carrying those words around like a little stone in my pocket.

The Upanishads keep repeating a truth that feels strangely revolutionary today: that there is something beyond the self. Beyond the ego. Beyond collecting achievements and possessions. Beyond material success. There is a quieter kind of fulfillment that comes from understanding who you are, how you think, and how you belong to the world.

It made me realize that maybe we’ve become too interested in improving ourselves and not interested enough in expanding ourselves.

There’s a difference.

Improvement asks, “How can I become more?”

Expansion asks, “What else is there to know?”

Lately, I’ve noticed how easily people (including myself) can get caught in loops. The same relationship. The same arguments. The same disappointments. The same questions. We replay them over and over until they become our identity.

And I wonder if sometimes we’re not actually looking for love.

We’re looking for something to think about because we have nothing else that captures our imagination.

It’s easier to obsess over someone who hasn’t texted back than to spend three hours learning why Picasso painted faces the way he did.

It’s easier to analyze mixed signals than to ask why Plato believed the examined life was the only life worth living.

It’s easier to keep refreshing someone’s profile than to open a book you’ve been meaning to read for months.

Maybe heartbreak lasts longer when it becomes the only interesting thing happening in your mind.

I don’t mean this harshly.

I’ve been there.

There were months when my thoughts revolved entirely around another person. Every conversation somehow found its way back to them. Every song reminded me of them. I wasn’t living with curiosity anymore, I was living in repetition.

And repetition can feel a lot like purpose.

Until you discover something bigger.

The first time I learned about Cubism, I realized Picasso wasn’t trying to paint a face as it looked. He was trying to paint a face as it existed across time, memory, and multiple perspectives all at once. Suddenly, a painting wasn’t just a painting anymore.

When I watched Midnight in Paris, I found myself reading about Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, Dalí, and the Lost Generation long after the credits rolled.

One curious thought led to another. That’s what curiosity does. It doesn’t end.

Algorithms keep telling us to become more efficient.

Books ask us to become more alive.

And I think that’s the greatest privilege of being human.

We get to learn.

We get to change our minds.

We get to stumble across a philosopher who lived thousands of years ago and somehow feel understood by them.

We get to look at a painting and feel something we don’t yet have the vocabulary for.

We get to sit in museums, read poetry, watch foreign films, walk through forests, listen to music made centuries before we were born, and borrow pieces of other people’s lives until our own becomes richer.

No animal gets to do that.

What a miracle.

I sometimes think the most attractive people I’ve ever met were not the most successful or the most optimized. They were the most curious. They had opinions. They had stories. They could talk about architecture and astronomy in the same conversation. They had favorite painters and books they couldn’t stop recommending. They noticed small things. They asked beautiful questions. They weren’t interesting because they were trying to be. They were interesting because they were genuinely interested.

Somehow, self-improvement quietly became self-optimization.

There’s a subtle difference.

Self-improvement is rooted in care.

Self-optimization is rooted in control.

One says, I want to grow because life is beautiful.

The other says, I have to grow because who I am isn’t enough.

That’s a heavy way to live.

We’ve started treating ourselves like products under constant development, always updating, always fixing, always measuring. Every hobby has to become a side hustle. Every walk has to count toward ten thousand steps. Every book has to teach us something useful. Even rest has become something we optimize.

But maybe not everything needs a purpose beyond itself.

Maybe a walk can just be a walk.

Maybe reading Plato doesn’t have to make you smarter.

Maybe learning about Cubism doesn’t have to make you more cultured.

Maybe yoga doesn’t have to make you more flexible.

Maybe they can simply make you more alive.

I think literature understands this better than productivity ever will.

The characters we remember are rarely the ones who optimized every part of their lives. They’re the ones who loved recklessly, wandered aimlessly, questioned everything, failed spectacularly, changed deeply, and paid attention. They became memorable not because they perfected themselves, but because they lived fully.

Maybe that’s what character really is.

Not endless self-correction.

But accumulated wonder.

Maybe the secret isn’t another morning routine.

Maybe it isn’t another productivity app.

Maybe it isn’t another video telling you how to become your highest self.

Maybe the secret is to simply get a life.

A life so full of books, museums, films, conversations, art, philosophy, laughter, long walks, strange ideas, and beautiful questions that you stop making yourself the center of every story.

Because the funny thing is, the less obsessed you become with yourself, the more fully yourself you become.

And I think that’s a life worth living.

So, until next Sunday (and this i post again), go get a life.
And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

I usually brush it off. It doesn’t really matter, I tell myself. They’re just flowers.

But yesterday, I was talking to a boy I really like, and somehow we ended up arguing about them. He said flowers die. What is the point of buying something that is going to wilt in a few days? He said he would rather get me a gift that lasts, something practical, something useful.

I didn’t argue back.

I just went quiet.

Not the kind of quiet where you have nothing to say, but the kind where you mentally disengage from the conversation. The kind where something inside you realizes that you are not being understood.

Because I’ve realized it was never about the flowers in the first place.

Of course I know they die. Of course I know they’ll sit in a vase for a week before I throw them away. I know all of that.

But it was never about the flowers anyway.

Flowers are a symbol.

They’re a way of saying, “I noticed what makes you happy, and I wanted to do that for you, even if it doesn’t make complete sense to me.”

That is what matters.

I’m not expecting flowers on the first date. You don’t know me yet. But after you know me, after I’ve told you that little things make me happy, after I’ve literally told you that I love flowers... why wouldn’t you get them for me?

Why would you decide what should make me happy instead of simply listening when I tell you what does?

I’ve always been a serial gift giver. I start planning birthday presents for my friends and family months in advance. I don’t buy them what I would like. I buy them what they would love. If my friend collects magnets, I look for magnets. If someone loves books, I spend hours trying to find the perfect one. The gift has never been about me. It’s about making the other person feel seen.

So why does this feel so difficult to understand?

The flowers stand for everything else.

They stand for thought.

For effort.

For remembering.

For wanting to see my face light up.

For stopping at a florist on the way because you remembered something I once casually mentioned.

It’s such a tiny gesture, but somehow it says, “I listen when you speak.”

And maybe that’s what I want more than the flowers themselves.

To be listened to.

To be understood.

I don’t think every girl wants flowers. Some would much rather receive books, plants, handwritten notes, chocolates, or absolutely nothing at all. That’s not my point.

My point is this, why is it so difficult to understand someone when they’re telling you exactly what they want?

I’m not asking anyone to read my mind.

I’m literally telling you.

I also know that I can’t make someone love me in the way I want to be loved. Love doesn’t work like that. We all express affection differently, and maybe flowers genuinely don’t mean anything to some people.

But I think what hurt yesterday wasn’t hearing that flowers die.

It was realizing that, even after knowing what they mean to me, he still saw them only as flowers.

He saw petals.

I saw understanding.

Maybe that’s why I spiraled over something that seems so insignificant.

Because to everyone else, it’s just a bouquet.

To me, it’s someone saying, “I remembered.”

Maybe that’s why I keep saying I want flowers.

Because somewhere along the way, flowers stopped meaning flowers.

They started meaning, “I see you.”

For years, I thought this was a coincidence. That maybe I was simply unlucky in love, or that I hadn’t met the right person yet.

Now I think it’s a pattern.

Because ever since I can remember, I have never really been single. I have always been in a relationship, a situationship, a talking stage, or harbouring an intense crush on someone. There has almost always been a man occupying a corner of my mind.

I have also noticed a pattern in the men I fall for. It’s not particularly surprising, but it has taken me years to see it clearly. I fall for men who are building something. Men with plans. Men with a purpose greater than themselves. Men who walk into a room and somehow make everyone listen. Men who make me feel like anything is possible. They’re usually a little selfish too. Not in a cruel way, but in the way ambitious people often are. Their goals come first. Their time is valuable. Their world doesn’t stop for anyone. Being around them felt like standing near a fire. Close enough to feel the warmth, but never close enough for it to become my own. Their certainty was contagious. With them, I felt more ambitious simply because they believed so strongly in what they were building.

For the longest time, I thought I was attracted to them. Now I think I was attracted to how I felt around them.

The strange thing is they did not actually inspire me, instead they distracted me. With them around, I would be constantly on my phone, spiralling over when they would be free from work or when I would see them next. I wanted to know what they were doing, what they were working on, what their next move was.

I somehow became deeply invested in their lives. I would listen to their rants about the problems they faced, help them think through challenges, encourage them when things went south, celebrated their every small win.

Somewhere along the line, their dreams became more interesting than mine. And the saddest part about this was they never asked me to do this. I did it willingly. While they were busy building their lives, I was busy watching them build.

I stopped checking in with myself, stopped asking what I truly wanted. I did not answer to myself honestly when things were not working. I stopped giving my goals attention I was giving theirs. I remember spending an entire evening waiting for a reply from someone I liked while a draft sat open on my laptop. I kept telling myself I’d write after he texted back. He never did. Neither did I. I kept waiting for validation that was never going to arrive because the person whose belief I needed most was my own.

At some point, sitting on the bathroom floor after bawling my eyes out, I had to ask myself a difficult question - Why was I available to everyone except myself? What was I hoping these men would give me that I couldn’t seem to give myself?

It took months of therapy, journaling, and having the same conversations with myself over and over again before anything started to make sense. Part of it was validation. Part of it was fear. And part of it was something much older.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that giving was how I earned my place in people’s lives. I would make greeting cards for my friends, I would always text first and make plans, I was always available when they needed me. If I was helpful enough, supportive enough, understanding enough, then people would stay. So, I became very good at giving. I listened. I showed up. I made space for other people’s emotions. I helped them carry things that were never mine to carry. What I didn’t realise was that I had become so focused on being needed that I had forgotten how to need myself. I thought love meant giving more. More time, more attention, more understanding and more chances. I never stopped to ask whether I was receiving any of those things in return.

Looking back, I can see how terrified I was of people leaving me. I carried that fear into friendships, relationships, situationships, everywhere. And because I was so afraid of losing people, I often accepted less than I deserved just to keep them close. Some people never took advantage of that. Others did. The dangerous part wasn’t that they hurt me. The dangerous part was that I believed I needed them more than I needed myself.

For a long time in some of these situationships, I would always question their behaviour - Why did they disappear? Why were they unavailable? I spent months trying to understand them. Trying to understand their fears, their childhoods, their commitment issues, their ambitions, their behaviour.

What I never asked was - What felt safer about helping them build their lives than building mine?

Because if I’m being completely honest, helping them chase their dreams felt easier than fully committing to my own. If they succeeded, I got to stand close to ambition without risking failure myself. And that is a much harder truth I had to sit with.

I also realised that these men often entered my life right when I had found my rhythm. I could have simply learned from them. I could have admired them, taken inspiration from them, and continued building my own life. Instead, I got distracted. Again, and again. I started borrowing their belief in me as my own.

I would tell them about my plans, my ideas, the things I wanted to create. They would encourage me, motivate me, tell me I was capable of more. And for a while, that felt amazing.

I stopped chasing my actual potential and started settling for the feeling of being seen by someone I admired. Their validation became enough. At least temporarily. Looking back, I don’t think I trusted myself very much. I wanted somebody else to tell me that my dreams were possible before I allowed myself to fully believe in them. I wanted proof. I wanted permission. I wanted certainty. And ambitious people carry certainty so naturally that I mistook their confidence for my own. The problem is that borrowed belief has an expiry date. The moment they leave, so does the confidence you built on top of them. And every time that happened, I was forced to start over and find my way back to myself again.

The more uncomfortable realization was this, the problem was never that they were emotionally unavailable. I was emotionally unavailable to myself. While I was checking in on them, I stopped checking in on me. While I was invested in their dreams, my own dreams sat waiting. My writing took a back seat.

I kept telling myself I would get back to them tomorrow, next week, after this relationship settled down, after I felt more secure, after I got the reassurance, I was looking for. But that reassurance never lasted. And neither did they. What stayed was the growing distance between me and the life I said I wanted.

The strange thing is that I never completely lost myself. I always knew who I wanted to become. The writer, the creator, the ambitious woman with big ideas and the discipline to bring them to life.

I just kept choosing everyone else’s growth over my own because it felt safer than the risk of trusting in me.

Maybe I wasn’t attracted to emotionally unavailable men. Maybe I was attracted to people who embodied the ambition, certainty, and self-belief I was still trying to build within myself. And maybe the work now isn’t finding someone different. Maybe it’s finally becoming the person I’ve been looking for in everyone else.

The right couch. The right lamp. The right ceramic bowl from Pinterest.

But architecture teaches you something different.

A meaningful space isn’t created through perfection. It’s created through curation.

And the opposite of minimalism isn’t maximalism. It’s intentionality.

You can have a room full of objects and still have it feel calm. You can have a nearly empty room that feels hollow. The difference is whether the things around you belong there.

As architecture students, we’re taught to think about spatial relationships constantly, how materials interact, how light changes emotion, how one object affects another. Interiors work the same way.

A home should feel less like a showroom and more like a conversation between the things you love.

So if you want your space to feel more personal, more grounded, more you, here are the three questions I think every object should answer.

Question 1: Does it serve a purpose?

And I don’t just mean functionally.

Yes, a chair should let you sit.
A lamp should provide light.
A shelf should hold books.

But objects can serve emotional, intellectual, or aesthetic purposes too.

A blurry photograph taped to your mirror might make you feel connected to a version of yourself you miss. A heavily annotated book may remind you of who you were when you first read it. A small brass bowl from your grandmother’s house may hold absolutely nothing except memory.

In architecture, we often talk about “program”, what a space is meant to do. But the most memorable spaces always do more than one thing at once. They hold emotion alongside function.

Your room should too.

Every object should serve at least one purpose -

• Functional

• Emotional

• Intellectual

• Aesthetic

Ideally, more than one.

The problem with buying things only because they’re trendy is that trends don’t create attachment. They create temporary stimulation. After a while, your eye moves past them because they were never connected to your life in the first place.

That’s why some spaces look beautiful online but strangely lifeless in person.

Nothing means anything there.

Question 2: Does it belong with the other things?

Not in a perfectly matching way.

I don’t mean everything needs to be beige, wooden, or “clean girl aesthetic” approved.

I mean: do the objects feel like they exist in the same world?

Good interiors are less about matching and more about narrative.

A worn wooden desk beside a stack of old architecture books, a chrome lamp, and hand-drawn sketches tells a story. A collection of travel postcards pinned beside unfinished notes and receipts says something about movement, memory, and life being actively lived.

Objects should feel like they’re in conversation with each other.

This is actually something architecture trains your eye for. We study materiality constantly, roughness against smoothness, heaviness against lightness, old against new. Contrast works beautifully when there’s intention behind it.

But random consumption creates visual noise.

For example, your grandmother’s carved wooden box carries history, texture, and age. If it sits beside a shiny plastic storage bin you bought impulsively because it was trending online, the dialogue breaks. One object carries memory; the other carries convenience. They don’t understand each other.

Curated spaces feel coherent because the objects share values, even when they look different.

That coherence is what people mistake for “having good taste.”

Question 3: Do I actually want to live with this?

This might be the most important question of all.

Not:
“Is this beautiful?”

Not:
“Would this look good on Instagram?”

Not:
“Is this trendy right now?”

But:

Do I want to wake up and see this every single day?

Because your environment shapes you more quietly than you realize.

Architecture has always understood this. Ceiling heights affect emotion. Natural light affects mental health. Materials affect comfort. Spatial arrangement affects behavior.

Objects do too.

The mug you reach for every morning. The lamp that makes your room feel softer at night. The chair where you always end up journaling. These things become part of your rituals, and eventually, part of your identity.

So trust your gut.

If something feels performative, forced, or emotionally empty, you’ll feel it eventually even if it photographs beautifully.

How to Start Curating Your Space

Start by removing the things that fail all three questions.

Not aggressively. Not all at once.

Just honestly.

Then begin filling your space slowly with objects that earn their place.

Pay attention to what you naturally gravitate toward:

• Certain colors

• Materials

• Textures

• Eras

• Shapes

• Lighting

• Fabrics

• Objects with history

That pattern is your aesthetic.

Not the one social media assigned to you. The one your instincts have been building quietly this entire time.

And honestly, the best interiors are never finished.

They evolve the same way people do.

A curated space isn’t sparse. It isn’t expensive either.

It’s personal.

Every object is there because it matters. Because it carries function, memory, beauty, emotion, or story.

That’s why it feels like home.

So now I want to know -

What’s one object in your space that passes all three questions? Tell me about it.

PS - for me, it’s a art work which I painted back in my 10th grade with my art teacher, it hangs right at the entrance of my home, I love it.

I want to dance to songs that light me on fire without thinking about how I look while doing it. I want to stop viewing myself from above, like there’s a third-eye observer permanently attached to me, a ghost of myself standing across the hall, watching, evaluating, mouthing instructions.

Smile softer.
Don’t be too loud.
That was embarrassing.
People noticed.

I am exhausted by her. I truly am.

I know for a fact that I learned how to live while constantly anticipating judgment. Not even direct judgment sometimes, just the possibility of it.

Maybe it came from wanting to be the good daughter. Maybe from trying to be someone my younger brother could look up to. Maybe from years of meeting people, loving people, adapting to people and accidentally handing them pieces of authorship over my life.

The strange thing is, I genuinely love people. I love hearing stories that make them laugh. I love collecting little fragments of strangers as keepsakes. I love understanding how someone became who they are.

But somewhere along the way, I abandoned my own story before I ever really read it.

I’m turning twenty five this year. Still chaotic. Still confused in embarrassingly specific ways. But for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m becoming a tiny bit more myself.

Just a speck, but a real one.

I think I’ve spent years downplaying the things I love because I believed visibility invites destruction. If I spoke too proudly about my work, maybe people would dislike it. If I acted too freely, maybe people would laugh. If I wanted too much, maybe people would call me delusional.

So I convinced myself that silence was humility.

But silence is also fear.

The truth is, the world does not magically discover hidden things. You have to show people what matters to you. You have to risk misunderstanding. You have to survive being seen.

And I think that terrifies me more than failure itself.

What if the people I love do not understand the things I create?
What if the vision in my head is bigger than what I can actually make real?
What if I expose myself completely and there’s nothing extraordinary there at all?

Maybe that’s why I close up. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I desperately want to protect the parts of me that matter.

It’s funny because I think I understood the actual problem only while writing this.

Maybe that’s why writing matters so much to us.

Not because it gives us answers, but because sometimes it catches us telling the truth before we even realize we’re saying it.

I don’t think we ever fully know ourselves anyway. We keep discovering new versions of who we are every time we love someone well, every time we choose kindness, every time we cry for a stranger who has nothing to do with us at all. Human beings are constantly leaking beyond the identities they built to survive. And maybe embarrassment is part of that too. Maybe embarrassment is just proof that somewhere inside us exists a version still trying to be witnessed without punishment.

I don’t want to feel trapped anymore. Not by expectations. Not by performance. Not by the constant awareness of myself.

I want to be alive in my own life.

Bright. Uncontained. A little reckless maybe.

The sun does not ask permission before it burns.

Not because they stay but because they leave traces of themselves in places.

A regular path to work.
A particular cab route.
A fruit juice shop.
The side of the footpath where they once waited for you.

You walk past these places months later and your body remembers before your mind does.

Today, I walked alone.

2.5 kilometres with no real destination except away from myself for a little while. I stopped at my favourite fruit juice shop for a chikoo milkshake and realised heartbreak is embarrassing mostly because life keeps looking so ordinary around it.

People still order sandwiches.
Signals still turn green.
Someone somewhere is laughing loudly.
And you are sitting there thinking about the way someone once held your hand while crossing a road.

Funny.

Or maybe just human.

There’s a specific kind of grief reserved for people who gave you almost-love. The kind built on future promises that never fully became reality.

“I’ll come surprise you after your dance class someday.”

And somehow they never do.

Not once.

Yet your mind keeps replaying the version where they did.

That’s the cruel thing about memory, it preserves potential with the same intensity as reality.

Sometimes I think I miss the patterns more than the person -
the long paragraphs,
the fighting,
the blocking,
the returning,
the ache of knowing it would fail and choosing it anyway.

I knew the hidden meanings behind his pauses.
The facial expression he used when pretending not to care.
The tone shift before an argument.

I almost saw him, the real him, beneath all of his drama.

But it’s a shame he never really tried to see me.

And still, after meeting other people,
after trying to move forward,
after convincing myself enough time has passed,
some memories return without permission.

A particular phrase.
A random sign at a crossroad.
A hand at the small of my back while crossing.

Love leaves fingerprints everywhere.

That’s the problem.

You begin collecting ghosts without meaning to.

But the strangest part of all this is -
I don’t even feel devastated anymore.

Not really.

The sadness has softened into something quieter.
A numbness.
A knowing.
Like touching an old bruise just to check if it still hurts.

And sometimes it does.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

I think healing is less about forgetting people and more about finally accepting that some versions of your life only existed in your imagination.

I miss you.

But I would never go back.

Time to figure things out.
Time to become better.
Time to start taking my life seriously.

I told myself I would eventually build the life I wanted, just not right now. Not today. Maybe when I felt more ready. Maybe when things were clearer. Maybe when I had more energy, more direction, more certainty.

“Soon” felt safe.

But “soon” has a way of stretching into nothing.

And one random Tuesday, I realised something uncomfortable. Nothing in my life was actually changing.

Not because I didn’t want it to but because I kept delaying the moment I chose it.

I would think about everything I wanted, the work, the life, the version of myself I imagined so clearly. I could see it. I could feel it. I could almost believe it was mine.

But I wasn’t doing the things that would take me there.

I was living in a loop of thinking, planning, imagining and then stopping.

And if I’m being honest, it wasn’t laziness.

It was comfort.

The kind of comfort that keeps you in familiar patterns, even when you know they’re not right for you. The kind that makes overthinking feel like progress, and waiting feel like preparation.

But comfort has a cost. It keeps you safe and it keeps you stuck.

The truth is, we don’t need someone else to tell us what’s not working in our lives.

We already know.

We know what we’re avoiding.
We know what we’re delaying.
We know which parts of ourselves we are not fully showing up for.

But sitting with that truth is hard.

Because once you see it clearly, you can’t pretend anymore.

And then you’re left with a choice.

Stay where you are.
Or start even if it’s uncomfortable.

I used to think I needed motivation to begin.

But motivation is unreliable. It comes in waves, and disappears just as quickly. If you depend on it, you’ll keep waiting.

What actually changes your life is consistency.

The quiet, often boring decision to show up again and again.

Even when you don’t feel like it.
Even when it doesn’t feel exciting.
Even when no one is watching.

Because if you keep making the same choices, you will keep living the same life.

And that is the part we don’t always want to admit.

At the same time, I’ve also realised something softer.

There is something powerful about asking for what you want.

Whether you call it the universe, God, or simply your own belief, there is a shift that happens when you are honest about your desires.

There have been moments in my life where I felt completely stuck. Situations that felt impossible to get out of. And somehow, when I stopped resisting and actually asked, clearly, honestly, things began to change.

The direction changed. People who were not meant just disappeared and I let them.

And sometimes, that’s all we need.

A shift in direction.

So now, I think of life a little differently.

Not as something I need to fully figure out before I begin.
But as something I build, one decision at a time.

If I’m unsure, I don’t wait for certainty.

I ask myself: What can I do today?

And the answer is usually small.

One task.
One message.
One decision.
One step.

It doesn’t look like much.

But over time, it becomes everything.

There’s an exercise I came across recently called the Odyssey Plan.

It asks you to imagine three different versions of your life, not to pressure yourself, but to see more clearly.

The first version is simple:

What happens if nothing changes?

Same habits. Same routine. Same environment.
Where does that version of you end up in five years?

The second version asks:

What if you made intentional changes?
What if you took a few risks, shifted your habits, tried something new?

Where could that take you?

And the third version is the most honest:

If nothing was holding you back, not fear, not money, not other people’s opinions — what would your life actually look like?

Who would you be?
What would you choose?
What would bring you joy?

You don’t need perfect answers.

Just honesty.

Because most of the time, the gap between where we are and where we want to be is not lack of ability.

It’s lack of action.

I’ve given up on myself more times than I can count.

And still, I’ve always found my way back.

That, I think, is what matters.

Not perfection.

But the willingness to return.

To try again.
To choose yourself again.
To build something, slowly, imperfectly, but intentionally.

You have one life.

You can spend it waiting, worrying, overthinking or you can start living it.

There are days when I wake up with this sudden urgency, a feeling that I need to fix everything at once. My career, my habits, my relationships, my direction. I start planning, overplanning, thinking ten steps ahead, imagining every possible outcome.

And then there are other days.

Days when I do nothing at all.

Not because I don’t care. But because the future feels so big and so unclear that I freeze. Instead of taking action, I sit and fantasize about the life I want. I imagine who I could be, where I could live, how confident and sorted everything will feel “one day.”

It’s comforting, in a way.

But it’s also dangerous.

Because while I’m busy living inside imagined futures, my actual life is quietly passing by in the present.

The truth is, not knowing what’s going to happen next scares me more than I’d like to admit.

Will I get that opportunity?
Will this decision work out?
Will that relationship survive?
Am I already behind?

These questions don’t just exist in big moments. They show up randomly while working, while walking, while lying in bed at night. And slowly, they start affecting how I see myself.

On days when I feel uncertain, I also feel less capable. Less productive. Less confident.

It’s like my mind begins to believe that clarity must come first and only then can I move.

But I’ve been watching people I admire closely.

And I’ve realized something important.

The most grounded people aren’t the ones who always know what they’re doing. They’re the ones who keep returning to the process. To the work that exists right in front of them. They don’t let their minds spiral endlessly into “what ifs” about the future.

They build their future by being present in their today.

This sounds simple. Almost obvious.

But living this way is not easy, it’s easier said than done.

Because uncertainty feels personal. It feels like a reflection of our worth. Like if we don’t have answers, we must be doing something wrong.

I’m learning to unlearn that.

I’m learning that it is completely okay to not know what is coming next.
To not have a five-year plan.
To not feel sure about everything.

Maybe peace doesn’t come from predicting the future.

Maybe it comes from trusting that we will handle whatever arrives.

So now, when I catch myself fantasizing instead of acting, I ask a different question.

Not “What will happen?”
But “What can I do today?”

Sometimes the answer is small.
Reply to one email.
Finish one task.
Go for one walk.
Have one honest conversation.

Movement doesn’t need certainty.

It only needs willingness.

And maybe that is enough to start shaping a life that feels real not just imagined.

Maybe I have never given myself the chance to find a love like this. I wonder how we can just open our hearts and trust someone after everything we’ve been through. How do you find a person who loves you for who you are, and how do you know that it is true and not simply lustful?

I want to be held in a way that warms my heart. I want fingers intertwined while walking back home, not just to a house, but to our home. I want to find someone who adores me even while I sleep (not in a creepy way, obviously). I want to be absolutely adored and cherished.

I want to be someone’s first. I feel like I have never even been my own first, and it has been difficult for me to learn how to put myself first. I am only now, beginning to understand this and allow myself to do it, but it is still hard.

Romantic love feels different. It fills a void in your heart that you never even knew you had. It seems so pure because how can a person who is so different from you love you completely? How can they know everything about you, all of your flaws, every part of your body and your soul, and still choose you?

I want love just like this. Nothing more. Nothing less. I want to be the star in someone’s dark sky.

I know that I am the sun for myself, for my family, and for my friends. I show up for them. But I also want to be the sunshine for him.

I believe that I will find someone, sooner or later. This idea of love feels intoxicating and exhilarating right now, but I wonder if it will be calm instead.

One thing I do know is that I will never give up on love. It is a beautiful feeling to love so deeply that you do not even fear the possibility of them leaving. I have done that. I have loved. But I do not feel like I have been loved back in the same way. I feel like I am nobody’s poem, nobody’s muse yet here I am writing what just feels natural, even if nobody reads.

I believe I’ll find love and I believe you will too. I will never give up and you should not either.

now, when i open word and see that w auto-correct to W, i get inexplicably annoyed. it feels like someone shoving tradition down my throat. and honestly? that irritation might be the whole point. but why are we doing this? why is lowercase suddenly everywhere?

you probably learned capital letters in school like everyone else: first word of a sentence, names, titles, beginnings and endings. it was grammar. it was rules. it was adulting. and yet here we are - gen z, millennials, insta poets, choosing not to capitalize anything at all.

it’s not laziness (well, sometimes it is) and it’s not ignorance. it’s intentional. and it’s everywhere because of how we communicate today, fast, casual, emotional, unfiltered. people say lowercase feels more relaxed, like speaking without armor. it removes tense formality, and makes writing feel more like conversation and less like instruction.

most of gen z didn’t grow up texting on flip phones or emailing teachers. they grew up with tiny screens, instant replies, threaded brief chats, and infinite reaction loops. in that space, capitals start to feel like shouting or like putting up walls like you’re trying too hard. lowercase feels soft. honest. human.

there’s also a historical precedent for rejecting capitals. poets and thinkers like e.e. cummings and scholar bell hooks famously discarded conventional capitalization as an act of stylistic rebellion. for cummings it was about rhythm and flow; for bell hooks it was a political choice, pulling attention away from the self and toward ideas. this isn’t just gen z whimsy: it’s a lineage of writers challenging norms.

but unlike cummings’ careful poetry or hooks’ philosophical avoids, this lowercase moment feels collective and accidental, a cultural shift driven by keyboard habits, social media aesthetic norms, and speed.

brands have noticed too, spotify playlists, fashion houses, quirky startup logos all lean into lowercase. it signals approachability and lack of pretense. corporates don’t shout in capitals on purpose; lowercase feels like quiet friendliness.

here’s the irony: this generation loves authenticity yet also curates aesthetics obsessively. we ask “why lowercase?” while posting lowercase captions on purpose. we call it cute or chill because it visually matches what we’re trying to say - soft, approachable, unfinished, raw.

and there’s another deeper reason: communication style has shifted. we write like we talk, streaming our thoughts, skipping punctuation, making abbreviations, dropping formal structure because it sometimes gets in the way of feeling. punctuation, caps, and rigid grammar can feel like barriers, like adult rules that don’t match how we actually think or feel.

for many of us, lowercase doesn’t equal unprofessional so much as present tense authenticity. it’s not about not knowing grammar, it’s about rejecting its pressure when it’s not necessary. and yet, as with any generational shift, the broader world still sees lowercase as unserious, sloppy, or just weird. it’s the perennial tension between tradition and evolution.

so yes, i still get annoyed when autocorrect flips my w.
but maybe that’s just the old writer in me resisting what’s already happening: language always changes. and lowercase might just be the next normal, or maybe it’s a phase but it’s definitely something we’re living through, not just typing through.

something from my drafts that i never posted, so here it is. honestly, all the information and thought is after reading a fewe articles on the same topic, but simplifying the thoughts, hope it helps, happy reading x

Not in an obvious way. I still went to work. I still showed up for people. I still made decisions. From the outside, everything looked normal. But inside, every small choice felt heavy. I questioned everything. I overthought conversations long after they ended. I looked for reassurance in places that were never meant to hold that responsibility.

I thought self-trust was something you either had or didn’t have. Something fixed. Something permanent.

But I’ve realised now that self-trust is something you can quietly lose and just as quietly rebuild.

It happens slowly. Almost invisibly. Every time you ignore what you feel. Every time you choose what feels safer instead of what feels honest. Every time you convince yourself that someone else knows better than you do.

And then one day, you wake up and realise you don’t recognise your own inner voice anymore.

That was the hardest part. Not the uncertainty itself, but the distance I felt from myself.

I kept thinking clarity would arrive all at once. That one morning I would wake up and suddenly know exactly what to do, who to be, where to go next. But clarity doesn’t arrive like that. It doesn’t come from panic. It doesn’t come from rushing yourself into answers just to escape the discomfort of not knowing.

It came from staying.

I stayed, with all the crying and head churning thoughts, I questioned all my decisions, sat with them for days, trying to untangle the knots so tightly formed through the years of unconscious decisions which were never meant to be.

The real peace I feel now from not abandoning myself in moments of uncertainty is everything.

I used to think self-trust meant confidence. Being sure. Having a plan. Moving through life without hesitation. But real self-trust is much quieter than that.

It’s trusting that even when you don’t have all the answers, you won’t disappear from your own life.

It’s trusting that you will listen to yourself. That you will correct when needed. That you don’t need to control everything to be okay.

There were days when I doubted everything about myself. Days when I felt behind. Days when I wondered if I had already missed my moment somehow. But slowly, something shifted.

Not because I found certainty.

But because I stopped needing it.

I began to trust that I could figure things out as I went. That I didn’t need a perfect plan to move forward. That uncertainty wasn’t a sign I was failing, it was a sign I was stretching beyond what was familiar.

And this not needing certainty did not come in an instant - it came through those repeated cycles of being with myself and actually analyzing the consequences of my decisions, and realizing that life is so much more beautiful with uncertainty.

Because change is the only constant.

Growth rarely feels like confidence in the beginning. It feels like standing in the middle of something undefined, choosing to stay anyway.

Now, when I feel myself overthinking, I ask a quieter question.

Not “what’s the right decision?”

But “what would I choose if I trusted myself?”

But “does this decision feel safe to me and only me?”

And the answer is almost always there. Not loud. Not dramatic. But steady.

Self-trust isn’t about knowing the future.

It’s about knowing that whatever happens, you won’t abandon yourself along the way.

And that is enough.

Balance out everything though, that’s the key. Protect your fucking energy. it’s the most important thing in the world especially in a woman’s life. we tend to overuse it to overanalyze things that would not even fucking matter in a week. we need that energy to build, to create, to impart knowledge, go to good things out of your heart and give your energy to things that return it, be fucking selfish about it.

Don’t spend your time chasing the bare minimum, create your dream life for yourself and don’t fucking depend on anyone to treat you right, fucking treat yourself right.

Choose you, do things selfishly, make the right choices in terms of female friends. Love your family, loveee your mom, love your brother, love your sister. Understand your dad, spend more time with him. Be empathetic, understand how to be that.

If you feel like your fun energy is off, read this again. We live only once, be happy that you are not dead yet and do fun things and work your ass off because that is the only thing that gives our life credibility, purpose, motive.

Do 10 things you like, drop those things you don’t like without guilt. Fail, fucking fail, try harder and fail, don’t ever stop chasing what you want, change strategies, fail again but start over.

Remember small Avani, and how she wanted the whole world, and she started a business out of scratch, she had literally no knowledge and she did it, so can the big avani, don’t be scared, do things and respect everything and everyone.

Everyone has a reason. Don’t try to understand their choices but let go. Be empathetic. Be magnetic. Be sexy. Be bold, let your dreams run free and chase them passionately, do more do fucking more. Follow systems and just do it. Thankyou thankyou and be fucking grateful for how far you’ve come and so much more to go.

Sorry for using fucking so many times, but this is what i come back to get myself back in the right headspace after some minor inconvenience. i am truly grateful for all that i have in life and hope you are too! happy reading xx

Not performative honesty. Not the kind you say out loud so it sounds good. But the quiet, uncomfortable kind. The kind that asks questions you’ve been avoiding.

Because if you look closely, you already know.

You know where you’re holding yourself back.
You know where you’re settling.
You know where you’re choosing comfort over your own potential.

And it doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. It looks like scrolling when you said you’d start. It looks like postponing things that matter to you. It looks like telling yourself you’ll try harder later, when you feel more ready.

But ready never arrives on its own.

I think the hardest truth to accept is that no one is coming to build your life for you.

No one is coming to force you into your potential.

No one is coming to make you become the person you imagine yourself to be.

You either choose it, or you don’t.

There’s a version of you that exists outside your current habits. A version of you that moves differently. That trusts herself. That doesn’t hesitate as much. That doesn’t abandon her own life for distractions and temporary comfort.

And the distance between you and her isn’t talent.
It’s decision.

We spend so much time waiting for clarity, waiting for motivation, waiting to feel certain. But clarity is not something you find. It’s something you build through action. Through showing up even when you don’t feel like it. Through choosing yourself even when it would be easier not to.

There’s a reason discomfort feels unfamiliar, it means you’re stepping outside the version of yourself you’ve outgrown.

You don’t need to change everything overnight. You don’t need a perfect plan.

But you do need to stop pretending you don’t know what matters to you.

Your life is not something that happens later.
It’s happening now.

And the quiet truth is that every day, you’re either moving toward yourself or away from yourself.

No one else can make that decision for you.

At some point, you stop asking whether you’re capable.
You start asking whether you’re willing.

And that’s where everything begins.

I want the kind of love that sweeps me off my feet like I never saw it coming. Like it has been right before my eyes, loving me from the sidelines and I being my messy self, too involved in other half assed people to see that someone might actually love me more than i love myself.

The kind which is not a secret, but starts as one. The one I can talk to anything about, lean on completely and it does not let me fall.

The kind which starts with quiet eye contact, gentle hand brushes and silly excuses just to talk with me.

The kind of where it holds my hand while crossing the road, takes me by my waist in a crowded street and gently places a kiss when I feel overwhelmed without ever needing to ask.

The kind that brings me flowers on the random days just to see me smile.

The kind that is curious about me, my wants, my tastes.

The kind which lets me sleep some more in the morning because I am a night owl.

The kind that melts away rest of the world with a single tight hug.

The kind that reads me my favourite book to sleep and the wakes me up with cuddles even in the morning.

The kind which respects me.

The kind which shares my passions for work as well as travel.

The kind that struggles through everything and makes it out even stronger.

The kind that might burn the world just to save me from myself.

The kind that gives me butterflies even when we are 80 years old and all wrinkly.

The kind where it does not tire up with me after seeing all of me, the kind that stays through it all, the kind which believes in evolving with me forever.

The kind where they might not like whatever I love or do but still stay because love is about adjustments and understanding, to sticks through it all despite everything.

The kind that is soft yet strong, so fierce in its love yet so gentle on me.

One day, I want to feel overwhelmed and surprised that this love exists and it exists just for me and I feel tears prick my eyes as I feel it wholly, in my entire body.

The kind where I feel safe, at home, just me.

Note - This is how I am starting my valentine’s day, in love with life and with myself. Hoping for the love that I want and I so desperately need. Thoughts all over the place and italics where I feel like, hope you get the love just like you give out. Love life till life has to love you back x

Not just busy but messy, chaotic and utterly cluttered. Thoughts overlapping each other. Emotions that don’t make sense. Moments where you feel everything at once and nothing at all. And then on top of that, there’s work, expectations, messages, conversations, decisions. It’s constant.

Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I just know that something feels heavy.

And my instinct like most people’s is to fix it immediately. To respond to every message. To resolve every emotion. To make sense of everything right now so I can feel in control again. Anything to feel control. It’s only human.

But lately, I’ve realised that chaos doesn’t disappear when you try to outrun it. You might actually crash out if you try to overtake it. Instead if you just sit with it, quietly, till you feel like your head might explode, it suddenly dies down, the mind goes absolutely silent.

There’s this strange guilt we carry when we pause. When we don’t reply immediately. When we take space from conversations or step back from things that feel overwhelming. It feels like we’re doing something wrong like we’re abandoning people or responsibilities.

But sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is create distance between your emotions and your actions.

Not every feeling needs to be solved today.
Not every conversation needs your energy right now.
Not every thought deserves to stay.

I think embracing chaos means allowing yourself to admit that things aren’t always clear. That you can feel messy and still be moving forward. That your mind can be loud without meaning something is broken.

For me, embracing chaos has started to look like small pauses.

Turning the phone away.
Letting a message wait.
Sitting in silence without trying to analyse every thought.

And in those pauses, something shifts.

The noise doesn’t disappear completely of course but it stops controlling me. My thoughts slow down. My body softens. The urgency fades just enough for me to see what actually matters and what doesn’t.

There’s a version of healing that isn’t aesthetic. It isn’t calm music and perfect routines. Sometimes it looks like choosing boredom over stimulation. Choosing stillness over distraction. Choosing to sit with yourself even when your head feels like a crowded room.

We live in a world that rewards constant availability. But your nervous system doesn’t need constant connection, it needs space.

Embracing chaos isn’t about romanticizing struggle. It’s about accepting that life will feel messy sometimes, and that you don’t have to solve everything to keep going.

You’re allowed to compartmentalize.
You’re allowed to separate work from emotion.
You’re allowed to not respond right away.

That doesn’t make you distant.
It makes you grounded.

And maybe embracing chaos isn’t about controlling it at all.

Maybe it’s about learning how to exist within it, without losing yourself.

It doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it’s just a feeling in the background, a heaviness that appears even when life looks full on the outside. And for a long time, I thought loneliness meant something was missing. That it meant I needed someone else to fill the space.

But lately, I’ve started to see it differently.

Wanting love is human. Wanting closeness, reassurance, and connection is not a weakness. But love doesn’t always begin with someone else, sometimes it begins with realigning with yourself.

With noticing the ways you already care for yourself.
With recognizing the love that exists quietly in friendships, routines, small moments of comfort. With allowing yourself to feel held by the life you’re already living.

Gratitude doesn’t erase loneliness, but it softens it.

It shifts the focus from what feels absent to what already exists. The warmth of a conversation. The calm of a familiar place. The simple fact that you’re here, moving through another day, learning more about yourself.

We often search for love as something urgent, something that needs to arrive quickly to make us feel whole. But the more I’ve slowed down, the more I’ve realised that love feels steadier when it isn’t rushed.

When you’re aligned with yourself, honest (really honest about what you want) about your needs, grounded in your own presence, you stop chasing connection from a place of emptiness. You start allowing it to grow naturally, without forcing it to fill every gap.

This doesn’t mean you’ll never feel lonely again.
It doesn’t mean you’ll stop wanting someone beside you.

It just means you begin to understand that love isn’t only something you wait for. It’s something you build a relationship with, starting with yourself.

Maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate loneliness.
Maybe it’s to hold it with more gentleness.

To notice where love already exists.
To appreciate it without needing it to look perfect.

And to trust that the right connections will meet you when you’re no longer trying to prove your worth to receive them.

Love becomes stronger when it starts from within.

The kind that needs to be announced.
The kind that needs to be seen, validated, applauded.
The kind that turns growth into performance and burnout into a badge of honour.

That’s not the ambition I’m interested in anymore.

I’m more drawn to the quiet kind.

The kind that shows up consistently, even when no one is watching. The kind that doesn’t need to prove anything. The kind that isn’t rushed, frantic, or fueled by comparison.

Quiet ambition is choosing to care about your growth without turning it into pressure.

It’s working toward something because it matters to you, not because you’re racing someone else’s timeline, not because you’re afraid of falling behind, not because you want to be seen as impressive.

We’ve been taught that ambition looks like doing more. Faster. Louder. Bigger. But a lot of real ambition looks far less dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like returning again and again to the same goal.
The same practice.
The same effort.

Even on days when motivation is low. Even when progress feels slow. Even when no one is cheering you on.

There’s something deeply grounding about ambition that doesn’t need an audience. About building something quietly, steadily, in your own time. About letting your growth be personal instead of performative.

This year, I’m trying to let ambition be calmer.

Grounded.
Patient.
Sustainable.

Not driven by urgency, but by alignment. Not by fear, but by intention.

You don’t need to rush your becoming.
You don’t need to constantly push.
You don’t need to turn your life into a spectacle.

You just need to keep moving gently, honestly, in the direction that feels true to you.

Progress doesn’t need an audience.

Sometimes the most powerful growth is the kind no one else sees.

To fix everything at once.
To catch up.
To prove we’re back on track.

After bad days, emotional overwhelm, or falling off routine, the instinct is almost always the same, do more. Fill the day. Overcompensate. Try to regain control by sheer effort.

But more often than not, what actually helps is the opposite.

Doing less.
And doing it with intention.

Not everything needs your energy.
Not everything needs to be done today.
Not everything needs to be done perfectly, all at once.

Simplification isn’t giving up. It’s discernment. It’s choosing what truly matters right now and letting the rest wait without guilt.

There’s a quiet kind of steadiness that comes from narrowing your focus. One or two priorities done properly will always feel more grounding than ten half-finished tasks done in a rush. When you simplify, your mind feels clearer. Your body feels calmer. Your energy stops scattering in too many directions.

We don’t talk enough about how exhausting it is to constantly optimize your life. To treat every day like a system that needs fixing. To believe that productivity is the same as progress.

Sometimes progress looks like restraint.

This year, I’m trying to let “enough” be enough.
To stop pushing past my limits just to feel productive.
To trust that consistency grows better in spaciousness than in pressure.

You don’t need to optimize your entire life.
You don’t need a perfect routine.
You don’t need to do everything well.

You just need to take care of what’s in front of you.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

It disappears in small moments, when you ignore a feeling, when you override your intuition, when you do something just because it’s expected, even though it doesn’t feel right. Over time, you stop listening. Not because you don’t care, but because it feels easier to doubt yourself than to sit with uncertainty.

Most of us weren’t taught to trust ourselves. We were taught to look outward, for reassurance, validation, permission. So when a decision comes up, we ask everyone else first. We weigh opinions. We overthink. And then we feel disconnected from whatever choice we make.

But self-trust doesn’t come from always being right.
It comes from knowing you’ll be there for yourself even when you’re unsure.

I’ve realised that trusting yourself isn’t about confidence, it’s about consistency. It’s about noticing when something feels off and not immediately explaining it away. It’s about taking your own discomfort seriously, even when you can’t fully articulate why.

Your intuition doesn’t shout. It whispers.

It shows up as hesitation.
As relief.
As a quiet knowing you try to talk yourself out of.

The more you ignore it, the quieter it gets.
The more you honour it, the clearer it becomes.

What makes self-trust difficult is that it often asks you to choose the unfamiliar. To disappoint someone. To pause instead of rushing. To sit with uncertainty instead of forcing clarity. And that can feel uncomfortable, even scary.

But every time you choose yourself, even in a small way, you rebuild trust.

You don’t need to trust yourself with everything at once. Start with the small things. The daily choices. The moments where you feel torn and decide to listen inward instead of outward.

Self-trust isn’t loud.
It’s steady.

And once you start rebuilding it, something shifts. Decisions feel lighter. Regret lessens. You stop second-guessing yourself as much, not because you’ve figured everything out, but because you know you’ll handle whatever comes next.

Maybe the work isn’t to become more confident.
Maybe it’s to stop abandoning yourself.

Wake up early every day.
Stick to the routine.
Go to the gym.
Eat well.
Stay motivated.
Never fall back.

And when we inevitably do fall off, even for a day, guilt creeps in. The narrative becomes harsh: What’s the point? I’ve already messed it up.

But the truth is much simpler, and much kinder.

Nobody has perfect days all week. Nobody.

No matter how disciplined, self-aware, or put together someone looks, life interferes. Energy dips. Emotions fluctuate. Things happen. You get distracted. You feel low. You slip into old patterns. And that doesn’t erase the progress you made before.

A bad day does not undo your growth.

We often treat progress like something fragile as if one missed workout, one late night, one unproductive day can cancel everything that came before it. But progress isn’t that delicate. It’s built over time, not in streaks.

Being aware and still choosing to act even from a tired, unmotivated, messy place is what real progress looks like.

Some days you’ll feel on top of your life.
Other days, getting out of bed will feel like enough.

Both days count.

There’s no prize for punishing yourself when you fall short. Guilt doesn’t motivate, it paralyses. It convinces you that you’re inconsistent, undisciplined, incapable. And none of that is true.

What matters is not how often you fall off but how gently you return.

I’ve realised that a fulfilling life isn’t built on perfection. It’s built on resilience. On the quiet decision to try again. On allowing yourself to be human without turning it into a personal failure.

Bad days don’t mean you’re doing life wrong.
They mean you’re living it.

Maybe the goal isn’t to avoid bad days altogether.
Maybe it’s to stop abandoning yourself when they happen.

To notice.
To adjust.
To keep going without shame.