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Continue reading →: The Gumball in My MouthA quietly sharp reflection on the things we don’t say, the cost of silence, and learning to speak up without apology.
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Continue reading →: Before Wi-Fi, We Had SilenceA nostalgic and quietly funny reflection on growing up before the digital age, when silence was real, loneliness was simple, and privacy wasn’t a luxury.
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Continue reading →: A Love Letter to the BackseatSome people shine in the spotlight. I prefer the backseat, less pressure, better perspective. A soft ode to quiet confidence and sharp observation.
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Continue reading →: The things I carry (that no one sees)I carry a lot, most of it invisible. An emotional support latte, a few overthought conversations, and a quiet fear of being “not strategic enough.” This is what happens when you’re high-functioning and still wondering if you’re getting it right.
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Continue reading →: Things I Don’t Know How to Do (Yet)Some people build IKEA furniture without the manual. I, however, am still figuring out how pensions work, why my basil keeps dying, and how to flirt without ghosting myself. This is not a guide. This is a list. An unfinished one.
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Continue reading →: Quiet Isn’t the Same as CalmI may look calm, latte in hand, eyes on the horizon; but don’t be fooled. Sometimes I’m running mental marathons in absolute silence. This is for anyone who’s ever smiled politely while overthinking the meaning of a punctuation mark.
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Continue reading →: The art of loose planningAn ode to weekends without spreadsheets, plans that rearrange themselves, and the quiet magic of doing just enough. Spoiler: the croissant makes a cameo.
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Continue reading →: Things I Don’t Talk About at PartiesI’ve always had a complicated relationship with parties; the noise, the pressure, the overthinking. This is a soft confession about plans I never made, the people who make it easier to show up, and what it means to grow into comfort. (Office drinks? I go. I smile. I vanish. It…
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Continue reading →: Introducing Diary of Almost EverythingNot an introduction to me, but to the quiet, curious, coffee-scented corner that is this diary. Because some stories don’t start with answers. Just questions, and a window seat.







