I figured we’d skip the formal introductions.

In this episode we’re catching up. where i’ve been, what life has looked like after graduation, starting my master’s, studying for the MCAT, why i disappeared for a little while, and why I’m finally pressing record.

I’m also sharing the story behind She Thinks in Color, talking about one of the pieces that unexpectedly reached so many people, and answering some of the questions you left for me a few months ago.

Grab a coffee (or matcha lol) and let’s catch up.

I missed you.

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I know. It’s a deep, bold statement; one I’m sure many of you can relate to.

Betrayal never comes from a stranger. An enemy is honest in their opposition. Their intentions are clear. You move differently around them. You guard and protect yourself. You expect the worst, and when it happeends you are rarely disappointed when it arrives. There is no illusion to mourn. Betrayal doesn’t hurt because it surprises us. It hurts because, on some level, we trusted the person enough to believe they wouldn’t do it.

Betrayal requires intimacy. It requires access to your time, your vulnerability, your soft places. It comes from someone who knew how to speak your language, who knew which parts of you needed reassurance. It comes from the people we know, the people we love, the people we believed we understood. That’s what makes it cut so deeply. Not just what they did, but the disbelief that they could do it at all. The shock lives in the how and the why. You sit there asking yourself how someone who knew you, who claimed to care for you, could be the source of so much pain.

And maybe that’s the cruel truth, perhaps they were always strangers. We just didn’t know it yet.

It’s an almost impossible thing to wrap your mind around. Thinking about it too long can genuinely drive you insane. Your brain processes betrayal as a threat because suddenly, you don’t feel safe anymore. Your body reacts before your heart can catch up. Fight or flight kicks in. Cortisol rises. Your system floods with panic, confusion, and emotion. Everything feels thrown off. Trust fractures, and chaos follows.

This is something I am personally struggling with.

The person I’ve written all of my gallery about has betrayed me in a way that feels unforgivable. And yet, I know I will forgive them because I don’t want to walk through this world carrying that much hatred and anger in my heart. I was completely blindsided. It almost sent me into a spiral.

It makes you question everything.

The moments you brushed off. The things you were “tripping” about. You replay conversations and wonder if your intuition was right all along. You ask yourself if you ignored red flags just to protect what you wanted so badly and what you wanted to believe. And what hurts the most is realizing how avoidable it all was.

I feel stupid.

Even more stupid, knowing they agree.

People lie because they think they’ll never get caught. And I hate the way they must think I’m dumb, and maybe, in some ways, I was. I trusted too purely. I always believed. I look back at all these milestones that I thought meant something, moments I believed reflected mutual understanding, shared values, commitment. The unspoken things. The big steps. The “I love you.”

Who goes out of their way to do those things while knowing their intentions were never going to match mine?

What breaks me is how genuine my heart was for someone who never intended theirs to be. How pure my intentions were. And how little it seems to matter now. I can barely focus on my priorities, barely move through my days without feeling heavy, while they’re out in the world acting like nothing ever happened.

How?

How do you betray someone and sleep peacefully?

Betrayal really does suck. Not just because it hurts, but because it changes you.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

Although I am no longer a teenager, I feel filled with so much gratitude for that fact. For starters, I’ve had the privilege of living more life, something people every day, just like you and me, no longer can do. Not to sound morbid, but I see that as a joyous thing. I get to wake up and actively choose to be better each day. My teenage self wouldn’t have had the depth to see life that way, and for that, I am thankful.

Still, there is one thing I mourned for a long time: the lost opportunity of adolescent love.

There is something so beautiful and pure about it. Two people who don’t yet know who they are, or even who they might become. They don’t have language for trauma or expectations. They don’t have a five-year plan or a list of dealbreakers. They simply feel. A lot of people look down on young love, dismiss it as naïve or unserious, but I think it’s sacred. And if you’ve experienced it, you were lucky.

Falling in love is complicated, no matter when it happens. There’s the biology, the psychology, and whatever philosophical explanations we use to make sense of it. But falling in love as a teenager versus as an adult is two completely different experiences.

Teenage love is untouched. You walk into it free with absolutely no baggage, no defense to play, no awareness of how dangerous or divine it can be. You have nothing on your resume, no history of heartbreak to reference. You give your all because it’s all you know. Suddenly, there’s a person who awakens feelings you didn’t even know existed. It’s intoxicating. It’s a high. And whether we admit it or not, many of us spend the rest of our lives chasing some version of that first feeling.

I believe deeply in breaking away from your first love to experience the world. That doesn’t discredit high school or childhood sweethearts because what a blessing, and a rare one at that. But I used to long for the experience of being someone’s first love, for the simplicity of it. The lack of comparison. The absence of emotional wear and tear.

The older we get, love starts to come with more conditions. Sometimes it becomes less about wonder and more about partnership. Less about discovery and more about compatibility. We stop chasing the high and start negotiating for peace. We settle, not always in a bad way, but with the quiet understanding that we’ve already peaked emotionally before, and we might never feel that exact “high” again.

And yes, there are many kinds of love. You’ll likely experience more than one in your lifetime, and each will shape you in different ways. But there is something irreplaceable about the first time you say “I love you” and mean it, without knowing that by the time you’re 28, you might have said it three times, meant it each time, and still watched it end. There’s something about the first butterflies, the heart doing backflips, the mutual innocence of young love.

No wondering how many times the date you’re on has been done before. No questioning whether the gestures are recycled. No fear that you’re just another chapter in someone else’s healing journey.

Just two young people, choosing each other without knowing how fragile that choice really is.

And I still think that’s beautiful.

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Lately, I’ve been in a really reflective space. Thinking about all my relationships, romantic ones, especially. I miss the routine of having someone to share things with, the fun dates, the everyday comfort of not being alone in the world. The other day I asked my dad how you know when something is worth fighting for. He said, “When it doesn’t make you question your morals or your self-respect.” But that’s where I’m stuck. Can something be worth fighting for if fighting for it also makes you wonder whether you still have any self-respect left?

I’m still young. I’m going to make mistakes. So why does the idea of fighting for love feel both brave and foolish at the same time? If I found someone I claim to love, shouldn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t it be worth a little discomfort, a little vulnerability, a little patience?

I think this is a lesson I’ll eventually be grateful for. There’s so much content online telling you, “Leave him alone,” “Just get someone new,” “Move on instantly.” No one gives people space to reflect anymore. How can you say you really loved someone if they’re so easily replaceable to you? If everyone is disposable, did any relationship ever actually matter? This isn’t a cheap $20 ring from Amazon or Walmart. This is Harry Winston, Tiffany, Cartier… it was valuable to me.

And the truth is, I miss someone I loved, and it sucks. The situation is complicated, and that’s what hurts the most. One minute I’m relieved to be outside of their chaos, and the next I’m overwhelmed by the memories and everything I hoped we’d someday be. On top of that, new information has come up about this person—things they did behind my back, things that make their “I love you” feel different. It’s painful to hear what they were when I wasn’t looking. And yet… I still miss them.

Everyone around me, my friends, family, keeps telling me I deserve better. And they’re right. I do. But that doesn’t magically switch off my feelings. I don’t want someone new. I want them to be better. I like the version of them I believed in. I feel guilty for still wanting that, guilty for missing someone who doesn’t miss me the same way. It makes me wonder, do I really value myself if I still yearn for someone who didn’t treat me how I deserved? It’s embarrassing to admit that out loud. For someone as prideful as I am, it’s a hard place to sit in.

But then I think: maybe this just means I loved well. That I did what I was supposed to do. It feels impossible to be “nonchalant” about this. Pretending not to care is exhausting and, honestly, dehumanizing. I feel childish for missing my first love, especially when my friends dislike him, and understandably so. He’s a boy who got way too many chances to “get it right.”

But to me, he wasn’t just that. He was the boy who would try new coffee orders and matcha combinations with me, who brought me chocolate chip cookies when I didn’t get the grade I wanted, and who kissed my forehead when saying goodbye. He wrote handwritten notes, bought me flowers, always made sure I walked on the inside of the sidewalk, and held my hand everywhere we went. He cooked dinner with me, tagged along for Trader Joe’s runs, and made me feel like I didn’t have to perform happiness to be loved. That’s the person I miss. That’s who I lost.

What I’m learning is that missing someone doesn’t automatically mean I have no self-respect. Maybe it does a little. Maybe it doesn’t. But right now, it means I’m grieving something real. Not just him, but the death of a million future versions of us. A million more grocery store dance breaks. A million times, shoving fries into his mouth while he drives. A million debates about baby names. A million quiet nights doing nothing but feeling like we had everything.

I’m grieving all the lives we won’t live together. The memories we’ll never make. The versions of my future that will stay unfinished. And that grief doesn’t make me weak; it just makes me human.

The other day, I was doomscrolling on TikTok when I was supposed to be doing homework, but honestly, I’m glad I spent those 30 distracted minutes in between assignments. I came across a video about the true blessing of love. Specifically, requited love, and how rare it is to find someone you genuinely feel safe and comfortable with.

Everyone talks about finding “the one,” but no one talks about how rare it is to simply be loved back in the same way. To find someone whose feelings match yours, whose energy meets yours, whose timing aligns with yours—it sounds simple, but it almost never happens. We talk about soulmates like they’re inevitable, when really, mutual love might be one of the rarest things you’ll ever experience.

For those who don’t know, requited love simply means love that’s returned, it’s shared, and mutual. It’s hard enough to meet someone you’re compatible with, let alone someone who truly understands you. It’s rare to find a person you can talk to every day without it feeling like a chore, who shares similar morals, interests, or even just a compatible rhythm in conversation.

We meet people all the time who like the same colors, foods, or aesthetics as us; that’s easy. But to find someone who connects with you beyond those surface-level similarities, even when you’re total opposites and the chemistry still feels natural, that’s something else entirely. Their energy just feels different. Talking to them feels different. It’s like they understand you on a deeper level, even when, on paper, you shouldn’t make sense together. And when you realize that connection is mutual and that they feel it too, it’s one of the most beautiful feelings in the world.

Most people think they’ve found true requited love, but often it’s actually unrequited, one-sided, fragile, based on hope instead of balance. That’s why we have so many failed relationships, talking stages, situationships, and divorces. Somewhere along the line, there’s a disconnect. One person loves deeper, or differently, or stops trying. That mutual thread of requited love snaps.

At first, I thought requited love was a privilege, something only a lucky few get to experience. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s really a luxury. Luxuries are rare and beautiful, but they’re not guaranteed, and they’re not what sustain us.

We live in a time where people are overwhelmed by the illusion of having “options.” There’s a trend floating around on social media where people talk about their “strict program,” essentially no second chances, no grace, no patience. The mindset is basically: “If you don’t meet my expectations right away, you’re replaceable.” And sure, that might seem easy when you follow 3,000 people and see a new attractive face every time you open your phone.

But out of those 3,000 people, how many do you think you could have true requited love with? Not likes, not lust, not someone who flirts back for attention, but someone who genuinely meets you where you are? Maybe a hundred acquaintances. Twenty friends. Five true ones. And if you’re lucky, one person who genuinely loves you back and willingly works through things with you. One who stays when it’s not convenient. That’s requited love—and that’s the luxury.

Because it’s easy to love when it’s convenient, easy to talk when it’s new, easy to show up when it’s exciting. But requited love goes deeper; it’s the quiet understanding that this person is choosing me, too. That’s what makes it so rare, so sacred, so hard to find.

Lately, I’ve stopped chasing the idea of requited love as something I deserve and started appreciating how beautiful it is just to experience it at all. Even briefly. I think that’s what growing up teaches you: that sometimes love doesn’t have to last forever to be real. Some people come into your life just to remind you what it feels like to be understood, to be met halfway.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

I still believe unconditional love is something deeper; something I plan to write more about soon. But for now, this is where I’ll leave it: requited love is a luxury, and if you’ve ever felt it, even for a moment, you’ve already held something rare.

After recently celebrating another year of life, I’ve somehow found myself in that familiar post-birthday reflective space, the one where you immediately think about completing another trip around the sun. Although some may enter this space with regrets, for me it’s something I genuinely look forward to. It allows me to spend some much-needed time with myself, sift through all my decisions and memories, and see if I am moving closer to the woman I aspire to become.
I remember the quiet of my birthday morning, the sunlight spilling across my room, and a strange mix of excitement and reflection settling in.

After this birthday, I realized something that took me by complete surprise. The only thing I truly wanted wasn’t a new bag, shoes, or concert tickets. It was to be five years old again.

Although I cannot remember much from that age, I couldn’t give you a play-by-play or recall a specific day that stands out. But what I do remember is how free I felt, how real, fearless, and unapologetically myself. I wasn’t worried about failing, how I looked, or what anyone else thought. My biggest fears back then were my mom saying no to watching The Princess and the Frog past bedtime or discovering there was a national Goldfish shortage.
I can almost feel the plastic heels clicking on the floor and the twirl of my tutu as I ran through the living room.

What I do know is that, out of all the time I have left on Earth, that was probably the most beautiful and authentic version of myself I will ever get to be. I mean, think about it. My favorite outfit was plastic Cinderella kitten heels paired with a tutu or pajamas styled with polka-dotted rain boots. How do we, as humans, go from that to spending 35 minutes every morning tossing clothes across the room, only to settle for basic, boring, monotone corporate office attire? I mean, come on.

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my little brother, who’s now five years old. Watching him learn, explore, and grow has probably been one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It is something I will cherish forever. He simply doesn’t care, and he doesn’t know that he has to. He has no idea that one day he might hesitate to say his favorite color is the rainbow or feel embarrassed for still liking Teddy Grahams at age 27. And honestly, that breaks my heart. I grieve for him because of the awful place ahead, how the world slowly teaches us to trade authenticity for acceptance.
Watching him chase bubbles in the yard or laugh at a silly joke reminds me how fearless and unfiltered life can be at this age.

As I reflect on this entire process, one question has been echoing in my mind. “At what age did all of this change? When did we start caring so much about fitting in that we forgot what it’s like to simply be?” I don’t have the answer yet, but my guess is that it is something I will discover soon enough as I watch my little brother morph into whoever he’s meant to be.

Maybe we can’t go back to being five, but we can carry some of that freedom with us, letting it color the way we live today.

When someone is going through heartbreak, telling them to “just focus on yourself” can feel really dismissive. It sounds empowering on the surface, but it’s often the easy way out. We say it to comfort people, but we don’t always realize what it implies. It can come across like the person should be okay already, like they should instantly redirect all that pain into productivity or personal growth. But that’s not how heartbreak works. Emotionally and neurologically, it’s not that simple.

After a breakup, your brain is all over the place. You’re grieving someone who’s still alive. You have to rewire your mind, your habits, and your sense of safety. Despite how that person may have treated you, your brain still floods with memories, emotions, and moments you shared. It’s not a weakness; it’s literally biology.

When you’re in love, your brain releases dopamine and oxytocin, the chemicals behind pleasure, attachment, and comfort. When that bond ends, those levels drop, and cortisol, the stress hormone, rises. Your brain reacts like it’s going through withdrawal. The reward system, especially parts like the ventral tegmental area (VTA) and nucleus accumbens, stays active, which is why you crave your ex even when you know it’s over. Over time, the prefrontal cortex, the part that helps regulate emotions, starts to balance things out again. That’s when you can think more clearly and start detaching. But in the middle of it, when your body and brain are still craving that connection, “focusing on yourself” feels almost impossible.

For me personally, I’ve noticed that dating is more of an added bonus to my life. Whenever I start seeing someone new, it’s usually because I already have a good routine going. I’m in a space where I’m taking care of myself, I have healthy habits, and I feel stable enough to add someone to that. So when people tell me to “just focus on yourself” after a breakup, it feels dismissive, because that’s exactly what I was already doing before the relationship. It doesn’t leave room to feel disappointed or let down about how things ended. It skips over the part where you’re allowed to grieve and be honest about the loss, even if you were already whole on your own.

Instead of saying “just focus on you,” try saying things like:

• “I know this is hard, and it’s okay to not be okay right now.”

• “You don’t have to rush your healing.”

• “You’re not broken for missing them; your brain is literally rewiring.”

• “How can I support you while you work through this?”

Healing after a breakup isn’t about instantly becoming your best self. It’s about letting your mind and body adjust to the change, about being gentle with yourself when everything feels out of balance. Sometimes focusing on yourself doesn’t mean doing more; it just means giving yourself space to feel everything without shame.

The thing about almosts is that they linger longer than they should.
According to Webster's Dictionary, “almost” is defined as very nearly but not completely; all but. It indicates something is close to being the case, but not quite there yet.

Some may reflect on that six-letter word with regret, thinking about how their life could be better if something — or someone — almost. But for me, and in the space I’m in now, it’s filled with nothing but gratitude.

I think the almost, psychologically, has a much greater impact than we give it credit for. It's extremely difficult to let things go when there was potential. Especially romantically — when you see your friends smiling from ear to ear, reading messages from their loved ones, or when your timeline floods with couple content that reminds you of what you didn’t get to have. So naturally, you think about your almost.
The person who almost loved you right.
Who almost chose you.
Who almost stayed.

The thought of almost is a dangerous game to play. It loops in the mind like a song with no resolution. There's no clear ending, no closure, no breakup playlist to cry to. Just silence… and the echoes of what could have been.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how the brain holds onto emotional attachment like muscle memory. Oxytocin — the bonding hormone — doesn’t care about titles. It floods your system anyway. So even if he wasn’t “mine,” my body didn’t get the memo.

There were moments when I’d catch myself replaying conversations, overanalyzing what I did or didn’t say. Searching for the turning point. As if I could locate the exact second where almost shifted into nothing at all.

But here’s the thing I’m learning:
Just because it didn’t become something doesn’t mean it wasn’t something to me. And just because it didn’t last doesn’t mean it didn’t teach me.

After the almost, I began to find pieces of myself I’d tucked away. I stopped curating myself to be more digestible, more agreeable, more “pick me” adjacent. I started showing up as the full version of who I am — not just the girl he liked in theory.

Healing wasn’t instant. I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly feel brand new. But slowly, I started to crave clarity more than confusion. Peace more than butterflies. I stopped romanticizing mixed signals. And I gave myself permission to choose me — all the way, not almost.

Maybe almosts show up in our lives to remind us that we’re worthy of wholeness. That being nearly loved isn’t enough. That we don’t have to settle for someone who sees our value, but doesn’t protect it.

So this is me, on the other side of that “almost,”
soft, whole, and finally at peace.