In My Own World

Some days just hit differently. You're tired, you're trying your best, and suddenly—out of nowhere—something small, something seemingly unimportant, cracks something deep inside. You shrug it off at first. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the pressure of having to show up when your body’s barely keeping up. Or maybe it’s just one of those days when everything feels a little too loud. And then it happens—that familiar sting. You thought you were past it. You really did. You’ve moved on, healed, laughed, grown. But one moment—a word, a silence, a change in plans—and there it is again. That old emotion, back like it never left. It surprises you, really. You didn’t expect it to still hurt. But maybe that’s okay. Healing was never a straight line. And just because the wound reopens for a second doesn’t mean you’re back at square one. It only means you’re human. And it only means you cared—maybe more than you should have, maybe more than anyone realized. Tomorrow’s a new day....

We live in a world that glorifies speed. Fast results. Instant replies. Quick fixes. Somewhere along the way, we started measuring our worth based on how quickly we can get things done, how fast we can heal, or how soon we can “make it.” But the truth is, not everything beautiful arrives in a rush. Some of the most meaningful changes in our lives happen slowly—quietly, even—without much fanfare. Growth isn’t always visible. Healing doesn’t always come with grand declarations. Sometimes, it’s just you showing up every day, doing your best even when it doesn’t feel like enough. And that counts. Slow progress is still progress. Every small step you take, every gentle choice you make, it adds up. The days you got out of bed when you didn’t want to. The moments you chose patience when you were frustrated. The quiet decisions to keep going, even when no one was watching. All of it matters. It's taking time because it's  supposed  to. Things that are rushed tend to fall apart. But th...

Some  seasons  in  life  feel  like  silence.  Like  standing  still  while  the  world  keeps  spinning  without  you.  But  what  if  the  wait  isn’t  a  delay— what  if  it’s  a  shaping?  A  quiet  preparation  for  the  very  thing  your  heart  longs  for?  This  piece  is  for  anyone  who’s  ever  wondered  if  their  steps  still  matter  when  progress  seems  invisible. We live in a world that celebrates speed. Instant results. Quick wins. Overnight success. But the truth is, the most beautiful things in life—growth, healing, dreams coming true—take time. And waiting? It’s not a punishment. It’s preparation. Waiting doesn't mean you're doing nothing. It means you're planting seeds. It means you're be...

I don’t usually say this out loud, but sometimes, the pangs of jealousy hit harder than I’d like to admit. I scroll through social media, and there it is — another promotion, another new house, another smiling face celebrating something that, if I’m honest, I wish I had too. I’m happy for them, truly. But somewhere deeper, beyond the surface smiles, a quiet ache stirs: When will it be my turn? Will it ever be?  It’s an uncomfortable feeling — this jealousy that creeps in even when I know better. Even when I remind myself that everyone’s timing is different, that everyone’s life unfolds at its own messy, unpredictable pace. It doesn’t stop the sting. It doesn’t erase the tiny fractures it leaves in my heart. It’s not just the big milestones either. Sometimes, it's the small, ordinary moments that catch me off guard. The way someone is treated with gentleness and kindness — without having to beg for it, without having to prove they deserve it. Meanwhile, I’m left wondering why i...

Sometimes life feels heavier simply because you're carrying it alone. You show up for yourself every day. You chase the dreams, you clean up the messes, you pick up the broken pieces — all on your own. And you’ve gotten good at it, too. You’ve learned to be the friend, the motivator, the support system you often wished you had. Most days, you convince yourself that this is enough. That this is strength. And it is. But there are quieter days. Days when you wish there was someone who just  knew  — someone you didn’t have to explain yourself to. Someone you could call just because you feel like driving around with no destination. Someone who would say, “Where to?” without hesitation, without judgment. Someone who would show up for the food trips, the coffee runs, the silent road trips where the conversation isn’t needed because the company alone is enough. Not because you’re lost, not because you’re broken, but because life is lighter when you don’t have to carry it all alone. Yo...

Sometimes, the hardest part isn't being excluded — it's the silence that follows. The quiet truth that you weren't chosen, and maybe, you were never really meant to be there. But even in the absence of an invitation, there's a small, stubborn part of you that still wishes you were remembered.  Sometimes, it’s not about going. It’s not about clearing your schedule, getting dressed, and showing up. Sometimes, it’s simply about being asked.  There’s a quiet kind of warmth in receiving an invitation—even when everyone involved knows you’re probably not coming. Maybe they already expect the polite decline. Maybe you, deep down, have no real desire to join the gathering. But still, the simple act of being included matters.   Because it's not really about the event. It’s about belonging.   It’s about knowing that someone thought of you—that someone wanted you there enough to extend a hand, even if they knew you might not take it. It’s feeling like you’re part of something,...

There’s a special kind of ache that comes from leaving a place you once called home. I was only ten years old when we moved away from my hometown—an island cradled by the sea and wrapped in the kind of simplicity that only childhood could magnify. Though the years have passed and I’ve long settled somewhere else, a part of me never really left.   We still visit once a year. Just once. And yet that single trip always manages to stir something deep within me. As soon as we step off the boat or arrive on that familiar patch of earth, it’s like time slows down. The air feels lighter. The rhythm of life changes.   There, I don’t hear traffic or hurried footsteps. Instead, I hear the sea—slapping gently against the stones, a sound both soothing and alive. I hear the leaves of old trees swaying in the breeze, whispering memories I didn’t even know I still carried. I hear laughter—genuine, unbothered, and so warm that it seeps into your chest like sunshine.   It’s in those moment...