In My Own World

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...

There are moments that arrive unexpectedly—not wrapped in joy, but in sorrow. The kind that shouldn't bring smiles, and yet somehow, quietly, they do. A loved one had passed, and like it always does, news of loss carried with it a reunion. Relatives from different cities came, faces I hadn’t seen in years. There was grief in the air, yes. A heaviness that lingered in the silences and the lowered voices. But there was also warmth—familiar laughter, shared stories, the comfort of presence. It wasn’t an ideal situation. It never is, when someone leaves this world. But in the midst of the sadness, there was this fragile kind of happiness—one that tiptoed in through shared meals, old jokes, and side glances that said, *“It’s been too long.”* And during those quiet pockets of togetherness, I found myself wishing I could freeze the moment. Hold it still—not to erase the sorrow, but to preserve the togetherness. To bottle up the feeling of being surrounded by people who knew my roots, who ...