Why It’s Easier to Face Your Thoughts Than Your Feelings

Because thinking protects you. Feeling exposes you.

There is a reason people say they are “overthinking,” not “overfeeling.” You rarely hear someone say, “I feel too much.” Instead, they say, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Because thinking feels safer.
Feeling doesn't.

Imagine standing at the edge of a swimming pool. You can sit there for hours analyzing the water. You can calculate the depth, estimate the temperature, observe how others swim, and predict how cold it might feel. You can do all of that without getting wet.

That is what thinking is like. It lets you stay dry.

Feelings are different. Feelings are not sitting at the edge. Feelings are jumping in, and the moment you jump, you lose control. You cannot choose how cold the water feels. You cannot decide how fast your heart races. You cannot pause halfway through the shock.

You just experience it. Fully. Immediately. Without filters.

To me, it has always been easier to face my thoughts than to face my feelings.

I can sit with my thoughts for hours. I can analyze them, question them, and try to arrange them into something that feels logical and controlled. Even when they are uncomfortable, they still feel manageable, like something I can hold at a distance.

Feelings are different.

They don’t wait to be understood. They don’t follow logic. They arrive quietly but settle deeply, often somewhere in the body rather than the mind. A tight chest, a heavy silence, an unexplainable sadness that lingers long after the situation itself has passed.

And that closeness makes them harder to face.

I think thoughts give us a sense of safety because they create distance.

When something hurts, the mind immediately begins to work. It asks why, searches for meaning, and tries to construct a story that makes everything feel reasonable. In that process, we feel like we are doing something productive, as if understanding alone can soften the pain.

But understanding is not the same as feeling.

Psychologist Susan David describes this as emotional avoidance. We move toward analysis because it feels safer than sitting with discomfort. We rationalize instead of grieving. We explain instead of acknowledging how deeply something affected us.

Without realizing it, thinking becomes a form of protection.

There is also a reason why feelings often feel so physical.

In The Body Keeps the Score, Bessel van der Kolk explains that emotions are not only experienced in the mind. They are stored in the nervous system, living in the body long after an event has ended. This is why you can understand something logically and still feel unsettled.

The mind may move forward, but the body takes longer to catch up.

And perhaps that is why facing feelings requires more courage. It asks us not just to think about what happened, but to sit with the impact it left behind.

And that is the part I find most difficult.

Because sitting with a feeling means letting go of control. There is nothing to solve, nothing to rearrange, nothing to fix immediately. You simply have to be present with something uncomfortable, without knowing how long it will stay.

Thinking, at least, gives the illusion of movement. It feels like progress. It feels like you are doing something to move forward.

But sometimes, it is only a way of staying at a safe distance.

I have noticed that when I remain in my thoughts for too long, the feeling underneath does not disappear. It only waits quietly and returning in unexpected moments, in a sudden heaviness, in a sense of restlessness that logic cannot soothe.

It is as if the mind can move ahead, but a part of the heart remains behind, asking to be acknowledged.

And perhaps that is why facing feelings requires more courage than facing thoughts.

Because feelings reveal truths we cannot easily reason away. They show us how deeply we cared, how much something affected us, and how vulnerable we truly are.

Someone once told me that healing is not always about understanding, but about learning to accept, even when answers never come. Perhaps that is why facing feelings feels so difficult, because while the mind tries to understand in order to regain control, feelings ask us to do something much harder, to stay present with what we cannot control at all.

As Bessel van der Kolk reminds us, the body holds onto what the mind tries to move past. And so, perhaps healing doesn't begin when we finally understand everything, but when we allow our body, our heart, and the space to feel what they have been quietly carrying.

Seattle

The bathroom is lit by a single overhead bulb, too bright for the hour, carving hard shadows along the walls.

She stands in front of the mirror, one hand braced on the sink, the other hanging loose at her side. The faucet is half-open. A thin stream of water runs steadily, its quiet hiss filling the small space, louder than it should be.

A long sigh leaves her chest.

FUCK.

The word falls flat, almost weightless, swallowed by tile and running water.
Her reflection doesn’t react. It just looks back, familiar yet strangely distant, like a photograph she has seen too many times.

Just when she begins to believe she finally has control, over herself, over her life,
life proves her wrong.

Everything is fine, until it isn’t.

She leans closer to the mirror. The faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye has softened into a grey shadow. She doesn’t fix it. She only watches.

She holds herself together. She thinks she knows who she is.
And then suddenly, she doesn’t.

Things begin to fade. Blur. Along with the tears slipping down through her empty gaze in the mirror. No tremble, no sound.
Her faith.
The certainties she once stood on.
Her own judgment.

And what remains are questions, and the worst of them, the nightmares.

When did it start to fall apart?
Where was the crack, the hole, the moment she missed?

What is actually certain?
What can she still hold on to?
What is even true anymore?

She is fluent in self-blame.
At least it gives the chaos somewhere to go.
Forgiveness feels like a word from a language she doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t know what it looks like, or how to begin.

The questions don’t arrive one by one.
They flood in, overlapping, relentless, filling every quiet corner of her mind until there is no space left to think, only to endure.

Where does she start now?
Who can she trust?
How does she look at the world again without flinching?

The pain is dull and heavy, not sharp enough to break her open,
but constant, like pressure behind her ribs,
like something pressing inward from all sides,
insisting on being felt.

Fuck.
Barely more than breath.
And pathetic.

Please stop.
She needs it all to stop.

Through the Lens of a Parent

Nothing changes the way you see your parents until you become one.

It’s as if life quietly hands you their lens, the one they’ve carried for years without you realizing it. Suddenly, everything starts to look different. The choices that once seemed too strict, the words that felt too sharp, the exhaustion you once thought was distance, they all start to make sense in ways you couldn’t have understood before.

When you become a parent, you begin to see that love isn’t always about softness. Sometimes, love looks like waking up early no matter how little you’ve slept. Sometimes it sounds like saying “no” when it would be easier to say “yes.” Sometimes it feels like holding your breath between wanting to protect and needing to let go.

There’s an invisible weight that comes with being responsible for another life, not just their safety, but their heart, their memories, their sense of self. You realize how much energy it takes to be gentle when you’re tired, to stay patient when your mind is crowded, and to keep showing up even when no one says thank you.

And then you remember your parents.
You start seeing their faces in a new light. The details you never noticed before, the sighs, the pauses, the way they looked at you when they thought you weren’t looking, all start to carry a new meaning.

I don’t think my parents ever had it easy. They were figuring things out as they went, just like I am now. They didn’t have a script to follow. There’s no guidebook that can truly prepare anyone for the mix of joy and worry that comes with raising a child. You just learn as you go, sometimes gracefully, sometimes not.

Parenthood is full of contradictions. You feel a love so pure it terrifies you, yet you also feel an exhaustion so deep it humbles you. You want to be everything for your child, yet you realize that no one can truly be everything. And that’s the hardest part, learning to accept that love is not about perfection, but persistence.

As a child, I used to think my parents’ strength came from certainty. Now I know it came from faith, the quiet kind. The kind that keeps you moving even when you doubt yourself, because someone small and precious is depending on you.

I used to see them only as “parents.” Now I see them as people.
People who once had dreams, fears, and insecurities, just like I do. People who were growing while raising another human being. And I realize that I was part of their learning process, just as my child is part of mine.

There’s nothing I need to forgive them for. They did nothing wrong. They did their best, and that’s everything. What I feel now isn’t regret, it’s gratitude. Gratitude for the strength I never noticed, for the patience I took for granted, and for the love that quietly shaped me long before I understood what it meant to give it.

Parenthood doesn’t just make you responsible for someone else’s life. It holds up a mirror to your own. It makes you see your parents not as figures from your childhood, but as human beings who were, like you, simply trying to love and do right in an ever-changing world.

And that’s the most humbling part.
Because when I hold my child, when I face the same questions they once faced, I realize that I’m walking a path they once walked too. And somewhere in that shared experience, even without words, I know. Now I understand.

American Eagle vs. GAP: The Ads

Have You Seen the Ad?

Did you catch that American Eagle ad with Sydney Sweeney? The slogan, “Sydney Sweeney has great jeans,” went viral everywhere, and honestly, it got me thinking. It got even more interesting when GAP followed with an ad featuring the girl group KATSEYE. Sure, both are about jeans. But if you look a little closer, you’ll see they’re more than just ads. They’re about values and identity.

Advertising has always been more than selling a product. It's about selling an idea, a reflection of who we think we are. As Donald Miller puts it in Building a Story Brand, "People don't buy the best products; they buy the products they can understand the fastest." This is about a brand positioning itself in a story the customer can see themselves in. Every image, every slogan, every casting choice carries meaning, and that meaning can either expand our imagination of belonging or reinforce a narrow definition of it.

What Denim Really Reveals

Here’s the deeper point. Jeans have always been more than fabric. They're cultural artifacts that carry stories of class, gender, and identity. They began as durable workwear, then became symbols of rebellion, and later, a canvas for self-expression. To wear jeans is to participate in that history, whether you realize it or not. To sell jeans is to sell a version of who we want to be.

This is why denim ads can’t just be taken at face value. They tap into deeper narratives about who belongs in the spotlight and who gets to define “cool.”

The Clash of Two Strategies

On the surface, American Eagle’s idea seemed clever. A simple play on the words jeans and genes. But here’s the problem: jeans are not neutral, and neither is language. When Sweeney appears in an ad that hints at "great genes," I can't detach that phrase from the history of beauty standards in America. To build a campaign around that pun, even if it was unintentional, places American Eagle uncomfortably close to a narrative of exclusion. It runs completely against today’s body positivity movements.

What happened next was predictable: a firestorm of controversy. This pointed to a deeper problem: when marketing leans on provocation without sensitivity, it risks amplifying old wounds instead of creating new connections.

On the flip side, GAP’s campaign with KATSEYE radiates a totally different energy. The ad is vibrant and full of movement, with a multicultural group dancing to Kelis’s “Milkshake.” It's nostalgic and modern all at once. More importantly, it sends a clear message of belonging. The choice of KATSEYE is deliberate. They represent diversity and individuality. GAP doesn't rely on shock value; it relies on resonance. And it works. The ad went viral not because it shocked people, but because it made them feel something real, joy and a reminder of why fashion is also about freedom.

Disruption vs. Inclusion

If you step back, both campaigns reflect two distinct schools of thought. American Eagle went with disruption, believing that if people are talking, the campaign worked. GAP went with inclusion, operating on the principle that if people are moved, the campaign worked.

Which approach is better? That depends on what you believe branding should do. Disruption brings attention, sure, but it's often short-lived and sometimes toxic. Inclusion may seem safer, but in a world where consumers are more critical than ever, authentic connection might just be the smartest kind of risk.

Conclusion

American Eagle’s ad unintentionally revived questions about privilege and exclusion. GAP’s ad chose to imagine a future where joy, diversity, and self-expression take center stage. Both reflect the society we’re in: one that’s still wrestling with old ideals, and another that's trying to imagine something better.

As someone who works in the marketing communications field, I see this debate play out all the time. It’s a constant battle between what gets attention and what earns trust. So perhaps the question isn’t which jeans campaign sold more pairs. The real question is: which vision of the world do you want to wear?

A Safe Place

We meet so many people in our lives. We laugh together, share stories, and spend time side by side. But how many of them are truly a safe place?

A safe place isn’t just a friend or a close colleague. It's someone you can trust with the most tangled, messy pieces of your heart without fear of judgment, gossip, or someone trying to fix you just to feel better themselves. This person could be a best friend, a sibling, a parent, a partner, a pet, or even yourself.

And honestly, that’s a rare find.

It’s not easy to find someone who can listen without rushing to respond, who can understand without labeling you, and who can stand steady in front of your most fragile self. We often assume everyone can be that person, but the truth is, not everyone can. Some only listen to share their own story. Some seem caring but quietly judge. Some promise to keep your words, only to carry them elsewhere.

That’s why finding a safe place in another person feels like a small miracle. When it happens, it’s like finally finding home after being lost for so long.

And yet, sometimes the rarest safe places are already with us, even if we don't notice. It’s so human to take people for granted, to miss the quiet ways they’ve been there, the times they listened without asking for anything in return, the moments they stayed when it would have been easier to leave. Maybe we’re too busy searching for the “perfect” listener that we forget the loyal hearts right beside us. It’s worth pausing, tracing back, and seeing who has truly been there for us all along.

The beauty of it is that we don't need everyone to be our safe place, just a few people we can truly trust. A handful of souls who listen without judgment, who hold our stories gently, and who see us as we are. Finding them is rare, but I wish we all be lucky enough to find our safe places, and wise enough to recognize them when we do. 

A Review of Matt Haig - The Midnight Library

What if you could visit a library filled with every version of your life, based on every different choice you've ever made? This is the central idea of Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library, a book I finished last month and haven't stopped thinking about. It's the kind of story that leaves a real mark on you, and I knew I had to share my thoughts on it here.

The novel introduces us to Nora Seed, a woman in her mid-thirties who is at her breaking point. She feels trapped in a life she sees as a total failure. She's convinced she has no purpose and no place in the world. In her despair, she tries to end her life. But instead of dying, she finds herself in a place somewhere between life and death: a vast and mysterious library.

The librarian, an old mentor from her school days, explains the rules: every book on the endless shelves represents a different life Nora could have lived. It’s a chance to explore all the "what ifs" that have haunted her. Nora can be anyone she wants to be, from a celebrated glaciologist in the Arctic to an Olympic swimmer, a rockstar, or even a local pub owner. Her goal is to find the one life where she can be truly happy. If she finds it, she can stay there forever.

It's tempting to think that one different choice would have led to a perfect life without regret. Nora throws herself into these alternate realities, living nearly a hundred different versions of herself. Each life is thrilling but also deeply flawed. She quickly discovers that every path, no matter how exciting, comes with its own set of challenges, its own pains, and its own quiet regrets. After all her journeys, Nora comes to a powerful realization: maybe she can't find happiness because she's still carrying the heavy weight of her regrets.

The book's power comes from how it handles heavy topics like regret and depression with such a gentle touch. It's a hopeful story at its core, and Matt Haig’s writing is so kind and easy to read that it feels like a warm hug. It never preaches or judges. Instead, it invites you to reflect on your own choices in a compassionate way.

If I had one small criticism, it's that some of Nora's lives felt a little rushed. I wanted to linger in a few of her alternate realities to feel them more deeply. But I also understand that the book's purpose wasn't to build a dozen different stories. They were lessons, guiding Nora and us toward understanding what really matters.

The true genius of The Midnight Library lies in its quiet wisdom. It doesn't offer easy answers or ask for grand gestures. Instead, it holds up a mirror and asks us to look at ourselves. It makes us consider what we truly value and what we've been too busy to notice.

Through Nora's journey, we are reminded that even amidst the complexities and madness of our lives, happiness and contentment can be found. The book whispers that possibilities exist even when things feel impossible, encouraging us to face our regrets and begin to truly live. It's a gentle message to live fully, quietly, and imperfectly because in those small, ordinary moments, that's where the real magic happens.

Menyusun Minggu Ini

Pagi mengulur cahaya ke langit

membawa aku kembali ke awal hari

Hari menunggu dengan wajah yang sama
rutinitas, daftar kecil
dan pengingat yang tak henti menepuk bahu

Kupilih beberapa hal untuk kusimpan di genggaman
empat, mungkin lima
langkah kecil yang ingin kutapaki minggu ini

Minggu lalu aku sempat merasa kalah
tapi minggu ini
aku menulis lembar baru

Maka kusebut satu per satu dalam doa
membayangkan pilar-pilar mungil
yang menahanku agar tetap berdiri

Dan begitu saja
aku kembali memulai.

More Than A Genre: Tom Misch

I first discovered Tom Misch back in uni while scrolling through SoundCloud late at night. I was stuck studying for my final exam and just looking for some music to keep me company. Then I found his songs, and the moment I hit play, it felt like the room changed and suddenly everything felt lighter, calmer, and a little more alive.

His sound is hard to define, and maybe that is exactly why I love it. It flows between jazz, soul, funk, disco, hip-hop, and even a little indie rock. None of it feels forced. Instead, it feels like a natural conversation between genres, as if they were always meant to exist together. His music fits different parts of life: quiet mornings with a cup of coffee, long walks with headphones in, nights when deadlines are looming and you need something to keep you company, afternoons when the rain won’t stop falling, or moments when you just want to dance around your room with no reason at all.

What makes Tom Misch special to me is not just his sound but his craft. I heard that he creates everything himself, from the drums to the bass, the guitar, the synths, and even the vocals. His guitar playing especially stands out. It has a warmth and tone that you could recognize instantly. Listening to him feels less like consuming music and more like being invited into someone’s personal world.

Geography is my most favorite album. It’s one of those records that feels both cohesive and surprising at the same time. Every track carries the same essence, yet each one opens a different door. Disco Yes makes you want to dance like it’s the seventies all over again. South of the River radiates joy with its funky bassline and vibrant groove. Lost in Paris feels like wandering through a city dream, a little blurry yet beautiful. Movie is tender, almost cinematic, wrapping you in a quiet kind of nostalgia. Then there is Water Baby, flowing softly like its title, and It Runs Through Me, which captures the soul of what music can mean when it becomes a part of you. And tucked among them is You’re On My Mind, a song that lingers like the aftertaste of a memory, both light and unforgettable. 

Click play to check to his music: 

It’s amazing to think about how this all started on SoundCloud. The early EPs feel like a different part of the same story. A little more raw, a little more experimental, but with that same signature guitar and soulful foundation. As he’s evolved, his music has become bigger, more expansive, and more confident, but he’s never lost that intimate, personal feeling. It’s like watching an artist grow in real time, and it makes you feel like you’re right there with him, witnessing the journey.

Growing Older, Watching Them Age

Lately, I can’t shake this feeling that life is quietly, relentlessly unfair. Every morning, I wake up a little older than yesterday. My parents wake up a little older too. Their hair greyer, their steps slower, their laughter carrying a new softness I hadn’t noticed before.

It feels unfair. We never ask for time to pass so quickly, yet here it is.. moving forward whether we are ready or not. I catch myself longing for the past: the days when my parents seemed invincible, when childhood felt endless, when the world was simple and forgiving.

Now, those moments feel like fragile treasures, slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold onto them. I feel a strange mix of sadness and helplessness, a longing for pause buttons that don’t exist, for moments that can’t be reclaimed.

And yet, within this unfairness, I notice something else: awareness. Growing older, watching my parents age, forces me to notice what truly matters. It forces me to slow down, to cherish small gestures, to be present in moments that once seemed ordinary but now feel irreplaceable. I try my best to treat them right, because I know time might be limited, and I will never know what tomorrow holds. I don’t want to carry regrets for words left unsaid, hugs left undone, or moments I failed to treasure.

There is grief in growing up, yes, but there is also clarity. Life doesn’t wait, and it doesn’t negotiate. All it asks is that we notice, we love, we hold close what we can while we still can.

Time may be unfair, but maybe that’s exactly what makes life beautiful.

Discovering Gabe Dixon: The Soundtrack I Found in The Proposal

You know those small, random moments that stick with you? That’s how I found Gabe Dixon’s music. It all started with the opening scene of the rom-com The Proposal (2009). Amid all the movie chaos, a song played and it just clicked. That song was Find My Way Home.

The first time I really listened, my day was probably one of those nonstop, busy days full of deadlines and to-dos. But instead of stressing me out, Find My Way Home made the chaos feel fun. It felt like a fast-paced, exciting scene in a movie where you’re running around but smiling while doing it. Suddenly, deadlines didn’t feel like a drag, they felt kind of thrilling.

Curious, I explored more of Gabe Dixon’s music and quickly fell in love. What I love most is that he doesn’t just sing about love. He talks about life, small moments, big questions, and little observations that feel honest and real. Listening to him feels like talking to a thoughtful friend who notices things you sometimes forget.

His music has a warm, comforting vibe, often led by his piano. Some of it reminds me of Five for Fighting, with catchy melodies and lyrics that make you feel, but Gabe Dixon has his own touch. His songs are both soulful and energetic, familiar yet unique.

His music isn’t just background noise for me anymore. It’s the spark that wakes me up on slow mornings or the gentle melody that calms me at night. All Will Be Well feels like a hug, a reminder that even when life is messy, things can still be okay. Disappear makes me want to move, to explore, to see where the day might take me. Ever After You carries a quiet devotion, the kind of love that doesn’t shout but stays steady and true.

And then there are songs like Five More Hours and Far From Home, along with so many others, that show just how wide his music can reach. Each one carries a different shade of emotion, a different piece of life, and somehow they all feel real.

Every song feels like a chapter in a story about life. They remind me that even the busiest days have their own rhythm, and with the right music, that rhythm can actually feel joyful.

Have you ever found an artist who quietly shifted the way you see or feel things? I would love to hear about it.

If you haven’t yet, give Gabe Dixon a listen. You might just discover music that makes even the busiest days feel a little brighter.

From Past to Future: The Mind Bending World of Yuval Noah Harari

I have a habit of reading books that make me pause and just stare out the window wondering how I ended up here. Yuval Noah Harari’s books have that effect. They do more than tell stories or give information. They quietly shift the way you see the world and even yourself.

When I first read Sapiens, I was struck by something simple yet profound. History is not just a sequence of events, it is the story humans tell themselves to make sense of the world. Harari shows that our ability to cooperate on a massive scale comes from imagination. Nations, religions, money, corporations, all of these exist because we collectively agree they exist. That day, I caught myself noticing my own life differently. The rules I followed, the ambitions I chased, even my own sense of identity suddenly felt like part of a bigger story I had never questioned. One line that stuck with me was, “You could never convince a monkey to give you a banana by promising him limitless bananas after death in monkey heaven.” It made me laugh, but it also made me think about how belief shapes action in ways we rarely notice.

Then came Homo Deus. I remember I read it one quiet evening while my daughter was asleep. This book is unsettling in the best way. It asks questions I had never considered about the future of humanity. What happens when algorithms understand us better than we understand ourselves? What happens when technology allows humans to manipulate life itself? But Harari doesn't offer answers. Instead, he gives a framework to think about these possibilities and the ethical challenges they bring. Reading it made me reflect on the kind of world I want to live in and the kind of human I want to be.

21 Lessons for the 21st Century feels different. It is rooted in the present, in the chaos of today, and yet it carries the wisdom of history and the foresight of the future. Harari examines issues like artificial intelligence, misinformation, climate change, and identity. What I love is how he frames these not as abstract problems, but as part of a story we are all living. He reminds us that the narratives we believe in, the stories we share with others, have real consequences. Ignorance is not neutral. It actively shapes our future. Reading this book made me more aware of my own choices and the ways I participate in the world.

Across all his books, what strikes me most is the way Harari blends clarity with depth. He takes ideas that can feel overwhelming, such as history, biology, economics, the future, and distills them into patterns that make sense. And yet, he doesn’t give easy answers. Instead, he invites you to think, reflect, and situate your own life in a bigger picture. Reading him feels like walking through a quiet gallery, noticing details you never paid attention to, and leaving with a sense that the world is both larger and more intimate than you realized.

And here’s the part I love: his books are not only thought provoking, they’re also fun. They challenge you to think in ways you didn’t expect, to turn familiar ideas upside down, and to hold uncomfortable questions in your mind without rushing to close them. It’s the kind of mental workout that leaves you curious, awake, and a little more alive.

And perhaps, that is where the real value lies. As Harari once said, “Questions you cannot answer are usually far better for you than answers you cannot question.”

So I’ll leave you with this: if everything you believe today is shaped by stories, then what story do you want to live by tomorrow?

The Strange Comfort of Being Misunderstood

The older I get, the more I find myself enjoying being misunderstood.

It’s strange to even say that out loud. I used to hate it, the feeling that someone had the wrong idea about me. I felt an almost uncontrollable need to explain myself, to make sure people saw the “real” version of me. I’d replay conversations in my head, searching for the perfect words to fix whatever picture they had formed.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped running.

Looking back, I realize I’ve taken millions of quiet, invisible steps away from the life I used to live. With distance comes clarity, and I’ve learned something simple: it doesn’t matter. Not everything matters. And not everyone cares as much as I once thought.

Most of the time, the drama I carried around was just in my head, a collection of imagined scenarios and inner monologues that never really existed outside of me.

I stopped trying to impress anyone a long time ago. I used to put so much effort into a single post, carefully choosing the right words and angles so people would see me exactly how I wanted them to, or at least, as I believed I truly was.

But then I realized that being admired, held up as an example, or seen as “cool” was never what I truly wanted. What I’ve always wanted is simple: to feel content, to feel whole. And I’ve learned that this has nothing to do with anyone else’s opinion of me. I carry my own truth, and now, I feel complete because of the people I love and the people who genuinely care about me. That is more than enough, and it fills me in a way nothing else ever could.

Somewhere in the process, I felt a kind of quiet liberation.

I no longer worry about what people think about me. Recently, I heard that someone assumed I wasn’t living a “good life” anymore, all because I haven’t been posting much lately. It made me laugh, as if my happiness depends on how often I show up on a screen.

The truth is, no one really knows. People love to assume, but just because someone assumes doesn’t mean they actually care. Letting go of the need to correct them doesn’t make me ignorant or selfish, it just makes me free.

And so, I let them be wrong.

There’s a certain kind of lightness in watching people be wrong about me. It’s almost entertaining, like watching someone confidently tell a story they don’t realize they’ve made up.

Maybe that’s what growing older is, in some small way, caring less about how you’re seen, and caring more about how you see yourself.