Make the Best of an Ordinary Life

Maturing is realizing that not everyone is meant to stay — and that doesn’t mean they were a mistake. Some people are mirrors. Some are teachers. Some are simply chapters. And it’s okay to outgrow them. I don’t owe anyone permanence just because we shared a moment. I’ve learned to stop forcing closure. Sometimes the healing is in the unanswered questions. In the silence that follows the storm. In choosing to move forward anyway. It’s realizing that I can still be a good person even if someone misunderstood me. That I don’t have to shrink to keep the peace — I can be kind and clear. I can walk away and still wish them well. Maturing is noticing when I’m performing instead of living. Catching myself mid-people-pleasing and gently asking, “But what do you want, really?” And then giving myself permission to want it. It’s not always easy. But it’s always worth it. I am not here to be everything for everyone. I am here to be fully, completely, unapologetically… me. Love, Chits!

There’s something profoundly painful about realizing that a small misunderstanding can unravel the truth of how someone really feels about you. It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly a single moment can expose the undercurrent of thoughts people have quietly carried about you—thoughts you never imagined they held. Makes the things that I thought important value just left as unnecessary. I’ve always chosen people in my life with care. My circle is not just a group; it's a space I guard deeply. Letting someone into that space is not a casual act—it’s rooted in sincerity, intention, and hope. I value the people I keep close. I give them trust, warmth, and the comfort of being known.  Being bare is who I am.... So when that is thrown out the window—over a misjudgment, a silence, a reaction that cuts deep—it aches. It makes me question if the sincerity I pour out is seen, or if it's disposable. And what’s worse is not the misunderstanding itself, but what it uncovers: the unspoken trut...

I hate you. Not just because of the work piling up—but because today, I end up with that familiar weight again. I cried. Quietly. Not for attention. Not for help. Just because the pain needed somewhere to go. I thought I was past this. I thought I had healed. But one tiny trigger, and suddenly I was there again— Back in the version of me who wasn’t enough. Back in the moment where love felt one-sided. Back where I started to disappear just to be chosen. I know it sounds tired. I know people have it worse. But this… this ache? It’s sharp. It tells me I’m unlovable, even when I know that’s not true. It makes silence feel like rejection. Distance feel like punishment. God, I haven’t moved on—not fully. I’ve functioned. I’ve laughed. I’ve shown up. But I’m still carrying pieces of something that broke me. Please… Heal this. I can’t keep cycling through this pain every time I try to open up again. Some days, I’d rather stay numb. Because the ghosts? They don’t knock—they barge in. And sudde...

You know that quote — “Everything happens for a reason.” Yeah, I’ve heard it too. Usually right after my favorite nasi padang stall runs out of rendang, or when I miss a flight only to find out it was delayed anyway. But lately, that quote hits a little different. Life has been throwing me curveballs like it's training for Wimbledon nahhh more like training for 10K. The highs have been breathtaking — those rare moments where the stars align, my eyeliner flick is perfect, and I feel like Beyoncé on a budget. The lows? Oh, darling. Let’s just say I’ve had existential crises in the middle of a traffic jam while listening to 90s love songs. And cried over freakin chocolate for once. Don't ask. But here’s what I’m learning: nothing is random. Not the people who came in like a thunderstorm, flipped my world upside down, then ghosted like Casper. Not the detours. Not even the silent moments that felt like life hit “pause.” There’s a weirdly poetic logic behind it all — a “Divine Plot ...