“And like obedient machines, our minds accept it as truth. They don’t question the tone or check the source. They just download whatever we repeat and run it in the background until it becomes the story of who we think we are.”

“Still, beneath that love is a quiet, persistent insecurity, a voice that whispers I’m not good enough, that I can’t trust my own sense of when the work is enough. And the darker part is knowing I still crave the praise and validation, even though that high only lasts a moment.”

You brought him back so I could finally let it go.
So I could see how far I’ve come.
So I could feel that old flutter in my chest
and know it wasn’t love. It was just nostalgia for a version of me that no longer exists.

“Where there’s darkness, there’s always a flicker of light. The future isn’t fixed. No one knows how this story ends, which means we get to write it. It’s terrifying, but that spark of hope is enough to keep us moving.”

“I’ve always gone against the grain, choosing the harder path simply because it was mine.  That choice comes with judgment, with uncertainty, with the terrifying possibility that everything could crumble.  But every risk, every stumble, has only made me more alive.”

“I never expected to be the best, but I still expected perfection.  It only shows how easy it is to mistake self-punishment for self-improvement.”

“I’m not a type A perfectionist, I’m a type “spiral until it feels right” perfectionist.  I’m messy, flexible, allergic to rigidity.  But somehow, I still expect everything to unfold exactly the way I pictured it in my head.”

“Yes, I’ve outgrown the need to fill every moment with people.  But I still have nights where I wonder if I’m actually okay.  I still have dreams that tell me I’m not.  Dreams that dredge up shame I thought I left behind.  That ask, are you sure you’re safe?  Are you sure you’re worthy?  Are you sure you’re not just faking it better now?”

“Still, while that season was painful and uneasy, it was also strangely beautiful. Through the solitude, the discomfort, and all the trial and error, I started to learn who I actually was.”

“The realization hit me hard—this version of us is temporary. We may share something similar again, maybe even something better, but this exact moment can’t be recreated.”

“Especially when I drank alone, I convinced myself the night was going to be magical. That I’d find my soulmate, or my life’s purpose, or at the very least a really good story, somewhere at the bottom of the bottle.”

“It’s not exactly nostalgia. It’s more like a flicker of recognition. No backstory. Just a quiet certainty, like I’m walking a road the universe already paved in its mind.”

“That house? That mess? That was me.
Every pile of mildew-soaked clothing was a memory I tried to bleach out.
Every room, a version of myself I abandoned.”

“From early on, especially as women, we’re taught that putting ourselves first makes us difficult, demanding, or worse of all…unlikable.  That the more we give, the more lovable we become. But if you’re doing something out of guilt, resentment, or martyrdom, how is that any better?”

“But I still think there’s something there.
Something in saying what we mean.
In asking questions without tiptoeing around them.
In being curious without being cruel.”

“It feels less like a meritocracy and more like an old boys' club with better branding. Being the best candidate doesn’t always matter—you just need to know a guy, or bump into the right person over overpriced coffee.”

“I’m not afraid of wrinkles or crow’s feet—I actually think there’s something sacred about getting older. It’s a privilege not everyone gets. What gets me is the time. The speed of it. The quiet fear that I won’t get to everything I want to do before the clock runs out.”

“When I think about it now, my body is just a vessel of skin, blood, bones, and oxygen trying to survive. It has no control over what happens to it. And when I view it that way, I feel heartbroken over the trauma I’ve put it through—just for trying to do its best with what it’s been given. “

“It’s not that I think I’m some tortured intellectual—it’s actually the opposite. I just get mind-numbingly bored talking about jobs, meal prep, or which preschool is “Montessori-adjacent.  I want to talk about what’s real—like your greatest fear or your deepest insecurity.”