i’ve always believed that the panda is my spirit animal.

i didn’t want to move because i believed my body would fail me. i was a frail, sickly child, and i carried that identity into adulthood.

i’m still not the most active version of me right now, but if you’ve known how i was before, you’ll celebrate how THAT person came to be THIS person—the one running 5K now. so how did we get here on this voluntary suffering?

there are a lot of things i’ve learned from traveling, but one thing i realized i like doing is going off the beaten path. as it turns out, the more hidden the spot is, the harder it is to reach.

you wanna see a sublime waterfall? a temple on top of a hill? a volcanic crater? columns and draperies in caves? then you need to take a long trek, climb either stone steps or scramble over boulders, or rappel down a pitch-dark vertical entrance into a cave.

and like many things in my life, i had to do most of them before i was ready. and every time i suffered, i would think, is it really this hard or am i just weak?

and then covid happened, and it amplified the fear i already had—enough to drive me into a panic attack.

i realized i could eat healthier. i could sleep better. but i wasn’t moving enough. i lived a sedentary life with a sedentary job, and apparently, walking wasn’t really enough. cardio. weights. good lord…

well it’s a good challenge.

i started with seven minutes. yes, there are apps for that. and mind you, first few sessions nearly made me faint. scared the shit out of me. anyway, i kept doing it every other day until i figured out how to breathe right. then seven became fifteen, fifteen became forty-five. somewhere along the way, armed with my purple mat and a few sets of dumbbells, i stopped noticing that i had become someone who worked out.

i just did.

i always joke that the best way to survive a heartbreak is to work out. it’s hard to ruminate when you’re almost dying holding a plank. or daydream and risk the chance of dumbbells falling on your face. you have to focus on your breathing and doing your movements right. for me, that’s a kind of meditation.

but when I run, my mind can do its work. of course, I still need to watch my breath, my heartbeat, and the path (and avoid running into or being run into by inconsiderate runners), but I also get to think.

i run in the early evenings, and every breeze feels like a brush of heaven. i can’t count how many times i’ve thought of giving up on every run. i slow down when my watch buzzes, but with one stride after another, i go on. and then i can’t help but feel grateful that i get to do this: that my heart doesn’t give out, that my legs don’t give up on me, that my lungs burn but i keep breathing.

i don’t work out as consistently as before, but something already shifted in me. i realized what my body can do. somehow, i’m a little more confident not because i feel like i look better, or because i earned the right to wear anything i want, but because i appreciate my body more.

i’m not aiming for that perfect gym selfie. i want to be strong enough for the camino de santiago, or the inca trail through the andes, or the sahara just to camp under the stars.

i’m chasing summits and waterfalls, but most of all, i’m chasing freedom.

i know now that sweating my ass off is a celebration of what my body can do. and it wasn’t just strength i was missing—it was trust. trust in my body, trust in myself. trust that i could see just how far this body can take me.

see you on the trail.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

my parents married young. her version of the story was dreamy: a beautiful dress. a big wedding. but as for him, i can’t tell. sometimes i think he only married her because i was on the way. and sometimes, i think my mother knew that, too.

he seems to love her in a different way than she expected. i can count on one hand the times when he actually got her something. a handbag. a plastic rose. the rest are ‘practical’ gifts.

my mother was quite a character and there was laughter in our home. but then when the evening came, they would always fight. and growing up in the middle of it confused me.

my grandmother used to say that’s what happens when two eldest children marry. they clash. she told me an elder even warned them on their wedding day. the first wedding gift they unwrapped was a religious figurine, and they were told theirs would be a marriage that would always need prayer.

it was a tough life, and having me as a sickly child made me feel like a burden, and somehow all the more responsible for it.

until that time when i came home to my mother crying. something about what my father did. i pretend to not remember the details, as everything that day is now a blur, but i still remember feeling like my soul left my body. somehow, my legs gave out, and i found myself on the ground—my face on the dirt, wailing. at barely eighteen, i doubt i fully understood what happened and what i felt. but my body knew, and i was shattered without yet understanding why.

everyone knows the pain of the wife.

nobody talks about the damage to the daughter.

my mother got the words of comfort, the company of friends, the support of her in-laws. i was left to deal with it on my own.

it left a wound that settled into a corner of my heart. and for years, even until now, it whispers behind every decision to trust another man. their “i love you” has to carry a promise: be faithful. and if you can’t, just leave.

i can’t be cheated. i know it would kill me.

i would rather stay alone my whole life than become my mother.

this is my priority, and i created a kind of radar i did not ask for. i notice inconsistencies. i catch every lie. even the white ones. even the things someone simply forgot.

every silence becomes proof that something’s wrong. he doesn’t want me. he simply can’t tell the truth.

God knows how much i love my father, and he still checks on me every day. but when a relationship fails, i mute his calls. maybe i blamed him for revealing a truth too soon, because i learned not to trust even before i understood what love means.

i take a lot of my features from my father. i have his eyes, his nose, his demeanor.

my mother tells me that we even have the same walk. i inherited my father’s gait. somewhere along the way, my mother’s distrust learned to walk beside it.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

I realized that this isn’t something I can treat like a project. I can’t even define my goal. Find God? Find the truth? Find peace? Find meaning? I don’t know for sure. I just want to eliminate falseness. I guess that’s all there is to that search, if I’m being honest.

I had so many reasons to leave the Church, and I still do, but I only needed one to stay. For some time, I wrestled with my faith like Jacob. What I eventually settled on is something I doubt I can articulate. Maybe in the future. But for now, it’s mine to hold.

My life has been a series of miracles, and I could attribute them to my own courage or talent, but I know better. They came from my lived trust in His aid and the people He placed in my path.

But I’m not here to convince you of any of it. This is about what bothers me.

I think there’s too much pride attached to religion because believing we’ve found something true can quietly become believing we’ve found the whole truth.

I was maybe 17, just hanging out in the park one weekend afternoon. Two young missionaries approached me and asked if we could talk about God. I said, sure, I’m Christian, too. It started alright, declaring how God loves every single one of us, which is something I couldn’t disagree with. Until they started reading me this verse about the heavens only opening up to a certain number—a little over a hundred thousand people to be saved, declared as though heaven is admitting only a fixed number of lucky winners. Looking back, an experienced preacher must have a good script prepared to convince me that joining their church folds me into that number. But back then, I just asked, “If God is a loving God, how could he just refuse to accept everyone who deserves it just because they didn’t make it to the number?” Would he reject millions of souls as if heaven had a limited capacity? They left me alone.

They must have thought I was just posing to be a Christian to mess with them. But that’s exactly the problem: you cannot preach Faith with the Bible alone. You have to live it. When you live openly, you meet all kinds of people—people who will stir your understanding in ways no Scripture could. You can’t find that wrapped inside the comforts of your own parishioners.

And this is exactly why Jesus kept eating with tax collectors.

“What is the good of religion without personal spiritual direction? Without Sacraments, without any means of grace except a desultory prayer now and then, at intervals, and an occasional vague sermon?” — Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain

So many religious people try to convert others by quoting holy books and Scriptures. And yes, to somebody already longing for God, that would feel like nourishing water. That could work wonders, because sometimes, a soul only needs to hear the Words to be reminded. But for a person with nothing to anchor it with, that would just sound as ordinary as a motivational poster. Hollow.

I’ve met people who could quote Scripture effortlessly, yet never paused enough to ask another person what had broken them.

There’s so much loneliness in the world that a religious belonging can help with. But we have to strip away the ego and the pretense, because the only way to connect is to be as human as possible.

If you asked what my faith looks like from the outside, it’s this: It’s getting up in the morning even if I don’t want to, and surrendering the rest of my day. It’s staying up studying for things that I’m not even sure would help me. It’s always trying despite the rejections I’ve learned to see as redirections.

It looks like gratitude for the blessings that come my way, even when I felt I’d already given too much of myself. For the friends I can call anytime I need to. For the family who would always welcome me home, even if I no longer felt I belonged there.

For the body I honor by refusing what could poison it—in food, in thought, in company. For trying to make it stronger even if it’s uncomfortable. For not letting just any man touch me without first making my heart feel safe.

For surviving the years that should have broken me but made me a little more whole instead.

Our faith is beautiful when shared. And who wouldn’t want to share the joy and comfort of having something to believe in? But it’s delicate, and should be offered with as much humanity as possible.

That’s when you get to call them, Brother. It’s not a word casually thrown around, expecting to work like a lasso. Not because you want to convert them, but because you’ve truly seen them.

Let your kindness give them a good start on their journey.

Kneel with them long enough for them to walk again on their own, bearing their own cross.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

I did not like how I looked. It didn’t help that outside of school days in uniform, I had no sense of fashion whatsoever. One of the surviving photos in our old family album is a full-body picture of me during a field trip to the city: in my short bob and awkward bangs pinned to the side, wearing a pale tangerine turtleneck. I’ve got on blue flared jeans and my shiny black (school!) shoes. The cherry on top is my blue-tinted sunglasses. Omg.

How was it that my classmates changed so much every summer break? One showed up with longer hair that suited them, another had somehow changed shape. But then there was me, arriving in my baggy T-shirt and jeans, still skinny, still looking like a schoolboy.

There’s a book called The Summer I Turned Pretty. Mine would be called something else entirely.

At one point in high school, the girls were asked to wear tank tops and shorts while dancing to “The Tide Is High.” I can still remember how badly I wanted the ground to just swallow me whole. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hate school more after that.

I felt like one of the nobodies. We don’t get Valentine’s Day greetings over the campus speakers. We don’t get the paper flowers passed around in class.

Years later, when I started working, there was this girl who looked perfect—tall, pretty, fair. She had a boyfriend who occasionally came to the office, and they would leave with him carrying her bag. I always thought she deserved that kind of love because she was pretty.

One time, I went to a cheap salon and ended up with the most hideous bangs. I thought I looked terrible. But the following week, the pretty girl showed up at work wearing bangs, too. She said she got inspired by mine!

Hers look a lot better, I thought. That’s exactly how bangs should make someone look. But if it hadn’t looked okay in me, would she have copied it?

Beauty isn’t just what you look like. It’s what people are prepared to see.

It’s the same hairstyle, but my perception of beauty made a lot of difference. And mine was still shaped by insecurity.

After some time, the late-adolescence hormones finally kicked in. And I experienced the shift: the more attention I received, the more unpleasant interactions came with it—unwanted advances, constant badgering, creepy stalking.

I spent my adolescence wanting to be seen. Then I was. And I understood for the first time what I’d been asking for.

I had to run through school hallways avoiding another student who stared at me as though I were naked. He even tried to grab my hand, and his touch felt terrible on my skin. That wasn’t the worst of it, and I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that yet.

Attention can be seductive. When you’re young and struggling to build your sense of self, you yearn for it. But for a woman, once you have it, you need to learn your way around it.

Years back, I couldn’t get rid of this guy who kept coming to my house. My parents made me attend to him each time, considering him as a “guest” I needed to accommodate. I told him I was already seeing someone, and he did not seem to believe it. It scared me when he came to a family function and stayed longer than necessary. He sat there alone in the midst of empty seats, waiting for me. And when I called my then-boyfriend for help, he just laughed it off.

Needless to say, it broke us apart.

Shortly after, I dated another man. I was convinced to keep my hair long, my nails bare, and my clothing plain and modest. This is the kind of woman who wins the favor of the Lord, he said. It’s virtuous, apparently. So I got the silent treatment whenever I disobeyed.

I got interrogated for getting attention elsewhere. It was as though being seen was my fault. What was I wearing? What did I say? Then silence.

He’s seen me. That’s enough. I should remain invisible to the rest of the world.

I’m not sure I could even call it that. It might not simply be invisibility he demanded. Instead, maybe he had seen me too specifically. He curated my appearance for the wrong reasons, as though my beauty was something that belonged to him.

With strangers, I could walk away. With a boyfriend who laughed about my stalker, I eventually left. But with someone who controlled my haircut—that’s someone who made me believe the control was love. And for a long while, I believed it.

I’ve grown older, and in all those years I was constantly torn between being seen and being consumed.

I remember this trip I took some time after.

I was in Hoi An and was heartbroken to find the riverside area lined with restaurants with live music that echoed across the historic old town. Tourists bring in so much money, but also the chaos of the cities they came from. The floating lanterns were still there, but they looked drowned out by the LED lights reflecting on the water.

When you’re seen, you don’t get to choose whose attention you get. There are people who simply want to witness you respectfully, and there are others who can’t help but disrupt it.

I no longer believe that a woman being seen requires reciprocity. My past relationship left me with a sense of entitlement dressed up as love. I don’t believe in that anymore. You wanting to see me doesn’t mean I should let you in. I will unlatch my door only if I want to, because not everyone deserves a spot on my couch, let alone in my bed.

I was never the prettiest woman in the room. I was never invisible either. That in-between taught me everything.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

and when i don’t find meaning, i leave.

‘Life is a hospital in which every patient is obsessed with changing beds: this one wants to suffer in front of the radiator, and that one thinks he’d get better if he was by the window. It always seems to me that I’ll be well where I am not, and this question of moving is one that I’m forever entertaining with my soul.’

— Charles Baudelaire

i’m doing quite well these days, despite my body not really understanding it yet, and i drown in irrational anxiety often. in fact, i’ve been doing so well in the past few years.

it’s a bold pronouncement considering the fact that, in a span of 3 years

i broke up with my then-boyfriend of 13 years,

i was laid off from my job,

i ended a friendship of almost 20 years.

and in the midst of heartbreaks was always that same urge: to pack my bags and go. anywhere but here.

i thought that by leaving, i could convince myself that i was starting again. that it is the clean slate that I need.

but every time i tried to do so, every single plan went awry. it’s as if i was held captive by a past i am supposed to have left behind.

“God, i’m tired.”

i remember struggling to understand. it was so suffocating that i’m only desperate for open air. i just wanted a breather. is it too much to ask?

i’ve always known when it’s time to go. but this time, knowing and getting to leave were not written into the same act, and i had to watch the curtain fall.

every application, rejected. every attempt, turned down.

it was then that i felt the immense disproportion of my willpower against my circumstances. it’s me, alone, pulling strings that clearly weren’t meant for me.

or perhaps, not yet.

because in the years that passed, i realized that it was in the stillness that i’d actually find myself again.

in the eerie quiet of those nights, i scrambled for wisdom from books that made me think. i finally confronted the questions i’d been too busy or too afraid to ask. and i started writing down these thoughts which eventually led to me creating this page.

and in the safety of daylight, i learned to open up again. i made time for people who wanted to see me. i listened to them, and this time, i shared my story, too.

for a long time, i had unconsciously yielded my future to the indecision of another. i feared that without them, there was no other future worth imagining.

for years, i distracted myself in brief reprieves. the rest of the time, i worked myself to the bone. i did not have enough time to sit still and really ask myself about my life’s next destination.

all this time i shared my life with the same small circle of friends i thought were enough for a lifetime, without recognizing when a bond has just run its course.

i decided not to hold anything back anymore. and after all the losses were wonderful connections that now add joy to my life. i realized i am still worth loving, too. that i am somebody someone can yearn for. that i still have this gentle pull on people. that even from total strangers, i can build meaningful friendships.

when i finally get to move, i have to pack light and leave what no longer serves me.

i have to get a good hold of what i really want in my life. or else i would just pass the time like the rest of the world.

if i start again somewhere, i need to have the courage and faith that i can always adapt and thrive no matter how many learning curves i need to go through.

if i arrive as a stranger, i would need the discernment to build connections with the right people, those with whom i can invest meaningful, long-term relationships.

Seneca said it plainly: ‘The things you’re running away from are with you all the time.’ i had to learn this the hard way.

because the truth is, i may find a new home, but if i bring the same doubts and fears, i’d just rebuild one that still rests on shaky ground. i’d be running away from things that i still carry, albeit unwillingly.

my will to explore is the dark matter to my universe—driving it to expand, even when i couldn’t see where. and now, i think i’m almost ready.

i now have some kind of clarity i didn’t have three years ago, and an agency i don’t want to take for granted.

and if there is any doubt left about where this takes me, it won’t come from me doubting myself.

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

It’s romantic, but what stuck with me was Charlotte Lucas.

“I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve no money and no prospects. I’m already a burden to my parents. And I’m frightened. So don’t you judge me, Lizzy. Don’t you dare judge me.”

I don’t judge you, Charlotte. And I can see why you had to accept the proposal that sent Elizabeth running to the river and risking getting disowned by her own mother. 😬

(I understand Elizabeth, too. That’s how I feel when people randomly pair me with anybody who has arms and legs, just because they’re single, too.)

The Bennets were right to describe Jane’s engagement to Mr. Bingley as an advantageous match, but at least the girls were—by that era’s standards—beautiful.

Mr. Darcy would’ve never taken another glance at Elizabeth and seen her other admirable qualities if she had been plain-looking.

She caught his eye from the very first moment, even when he was proud and brooding. That was the anchor. We can’t pretend love is blind. It never was.

So for the rest of the girls who were “not as handsome,” they have to be pragmatic. And in the movie, Charlotte did not seem miserable when she decided to become one. But would that work in the modern day? When marriage is no longer the only viable option?

Today, even if we are no longer as pressured to see our worth through marriage as women once were, it’s still an elephant in the room.

It would be simpler if I were a woman who wanted motherhood and becoming a wife above all else. Then I think I should be a Charlotte. I can’t afford to be too romantic. Maybe a decent man is enough.

But I have too many single friends my age or older, and most are not single by choice. Dating is apparently impossible.

My friends and I don’t need men for financial survival—we have careers, ambitions, bills we pay ourselves. So when we choose someone, it has to be for something else. Something harder to name. And maybe that’s the problem. What are we actually choosing for now?

There is no cutesy, gentle guy exactly like the men in K-dramas. There is no dangerously hot and emotionally attuned man exactly like the ones in books—written by women writers for women readers, imagining the men women actually want.

And sometimes, we flee at the first sign of “red flags” instead of sitting with discomfort long enough to distinguish real incompatibilities from ordinary growing pains.

I’m saying this as a woman who sometimes gets impatient too early.

I kinda know what I want in theory. In practice? I have enough hobbies to cover my boredom but I also want to be held. Apart from needing somebody to change the light bulb, I want to have someone I can talk to until I fall asleep.

I’ve been with two versions of men. I chose to love someone who was plain-looking, with no money and no status. But he was too cowardly for me. Being with him felt like being trapped in a snow globe. I confined my world to the smallness of his. One day, that miserable illusion just shattered, and I was free.

And then, I got drawn to a man quite the opposite. He was hot, had money, and seemed like the kind of man who would save me in a zombie apocalypse. But he left me confused. He couldn’t open up the way I wanted him to. So I chose to just be alone again when maybe I could’ve just given him the space he asked for.

Neither version worked out. But that’s enough to know: if I had been born in the 19th century, I would’ve still been a spinster.

I can’t be with a nonchalant guy, and I never cared for the grandiose of Pemberley.

I’d rather be in a small house with corridors wide enough for us to cross paths, but narrow enough for our shoulders to brush.

A library I wouldn’t need ladders for. Just a small space we can share.

But how can I deny the fact that dating itself already feels like a burden when I know it’s not a necessity? I want to be held, yes, but it’s a bonus I can live without. I still can’t be bothered with the performance that comes before—all the hullabaloo of going on a date with another stranger.

I’m still negotiating what I actually want in a relationship as I focus most of my energy in structuring a life of my own.

Maybe I’m stalling more than I’m disinterested. (Well, at least 2026 lets me get away with it.)

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

It was June 3 last year. I was at this exact corner of the same café. It was also an early evening, with the same soft, familiar glow of the café lights. So as soon as I sat down, I thought maybe it was time to give this piece an honest update, but not without a slice of blueberry cheesecake.

I’m not wearing the yellow summer dress, because it’s been raining these past few days. Summer’s officially over on my side of the world. Right now, I’m cozy in my plaid blazer, winding down after wrapping up a relatively calm day at work. Unlike last year, when I was still busy interviewing for jobs, I’m working now, although it’s someplace I don’t really like. And because I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, time stretches like a springy rubber band I’m secretly praying will just snap.

Office life reminded me of society’s expectations for a woman like me. Suddenly, people seemed so worried about my being single and childless. And God, I hate office politics. It’s a game I’m not willing to play. I couldn’t care less about fancy retirement packages in exchange for a lifetime of toxicity.

I’m just thankful I got thrown into this arena at an age when nobody can bully me anymore.

One of my colleagues quit a few months ago, and while we were saying goodbye, he told me he wasn’t worried about me because I have such a strong personality. That actually made me happy, you know.

I used to be a pushover. Now I have fangs people are wary of.

It was just my stepping stone, and I can’t stay there. And thank God, it’s happening soon.

I’ll soon start working remotely, and I can finally resume my hunt for a new home. And while I dread having to go to the office every single day, I’ve enjoyed getting to walk around the nearby parks. We have our own version of Central Park a stone’s throw away from work. A few blocks farther, there’s also a smaller one that I frequent. Sometimes, I spend my lunch break enjoying a BLT sandwich while sitting on a park bench.

These days, my ex seems to have finally awakened from his long nap of denial and started sounding affectionate again. I kinda knew this would happen. Your girl had already psychoanalyzed his inability to communicate, and I hate being right. Now, me actually acting kind and friendly with him is a topic for another day. (And God forbid I fall again.) But it just feels different when he comes knocking right when my bags are packed, ready to go anywhere.

I smile thinking that, in recent years, the more resolved I’ve become about moving away from the city, the more I feel like I’m falling in love with it.

And isn’t it bittersweet to think that if I do manage to move away, it would be at a time when I leave a place I love—sobered up from dreams and disappointments, and not merely running away from a past in a desperate attempt to restart my entire life. I’m not erasing an already beautiful life, merely expanding it into a wider one.

Many times this year, I found myself pleading with God to give me a little hint of what I should be expecting in this life. The control freak in me still somehow manages to take over. I get anxious as I’m still constantly wrestling with my hormones. I can’t tell whether I should stop being delusional about my plans and accept that this is all there is. That I should simply be happy and settle.

But no. My dear restless heart kept nagging: No, this isn’t where you’re meant to be.

Deep down, I still know I have to keep going because I’m going to be okay.

So for now, this charmed life is going to continue, and who knows what more stories and bittersweet lessons I’ll be writing about next year.

Perhaps it will still be in this café—or perhaps in the corner of the block near you. 😉

P.S. The woman is recognizably the same. She’s still restless, still hopeful, still writing in cafés, still making plans that may or may not work out. 😌

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

I’d been shipwrecked for a long time, and just when I know I’m about to get rescued, I panic. The anxiety of almost getting saved.

Two years ago, I took basic swimming lessons. (I never learned to swim when I was young, so it was one of my frustrations.)

I enrolled in a swimming class while I was out of work, and after a few weeks in a shallow pool, on my last session, I was finally sent to a deep pool.

One thing you should know about me is that I’m notoriously late. So for my final session, I underestimated the rush hour traffic and arrived at the pool half an hour late, and so, with my agreement, we had to rush my “graduation rites.”

Fear started to creep in when I first submerged my head to practice the breathing exercises, and had to stare at the bottom of the pool. Fifteen feet looked too deep. I could feel my body getting stiffer.

After a short while, I already had to do the final test.

I wasted no second, though. We were in a hurry and I had to do it anyway. So I walked to the edge of the pool and stepped into the water. I let myself fall.

Just like how we were taught, I had to let myself sink for a while before breathing out and swim up. But even before I made my first upward stroke, I was already starting to float.

My head was upright, my body relaxed, and I was treading calmly. My coach looked proud. And I was, too. Why was it so hard in a five-foot pool?

A year ago, I felt like I was groping in the shadows. I had this quiet resignation of no longer trying to find the light switch, only letting my eyes get accustomed to the dark. I was only trying to get by. My dreams would have to wait.

Today looks so much different. All of a sudden, all the rejections, delays, and detours made sense. All my hard work did not go to waste, because right now, I actually have the chance to fulfill my dreams.

I’m excited for the future and yet terrified of what I could be exchanging it for.

“Finding is losing something else. I think about, perhaps even mourn, what I lost to find this.” — Richard Brautigan

I wish I could rush out to the water. But I have too much time to overthink, too much I’m trying to wrap up nicely. As I’ve already noticed, this is my season of waiting.

Fear has always been there with me, all my life. It’s there to remind me of how much I care. It’s true that I had to sometimes drag it with me, like an unwanted load, but it’s also true that it never held me still.

And I guess it’s okay to carry two conflicting emotions at the same time: to be both ecstatic and anxious. I can’t wait to leave—and it’s a privilege to be able to do so— but I also feel bad about leaving.

For now, I have to accept that my mind and body are going through all the discomfort of another transition, and there’s no intellectualizing that. I have to cut myself some slack because I just leaped into deep waters, and I’m still holding my breath.

The same deep waters I fear will lift me back to the surface even if I don’t feel it just yet.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

In strangers broadcasting their stories on a late-night radio show. Sometimes, in the person closest to you.

To comfort someone feels like picking up shards of glass they’ve laid down on their own floor, hoping they’ll feel safe enough to stand again. You feel the knot in your chest as you helplessly watch theirs shatter.

To have your heart broken feels like losing color, blissful days fading out into a sepia montage that won’t stop replaying.

You’ve seen enough of it. You thought you knew how to dodge it. Until it comes right at you and you stand there frozen like a moron.

Love is a dog from hell.

It arrives strapped with forewarned grief, and I embrace it anyway.

I’m not bitter about love; don’t get me wrong. Just as I’ve seen heartbreak in the flesh, I’ve seen real, unconditional love, too. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t help myself—I had to know if I could find it, too.

So I placed a bet on love, and man, did I lose again.

But what exactly? I’m not sure. I just know that when I’m hurt, I sound like a sore loser.

How do I expect to find love when I grew up never believing in it? Am I just placing bets for the sake of the game when I’ve long wanted to opt out?

When it’s over, I’m hopelessly dumbstruck, yet I spew words of both beauty and spite. Emotions spill into prose and verses I can’t pull off when I’m serene.

It’s a privilege to get your heart broken. It’s the chance and courage to sail the open water, even when a storm is looming. Maybe I’d wash ashore in splintered wood, but with a treasure chest from the depths. Who could possibly tell?

I love love, being delusional and all. To be seen and held is a euphoria I’d never learn to explain. And even in the relationship post-mortem, there are remnants that still warm like embers.

Love never really ruined my life despite the bitter aftertaste I tend to talk about. In between the somber verses of my poems and the bitter rants about men who disappoint is gratitude. For love always wakes me up. It breathes life into the dry days of mere surviving. It’s a mirror that helps me know my heart better.

I’m with Anaïs Nin in spirit, knowing that a kiss can destroy a philosophy. But let me make it clear—only because I allow it to.

Love is just a lovely complement to this life. Its absence is not a gaping hole that keeps me from functioning. Admitting the occasional yearning doesn’t make life smaller.

Don’t mistake my vulnerability for weakness. It’s never the same.

So love might still come. The key to an exciting life is to keep being delusional about love, about everything. But in the meantime, I have work to do.

Buy me a coffee

you might also like:

This screaming monster had both her hands on my hair, my mother desperately trying to pry her fingers open but to no avail. My eardrums were about to explode with all the shouting, and I was wondering what the neighbors were thinking, listening to all of that—probably something like, “There goes the little menace again.”

Maybe they even thought it was cute. But her tantrums drove me crazy. I did not understand toddler moods, but I sure heard stories of my going through the same phase when I was her age. Everybody becomes her enemy. She took her cousins “hostage” in one bedroom, just because. When it was all over, my folks would joke about the typhoon that passed us by.

My brother was born a little too soon, maybe right when I was just weaned. He was a pretty calm child that did not really bother me much. When my sister came next, 8 years later, I was old enough to understand we were a growing family, but I probably did not yet feel the pressure of being an eldest daughter…

Years passed, and I made sure she got everything I hadn’t.

Fast forward to today, we’re both adults sharing an apartment. We’re often mistaken as twins, and it’s funny each time. She joined me in the city to go to university, and I was no longer alone ever since. I used to be the big sister who provided for her needs, gave rules, and bossed her around, but now she more often acts like the big sister to me, scolding me for my mess, for my (always) lazy ass, and especially for all my (mis)fortunes in love.

She’s seen me puzzled in life, losing my job, betrayed by a friend, ending my long-term relationship, going nuts over a whirlwind one, and falling in love and getting disappointed over and over again. She had been berating me for getting attached to people who never lifted a finger for me. But late at night, when heartbreak woke me up from sleep, she was kind. When it was too hard to bear, it was her arms that comforted me. I knew that every time I broke my heart, it broke hers, too. We’d cry together, and laugh about it the next day.

I have never been close to my mother, and for a long time I thought nobody would ever understand me. In my head, I was the one taking care of all my siblings, holding things together at home. But these past few years, my life changed in all the craziest ways, and at times, I felt like I can’t even hold myself together. I’m not really sure how I survived all the turmoil of my 30s, but I’m sure much of it is because I have a sister. And she knows my soul better than anyone else.

When tears cloud my vision, she takes care of me.

In a few years, she’s got to build her own home and I’ll finally be alone. It’s something I am anticipating to happen soon but I am definitely not excited about. When that happens, I better be more careful not to break my heart too often. 😅 But for now, I’m grateful that life gave me a sister to share this phase of my life with.

Happy birthday, twin. For every night you let me cry and every morning you scolded me for it— I wouldn’t trade any of this.

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

she used to tell me, that when the time comes for her to go, she prayed to God that she wouldn’t have to suffer.

as soon as i left the hospital, i went to church and asked God to remember her prayer.

the next day, she died. and it was the first time i died, too.

when the world grew quiet again, i was left with my thoughts. what if i prayed differently? what if i asked for her to recover, so she could stay with us? what if i gave up too early? what if i wished for more time?

but do we ever get enough time?

and then, it was the first time i felt alive again.

but alive meant panic. i went through my twenties in a blur. my perception of time changed as i could no longer go about my days without checking the clock.

suddenly, every minute mattered. i missed flights. i ran late for interviews. i was always rushing from one thing to another.

i went through life with goalposts that have ticking red timers on top. and most of them aren’t even mine. they were for people i was too scared of losing any minute—just like how i lost her.

i worked hard, and i got frustrated that i can only do so much in a day. if i only had more time…

but what’s gone is gone. and today is all i’ve got.

i’ve come face to face with death more times than i wanted to. and i’ve witnessed grief through the eyes of those i care about. and not once did i fail to hear anyone wishing they had more time. it’s always sudden, even when it’s anticipated. the end is something you’ll never get to prepare for.

maybe it was just time for her to go. and maybe even a thousand lifetimes with her will never be enough anyway.

i’m trying to make life slow down again. there is a certain lightness in accepting that you can never be everything you want to be, and that you can never have it all in this life.

so i promise to savor life and not mind the sound of the ticking clock.

i will cherish every day, no matter how slow or fast it feels. the days will turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the years thereafter. and i’ll turn off the timers—or bulldoze—my goalposts, if i need to.

i want to keep leaving and keep arriving, at the same time, because i am not tied to this life with a contract. i am limited in time, but free in spirit.

and to you, i’ll hold your hand while you’re with me. i’ll savor the coffee and the conversations that come with it. i’ll tell you i love you before i lose you, which i most certainly will.

sooner or later doesn’t matter. you’re here now. i could miss everything else but not this.

this, i wouldn’t want to be a fraction of a moment late.

Buy me a coffee

here’s a little something about ‘her’:

I tell her about the chaos of my week while she stirs her morning tea, and she shares her tiny worries while I’m cozied up at my bedside desk. At times, I’m still out, sitting in a café while the world is quieting down, and we laugh about the miseries of the world while I people-watch. Somehow, it makes us both feel better.

We’ve talked every week for years now, and I even flew out to meet her once. I’ll be visiting her again soon. She’s an incredible human being whom I can never thank the universe enough for sending my way. She’s one of the few people I truly believe is my angel on earth.

“The Celtic understanding of friendship finds its inspiration and culmination in the sublime notion of the anam cara.

The anam cara experience opens a friendship that is not wounded or limited by separation or distance. Such friendship can remain alive even when the friends live far away from each other. Because they have broken through the barriers of persona and egoism to the soul level, the unity of their souls is not easily severed. When the soul is awakened, physical space is transfigured. Even across the distance, two friends can stay attuned to each other and continue to sense the flow of each other’s lives. With your anam cara you awaken the eternal. In this soul-space, there is no distance.” — Anam Cara, John O’Donohue

There are things that make you do a mental inventory of the people in your life, and I’ve been thinking more of friendships these days. I tend to hold on longer than necessary to relationships thinking that out of everything, a friendship MUST be salvaged. But what is friendship, really? And does anyone who once had access to your life really deserve to be called one?

I don’t know what’s making me sentimental right now, but I think watching Project Hail Mary yesterday made me hold off my reviewing tasks to write this piece. I’m a huge fan of the book, and its incredible author, Andy Weir, and when I first heard about the adaptation, I was so nervous they were going to screw it up. And I have never been so happy to be wrong.

There’s a lot to unpack from the story, but I think friendship is its strongest theme. It’s also one of the best surprises in the book, so I’d rather not blabber and risk spoiling anything for you. But anyway, it’s how they showed all the stages of friendship that really get to me.

There’s the delicate beginnings of friendship, when we test each other’s limits, boundaries, and levels of comfort. Like when meeting somebody at work, when do you stop being mere colleagues and start being friends? You gauge each other’s character—their integrity and trustworthiness, and willingness to share a life.

Then comes the chaotic middle, where time together reveals how we can be stubborn assholes and we start to drive each other crazy. We start to annoy each other—when one of us is obsessively organized and the other is a giant ball of mess. Cancelled plans when the other is just about to head out the driveway. And sometimes, there are regretful moments of betrayal when we missed opportunities to stand up for them.

But when we get past that, we enter the beautiful periods of forgiveness when we remind ourselves that they are as imperfect as we are. We hug and make up, say sorry and mean it. We understand that sometimes circumstances and instances of defeat don’t diminish their character. We are both imperfect humans trying to find a place in this world.

Finally, the steady, wonderful time, when we embrace each other wholeheartedly and become each other’s confidants for life. Time has tested the bond. Fortitude is a shared value. We have an ally for life.

It’s incredible to be listened to without judgment. It gives us the quiet comfort of knowing that we are not alone in this world, we are enough as we are, and that we are loved and cared for despite our imperfections.

And who could discount the burst of encouragement a friend gives? In moments of doubt, there’s a voice that reminds you of your talents, your kindness, your strength. It keeps us going.

I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know how I can be my own biggest critic, and sometimes I can be ruthless with myself. However, in the company of a true friend, I can relax. I feel safe enough to say what I think, to share my worries no matter how small they may seem, and to be excited about the most outrageous dreams I have.

I think if all of us could have at least one true friend, we’ve got it all half-licked.

“What could be sweeter than to have someone you can dare to talk to about everything as if you were speaking to yourself? How could you enjoy the good times of life if you didn’t have someone who was as happy about your good fortune as you are. And adversity would be a terrible thing to bear unless you had someone who felt its weight even more than you.” — Marcus Tullius Cicero

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

i have dipshit thoughts.

not the dangerous kind—just the kind you’re (sometimes) not supposed to say out loud.

but then i found my voice. and i never shut up since.

boy, i cannot be tamed… i say what i think, i ask for what i need, i tell people what i mean. and they’re not always received with grace.

i surely have an ego i stroke every once in a while, like a black cat judging people from the top of my desk. and she occasionally topples papers that don’t deserve a glance.

but men’s egos? damn, not any prettier.

i’ve been thinking about theirs and mine. and i noticed that there are mainly two faces of ego i’ve met since.

i think of them this way: one is the Angry Father, and the other is the Lost Boy.

the first one comes with pronouncements thrown like dogma. like an angry father, its words drop like bombs. it aims to make you feel small. it shames you for the “misbehavior,” like you’re a lost cause.

this is how you should think!

but i haven’t made up my mind about things. in fact, there’s only a handful of things i am quite certain about. and i am comfortable hovering on the precipice. sometimes, certainty is just fear of the question. people say it with conviction to try to convince themselves it’s all there is.

it tells me it isn’t wise not to take a stand. and how can i not see the one truth?

someone called me a charlatan for not having the same political stance. lol.

charlatan? sounds sophisticated. i’ll wear it. ha.

and then it stares you down, almost with a click of the tongue. eyes screaming, “you’re lost.” to which i can very well say:

“and you are, too. see you in the abyss.”

then there’s the other one. while the first ego screams it in your face, this one whispers. paper cuts over bombs.

it’s the face of ego that deceives.

it’s in the ones who talk gently, almost shyly. but listen closer, and in between the trailing words and calm demeanor is a subtle condescension. the quiet, brooding type.

it quietly dictates the way you talk, the way you dress, the way you take a stand. it lays down its cards with a hand pressed to the forehead, as if he hadn’t slipped an ace in the sleeve of his suit.

but i caught that.

it’s never comfortable with a woman like me: human. alive. making mistakes.

as though it’s sacrilege that i dance with the devil and return to my God. maybe it is. but i’m fine with falling from time to time. i explore ideas and experiences that others find threatening. i can fall and find my way back. i’ve learned to forgive myself without feeling like i’ve lost a limb.

then he tells you he loves you, and he misses you. that he wishes things hadn’t fallen apart. but dig past the sweet words and you’ll find not a single apology. what he really wanted to say is: show up for me the way i’ve projected you to be.

for the men with this ego are allergic to mirrors—too scared to face their own monsters. they are lost boys in dire need of mothers.

their “care” is an act. seemingly sweet and sincere, yet always centered around them.

their own feelings—or the absence of them.

i’ve met good men, and even loved a few. somehow i always end up disappointed.

i think i might never find a man whose ego won’t clash with the cat on my desk. someone who takes my questions with an open mind and bravely explores them with me. someone who doesn’t mistake my curiosity for an attack on their intelligence.

someone who can be dumb with me, and feel okay about it.

such a shame, to be honest, but i’d rather be alone with my own dipshit thoughts than stroke somebody else’s ego.

i’m never tiptoeing around it again.

tell me about the archetype you’ve met: Angry Dad or Lost Boy or a mix of both? and any other archetypes i’m yet to meet? 🤔


xoxo,

the black cat 🐈‍⬛

p.s. the cat on the desk doesn’t topple papers to hurt anyone. she just has no patience for things that don’t deserve a glance.

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

(somebody, please make overtime work illegal)

i have quite a dilemma. but a little bit of backstory first. :)

two years ago, one January morning, i was in a crowded visa application center, clutching a brown envelope that held my entire life. i thought i had it all figured out—all the papers to prove that i could finally come and see Europe (or so i thought). it was too much work, having to compile all these documents. but since i was excited and optimistic, i was in the best of moods while having my biometrics taken. when i stepped out of the building, the busy street suddenly became more pleasantly alive. the countdown had started.

just four days later, i got a call from the courier. i thought, that’s way too fast. this better be good news…

lo and behold, it wasn’t.

“THE VISA HAS BEEN REFUSED.”

by four grounds:

proof of sufficient means of subsistence ❌
position to lawfully acquire sufficient means of subsistence ❌
reliable purpose and conditions of stay ❌
intention to leave on time ❌

fuck it.

it wasn’t just a visa application. it felt like a general assessment of my life. and i failed.

you see, the pile of documents contained my entire life—my identity, my background (academic and professional), my travel profile, my financial status. when my visa was refused, it felt like a slap in the face. wake up. it’s not enough.

at that time, i had traveled to a few countries, but it was my first time applying for a major visa. i researched thoroughly and thought i had ticked all the boxes.

based on the refusal reasons, i was apparently someone who didn’t have enough money and wasn’t reliable enough to stay only as allowed.

while it’s true that i’m not rich, i had enough funds to cover my travel. and how had i been an unreliable traveler? i had never overstayed, and i didn’t have any violations in any of the countries i’d been to.

but i submitted an itinerary for one. i planned to travel alone.

woman traveling alone. status: single. verdict: suspicious.

maybe she’ll come to find work. or marry a local, and stay forever.

so what if i plan to backpack alone? isn’t that normal nowadays?

it’s ridiculous. i can work my ass off for anything i want. i don’t need to marry some stranger. but what can i do? i have a weak passport. i sent an appeal after the refusal, but to no avail. there are thousands and thousands of other potential visitors, and they have a lot more money to spend for the economy’s benefit.

the good news is, i may have been refused a Schengen, but a few months later, i was holding my passport with another visa. (a story for another time.)

now, i’m planning to visit my friend on that side of the world this winter. just thinking about all the paperwork makes me want to abandon the idea.

but maybe i’ll get approved this time. i have a stronger travel profile, more visas, and work…

well, er, that’s a problem.

one of the stronger proofs of ties you can present is your employment. this is your guarantee that you won’t stay away from your home country for too long, which makes them more at ease about letting you into their borders.

but i’ve only just finished my probation. by the time i submit my visa application, it will be just a little over a year with a single employer. and i can already tell it wouldn’t look good on my profile. but it could still be worse: my LinkedIn still says i’m “open to work”, and i’m willing to move on to another job as soon as a good one comes along. and if i do transition to a new one...

in short, it might be better for me to stay in this job. but again, there’s another problem: in this job, i’m unmotivated and it’s too damn hard to request vacation time.

option a: stay. fight for time off. stronger ties.

option b: quit (and possibly be happier). chill vacay. weaker ties.

or option c: skip altogether. other stamps await.

for the life of me, i can rack my brain trying to analyze this situation, but ultimately, whatever i do, there is no guarantee. my passport is like a dusty altar adorned with layers of brightly-colored flowers. the flowers make it look a little better, but they wilt under scrutiny. a few more stamps and visas don’t really make it any better, do they?

i wish i didn’t have to go through this exhausting and somehow degrading process for just wanting to see more of this world. still, i’m gonna do it. i’ll keep trying.

maybe the universe has timing i can’t see yet, and i’ve seen hints and detours that actually worked in my favor before.

or maybe it’s just unfair, and i do it anyway. fck the system but we gotta ride the waves.

we’ll see.

P.S. it’s my publication’s first birthday (yay!) and i love to think that i’m still here, typing away musings as if they matter. 🤭

kidding aside, it does matter a lot to me, and i’m just happy that i get to pretend i’m a writer and actually “publish” something for free.

and to you, dear reader, i thank you for all the time you’ve kept me company. :) and sorry about the cussing. 😬

xoxo,

your small town (stubborn leo) girl

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

It’s almost never quiet in the city, yet it’s the same sound I hear every day—the same noise from the year that was, and the years before. I walk through the same door, the same gate, the same dark stairwell. I could walk in and out with both eyes closed.

Back in my childhood home, it felt so unfamiliar. I looked at a complete puzzle that didn’t make sense. All the pieces were there, but they didn’t quite add up to anything I recognized.

A few years ago, two larger bedrooms and a bath were added. The rest of the house stayed the same. Our house is now a two-faced structure—half sturdy, half shabby. Like a fractured space that refused to stay small, it expanded uncomfortably.

I walked through the rooms, realizing the house could be alive while also quietly falling apart. There was a deafening silence when everyone was outside, reminding me it was almost an empty nest, and a happy chaos when we all stayed in.

My home is a picture of my interior landscape—a simultaneous collapse and construction. I am a body slowly aging, with a spirit discovering something new every day. Some days, I feel the decay more than the discovery. Other days, it’s the opposite. It’s a delicate art to expand without a reliable foundation. I teeter on the edge while opening more rooms of my being.

It’s become so hard to describe the house I grew up in, just as it’s hard to describe myself right now. The familiarity had evolved into something else—a contradiction I also see within myself. It’s like feeling a guest inside your own home and a stranger to yourself.

In my (un)becoming, I panic, I dream, and I pray.

My mind is my only truly sacred place. When I write something down, another pair of eyes can read it. When I speak it aloud, another soul bears witness. But my thoughts—unexpressed—remain mine alone.

Even when it’s awkward, chaotic, and shapeless, it is still alive… like my childhood home.

Or maybe I just think too much. You could say I should meditate, or whatever rich people do to ‘quiet the mind’ or ‘find oneself,’ but the truth is, I prefer it bustling. It’s how I feel truly alive.

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

I’ve worked mostly from home since the pandemic, and this job is the first one forcing me into the office daily. When I was laid off from my last company, I decided to transition into a new role as well. So when I landed this one, I came to terms with having to compromise a few perks just to get in the door because companies still tend to fixate on years of experience over demonstrated skill. I had to let go of my preference for at least a hybrid setup and accept the requirement to report to the city business district in full business attire (in heels!) every day.

Fast forward six months. I’ve never been a morning person, but now I’m so close to hating them. I’ve caught a cold three times (maybe four), and this morning, skipping work again, I (of course) overthought why. I know for a fact that this 8–5 job became my excuse to skip exercise, weakening my immune system. But something else nags at me. It’s like my body’s rejecting what my mind won’t admit.

I’ve made a few friends and admire a few others—I can count on one hand the colleagues who work with real intensity and dedication. Now, I don’t seem to have the same tolerance for people who don’t bring the same level of commitment. Sometimes I worry this selectiveness makes me harsh, even judgmental. I’ve mastered the art of wearing my earphones and pretending I don’t hear a thing when I know someone is about to waste my time. That’s just me honoring the connections and interactions I actually need.

I’m introverted by nature, but I’ve honed skills to thrive in collaborative environments. What I underestimated? Maintaining a professional mask 40+ hours a week amid people I don’t connect with is exhausting.

I miss working in a stimulating environment: sharp colleagues who spark constant learning, projects that push everyone to bring their best. I thrive where work is mutually challenging, where I’m teaching and being taught in equal measure.

So here I am, sick again, and how odd is it to watch The Banshees of Inisherin at this perfect-worst time? (Gorgeous film, by the way.) Two best friends on a rift just because one of them thinks the other is dull. It sounds self-aggrandizing and cruel at first, but really, he was just protecting his inner life. He thinks that the same trivial conversations from his ‘dull’ friend became more of a useless, time-consuming distraction.

Consider weekend small talk. One colleague asks, “How was it?” You muster: “Oh… good. Thanks.” Flat.

But then here comes another. Same question, but your brain lights up like Christmas lights. You narrate how it’s been: visiting a new museum in your city, buying a new canvas, or discovering this song you’ve had on repeat.

Now that’s the same you—the same weekend. But the whole response was way more alive just because of another person. Perhaps your brain already knew that the first one wouldn’t be so interested in a museum, painting, or a three-minute tune. That’s why you sounded boring.

Creative people often say this about themselves: despite being lonely, they’d rather choose their own company. Maybe neither they nor “normal” people are dull—they just might have different interests that do not coincide. Structuring work around open offices, dress codes, and rigid hours doesn’t create an environment where genuine connection, or innovation can flourish. You’re optimizing for compliance.

I’ve stopped forcing myself to attend after-work gatherings that feel like extensions of the performance. If I genuinely want to go, I will. Otherwise, I protect my energy.

We don’t need to befriend coworkers we don’t enjoy working with. Yet even in a crowded office, like-minds spot each other. They see the real you, you spark each other’s interests, and professional relationships evolve naturally into friendship. The key is, nothing should be forced.

Not only is it exhausting being cramped with a hundred people, but constant low-stakes interactions deplete me. Many go on autopilot: never proactive, always doing the bare minimum. Realizing how common this is deepened my gratitude for ditching the management route. But what if these people also have just checked out?

I don’t know for certain if it’s the people, the company culture, or me being a misfit in these environments. Maybe the real test would be: Would I enjoy working with these exact people on a project that mattered, with autonomy and stakes? If yes, then maybe it’s the company. If no, then it’s just a mismatch. Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out. Half a year into these compromised perks, and I’m calculating the break-even point of workplace misery.

I woke from my nap, hit my desk, and updated my CV. Right now, I need to save myself before I can worry about saving the system. Man, it felt good.

Buy me a coffee

Have you felt this? The specific exhaustion of workplaces optimized for compliance rather than connection? I’d love to hear what pushed you to update your own CV—or what’s keeping you from it.

You might also like:

We came to where our lost loves lie. But one of them is a face I never got to see, an angel I never got to hold. My brother and his wife held him only for three days before he went back to sleep for good. I wasn’t at home. I wasn’t there to hold them while our family broke.

And today, we are broken but whole, gathered around these solid gray boxes of love and longing.

I always imagined that beneath them, our loved ones go down deeper, back toward unbeing. I see them journeying into deeper depths, and one day, they’ll reach their new home—just as I hope that someday, the grief lying at the surface also descends.

We said our prayers, left a few burning candles.

My niece, looking around, said, “Why are there so many babies dead?”

All of us held our breath, and we drove away in silence.

Subscribe now

P.S. It’s been a couple of years, but some events just stir up our awareness of time, and the murky waters of grief come flooding back.

Thank you for your messages. I just wanna say I truly appreciate it. ❤️‍🩹

You might also like:

Wars are already looming. And it made me wonder: why were people so caught up in the Israel–Palestine conflict, yet largely silent about Sudan? And now, they’re all about Venezuela. Who’s the villain in this story? Everybody’s got to pick one. Soon. Or else you’re a coward, a waste of oxygen.

We are always pressured to pick sides. And when the picture is too nuanced, too convoluted, we freeze. We feel the need to water things down—to categorize, to label. We find an aspect that feels familiar and bump off the rest.

Everything has to be black and white. Ones and zeros. So somehow, we get to group ourselves and establish an us-against-them narrative.

(I’ve touched on groupish righteousness in this old post, too —> “What if We’re All Wrong?”)

The Problem with Intuition

We have automatic thoughts, and we base our judgments on intuition—it’s how we make hundreds of decisions every day. Most of the time, reason is merely the intuition’s servant.

Once we pick a side and identify with a group, judgment comes fast. We condemn actions almost instantly, then refuse to spend time examining ideas or events.

Intuition is just accumulated experience—sometimes wise, sometimes just an echo chamber. If you constantly surround yourself with confirmation of your self-narratives, how can you entertain alternative views?

We Refuse to Change Our Minds

We all see these hateful pronouncements everywhere—music, politics, religion, you name it:

“People who listen to Taylor Swift…”
“People who read Colleen Hoover…”
“People who follow Jordan Peterson…”
“People who quote Camus…”

But here’s the thing: most things in life are complex.

“There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between.”

— A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness

Consider people joining a political “team.” They bathe in the pleasure of confirmation—their biases and narratives reflected back at them everywhere they look. A line is drawn, and everyone standing on the opposite side is alienated.

What’s worse is that even when slapped with facts, we refuse to budge. It’s as if the beliefs we established within our groups have become sacred, and we—members of the cult—lose the ability to think clearly.

Opinions transform into dogma, demanding to be preached, and we become willing conduits.

When confronted with something that contradicts our beliefs, we scramble for escape hatches. Even when we can’t produce counterarguments, we still refuse to shake the hand of our “opponents.”

When we base all our judgments on instant reactions and first observations, we set a dangerous precedent. These impressions become misleading guides—misdirecting new information that enters our consciousness and should’ve influenced how we think.

This rigidity comes at a cost. Time spent trying to persuade others could be spent finding common ground. But changing how we engage is possible.

A Way Forward

If you need to share honest information, starting by provoking people’s biases will only lead to more hostility. Our intuition can still be shaped through reasoning—especially when it’s presented compellingly or through friendly conversation.

Yes, intuition leans almost immediately. Every heated debate begins there and rarely creates enough breathing space for conscious thinking. So we have to be patient and give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Everybody is going through something. Life may have served them experiences with a bitter aftertaste—experiences that shaped how they think. Kindness matters.

On the flip side: some people have spent considerable time thinking through their positions. From the outside, this can look similar to just rigid egoistic opinions. We ourselves also have blind spots that we should consider. Once in a while, someone will approach us with an alternative view. I know how difficult that can be. I can still vividly recall the moments of turmoil when I was confronted by truths I needed to hear. But it’s important to take the time to listen attentively, even when the truth interferes with our well-established, self-justifying stories.

We should all know when to stop, rest our case, and preserve our relationships. After all, conversations are supposed to bring us closer to each other, build a sense of community. Maybe one of the wisest things to do is knowing just when to shut up.

When pushed to give an opinion, “I don’t know enough yet” or “this seems too complex for quick judgments” can be the right call. It’s not indifference. It’s intellectual honesty.

Balancing empathy and critical engagement is tricky. But we can keep trying.

A few important reminders:

Not every pop-culture enthusiast is shallow.
And not every philosophy graduate is deep.
Not every writer lives in a secluded cave.
Not every celebrity enjoys the fame.

And well, allow me to say, pineapple on pizza can be good. ;)

“Understanding without vengeance, reparation without retaliation, are possible only if we are willing to stop justifying our own position.

People could remain passionately committed to their nation, religion, political party, spouse, and family, yet understand that it is not disloyal to disagree with actions or policies they find inappropriate, misguided, or immoral.”

—Mistakes Were Made (But Not By Me), Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

I have a lifelong love for writing. And although that sounds like a long time, somehow it still feels like a budding romance to me. It is a slow dance, I’m hesitating, and sometimes nervous as hell.

When I was younger, I kept diaries I’m now too embarrassed to reread. I grew up in a home where I didn’t always feel understood (which, I’ve since realized, is the case for most of us 🙃). Just a month ago, I unearthed my old Blogspot page. And my, oh my, was it cringe. It was devastating and silly at the same time. I thought I knew life back then. I thought I had a good understanding of love and faith, of grief and suffering. I wrote about them earnestly. It was almost…adorable.

But did it give me a clear glimpse of who I was in those younger years? Absolutely. And I imagine I’ll feel the same way someday, looking back on these journals and Substack posts, thinking aha this is who I was in my thirties. 😉

Would I be proud? Amused? Feel petty? I look forward to finding out.

I don’t see this page growing into anything specific. It’s really just an open notebook for whatever I feel like writing. I suppose I needed an open space with just enough pressure to polish my thoughts. Because even if writing is simply another form of expression, like making art to release tension, it’s still something I want to be good at. And how else do we get better, if not by doing it a hundred times?

This Substack experience is a personal exploration. And just like a new romance, I still feel like I’m in the early stages of finding my voice. I originally wanted it to feel like a casual coffee chat, but I tend to write about things we willingly stay up all night for. Lately, that’s included exploring poetry more. So the publication which started merely as “coffee break with catnip” inevitably evolved into “the papier-mâché”—I’m taking the messy paper scraps of life and making art. Layers and layers, refined and shaped, until it becomes something beautiful that hopefully resonates with people. Who knows what it becomes next. :)

The truth is, I’m not sure exactly where this page is going—at least not the kind you can plan for. I just know I enjoy it and I love sharing a part of my heart every once in a while.

“Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.”— Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

To everyone who stayed and read, engaged, shared my mess of an exploration, thank you.

Your company means a lot and I hope you stick around. 🤍

Buy me a coffee

You might also like:

See the problem? Even striving for freedom demands work.
This woman is born to hustle.

I’ve accepted losing (the illusion of) stability in exchange for a little more free time. And still, there’s so much work to be done, and I try to be patient. But this waiting—this long waiting for all the effort to finally produce significant results—is a heavy burden to carry.

Every day, I wrestle with my mind. Every day, I try to dismantle a misconception or loosen the grip of a limiting belief. And man, a lot of days, I don’t feel so victorious at all.

This is my selfish season where I listen only to my soul, asking who I really am and what I actually want. It isn’t easy. Some days I feel certain, but most days, I feel lost.

This year, I thought about the friends I couldn’t show up for, even when I wanted to. I had to face the truth that I needed to disappear from the world for a while, just so I could be present with myself.

Because the truth is, I’m still in the cocoon.
It’s dark. It’s cramped. Sometimes, suffocating.
I’m dissolving and reforming at the same time, and it hurts. I don’t know what I’ll look like when I come out.

If I come out at all.

Buy me a coffee

You might also like: