I grew up in a collectivistic society, where the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” wasn’t open-ended.
The only acceptable answer, especially for those who performed better than average at school, was a Doctor or an Engineer. When I announced at fourteen that the field of medicine isn’t the right fit for me, I was met with several sad and disappointed eyes.
After all, who would inherit my Father’s Stethoscope? — This was a real question posed to me, intended to guilt me into submission.
My personality was not in accordance with my gender’s guide…
I am a fully grown 30-year-old woman who is mildly addicted to everything made for teens. I like to think that I am a well-adjusted adult, but my Netflix viewing history says otherwise.
I am not entirely sure what it is, but the feel-good vibes that emerge from a cheesy rom-com or a teen drama are my go-to guilty pleasure. It takes me to a happy place, although ironically, my own teenage years contained scarce bits of happiness.
A recent accomplishment of mine was that I couldn’t sit through Dawson’s Creek’s first season. …
I’ve wanted to share my thoughts regarding my body for more than a year now and haven’t been able to.
This was one of the first topics I wanted to cover, even before I started writing on this platform. I wanted to talk about things that no one talks about, and although body positivity has been a massive movement in the recent past, there was still stuff that I wanted to get off my chest.
At first, I believed that I didn’t get to writing this piece because I wasn’t ready for it. That I wasn’t brave enough. …
The last decade has seen me transform from a 20 something dysfunctional individual refusing to adult to a 30 something self-aware human trying her best to adult and figure shit out.
I’ve worked hard on myself and grown into myself, accepting all my dualities. I’ve traded my party heels for a never-ending contract with Netflix.
And there’s never been a time where I’ve been more accepting of the messiness, unpredictability, and indifference of life.
One trend that has refused to die out through all these changes is the social pressure to always be seen with my significant other. I am…
When I started writing in May of 2019, I had a singular goal in mind: I wanted to tell my story. Back then, my idea of an article was completely different from what it is now. Perfection was a goal in itself, and every piece was designed to choose quality over quantity.
I wanted to pick a topic that I had some experience with and present the reader with an informative, coherent, and step-by-step discourse of inward journeys completing my current understanding in said area.
I supported my opinions with research, added pictures that would help tell my story better…
Writing after a few misses sucks big time. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been here before or how many inspirational articles I’ve read about the extreme benefits of writing every day.
The hollowness in my chest, the pit inside my stomach, and the massive throbbing self-doubt telling me that I don’t know what I am doing are as impactful and omnipresent as ever.
I would like to think that I’ve grown. That I’ve taken the time to process my negative feelings of loss, pain, and disappointment. That I’ve figured a few solutions out over time.
Taking a break…
Eyes wide open,
eyes wide shut.
Tremble when closed,
dreading their treacherous fate.
Dry, weary, and teary,
longing to come together.
A jerk in my leg,
hug the sheets tighter.
falling further, falling farther,
Into that half state of consciousness.
Here again, once again,
stirring up a bile concoction.
Stray thoughts take shape,
beads of sweat on my forehead.
Memories follow, flow, rekindle,
rising from the oblivion.
My mind whirs, and switches on,
racing along in no time.
Multiply rapidly manifold,
occupy every nook and crevice.
I see it all, hear it all,
feel the old wounds reopen.
We need to talk. I know you think we are doing okay, but I am not. I am unhappy, have been for a while, and I can’t keep it a secret any longer. So, I wrote you a breakup note, as I am too awkward to do it in person.
I don’t want to use other sites, and it’s not that I’ve suddenly stopped needing our co-dependent relationship. I’ve accidentally read too many self-help articles, and now I know who I am and, more importantly, who I am not.
We are too different, and no matter how hard I try…
As a young child, if there was a word that gave me the most terrible case of heebie-jeebies, it was “Routine.” If it wasn’t already bad enough to follow one at school, I was also instructed to make one at home.
Pre-decide when I am going to study, when to rest, and obliterate my free time by filling it with several activities. Being lazy was the worst crime I could commit, and yet whatever I did was never enough.
I made several attempts over the years but failed to adhere to them. At some point, I decided to take a…
The clock struck twelve,
the throbbing grew faster.
Feel it in her heart,
dusty skin and bones.
It’s time, she knew,
to walk into the unknown.
Wear a warm coat,
stock candles in her pockets.
Pick up the iron key,
slip into the sturdy muddy boots.
Walk down a flight of stairs,
then another, then another.
Unlock a hatch in the floor,
strike a match against the brownstone.
An empty room to another,
a portal for the seeker.
Graze the walls lightly,
caressing one stone at a time.
Scour them for a clue,
a distinct color, texture, or feeling.