Make the Best of an Ordinary Life

Last night shook me more than I expected. It’s strange—how something so small, something as simple as a typo, can unravel parts of me I thought I had strengthened I thought that I had toughened up. It wasn’t the mistake that hurt; it was the realization that people I believed were close to me could think so little of me over something so trivial. That sting—the disappointment, the confusion—it sat heavy in my chest. But this morning, as I read the words: "Let that shit go before it eats your peace alive" on my Pinterest board , something inside me softened. Not everything deserves a reaction. Not everyone deserves access to the fragile parts of my heart. I can’t control how people choose to interpret me, twist a moment, or judge me based on one tiny imperfection—but I can control how much I allow it to drain me. Holding onto the hurt from last night feels like drinking poison and expecting clarity. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I felt small. But my peace is worth more than defending mys...

There was a line in that Substack essay that lingered in me longer than I expected: “You’re not for everyone, and that’s a beautiful thing.” At first, it sounded simple — almost cliché. But the more I sat with it, the more I realised how much of my life had been built around the silent hope of being liked by everyone. I’ve bent myself in ways that weren’t mine. Smiled when I was breaking. Softened my edges just to be understood. And yet, no matter how much I tried, there were still people who didn’t see me — not really. I used to take that as a sign that something was wrong with me. Maybe I wasn’t kind enough. Maybe I talked too much. Maybe I should’ve been quieter, simpler, easier to love. But lately, I’ve started asking a different question: What if being misunderstood is part of being real? There’s a kind of peace that comes when you stop auditioning for everyone’s approval. When you realise you’re not supposed to be everyone’s favourite person. You’re supposed to be yours. And mayb...

Just another episode of post reading substack lots of essay makes me wonder and drowningon my own thoughts, but then this came to me. Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to do too much. That phrase used to make me pause — like I was being reminded to slow down, to soften, to be a little less of myself. But after reading “There’s No Such Thing as Doing Too Much,” I realized that maybe those words were never meant to guide me — they were meant to contain me. Because the truth is, I am someone who feels deeply. When I care, I give fully. When I believe, I show up completely. And for the longest time, I thought that made me too much. Too emotional, too available, too intense, too everything. But what if “too much” is just another name for being alive? For wanting to experience life in color, not grayscale. For pouring myself into people and dreams that matter. For loving in ways that sometimes scare me, but also remind me that my heart still works — fiercely, beautifully....

This isn’t a post — just a moment of honesty from me to me .... Whenever stress starts to pile up — the kind that sits quietly on my shoulders and refuses to leave — I find myself drawn to pretty things. Not grand things, but delicate ones. A new bra set. Soft lace panties. Maybe even a silky nightie that feels luxurious against my skin. It’s never about showing it off. It’s about feeling like me again — the version of myself that still finds beauty even when life feels messy. I’ve always had a soft spot for Bra House. There’s something oddly comforting about walking into that store — all those colors, fabrics, and textures lined up neatly, waiting to be chosen. I love picking things that match — a bra and panties that belong together. It feels like quiet harmony, a little control in a world that often feels scattered. When I slip into something that fits beautifully, it’s like my body exhales. I’m reminded that I don’t need to wait for a special occasion or a reason. Feeling pretty is...

Six years ago, I found myself at the lowest point of my life. Everything felt heavy — like the world was closing in and I was sinking deeper with every breath I tried to take. Nights were sleepless, the silence too loud, and my chest often tightened in the dark, as if it was forgetting how to breathe. I felt lost, caught up, and utterly alone. Until one night, I did something I thought I’d never have the strength to do — I reached out. I messaged my friend Mimi, and told her what was going on. Then Dena and Shahsi — I reached for them not to fix me, but simply to help me stay afloat. And they did. They didn’t ask for explanations. They didn’t need me to justify my pain. They just showed up — with warmth, with presence, with love. They welcomed me in like family, wrapped me in quiet comfort, and for that… I will always be grateful. They became my home when I didn’t know where home was. As I read The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse now, I feel that same gentle nostalgia — that remin...

  It feels almost unnatural. Reading has always been second nature to me, yet this week has driven me to the edge of myself—overwhelmed, breathless, as though my body trembles at a peak it cannot hold. In that fragile space, I fled to a kind of refuge: the faint rhythm of a piano spilling from my phone, the ancient, musty perfume of old books. I reached for a volume at random from the library’s rack, not knowing it would cut so sharply into me. It was a story of grandmothers. Our grandmothers. The words dissolved into tears. The body betrays itself in such moments—hormones flooding, emotions unraveling, the simple act of breathing turning into labor. Anxiety crests like a wave, and with it comes an uncanny force: echoes that ache, shadows that press, a silence that suffocates. The book spoke of the Comfort Women —women whose voices, long buried, rose to carry the weight of scars carved into their bodies and their souls. Enslaved at the hands of the Japanese, their humanity viol...