It’s two in the morning, and Amelia’s pacing her messy apartment, stepping over stacks of books she promised she'd read, coffee mugs half-filled and forgotten, and laundry she swears she’ll fold tomorrow. Moving was second nature to her—boxes taped shut, addresses changed like outfits. But no matter how many cozy apartments or trendy neighborhoods she tried, nothing felt quite like home. Her grandma often said, "You can't hold sunshine in your hands, so stop trying to grab onto everything." Amelia used to roll her eyes, dismissing it as …
The Woman Who Couldn’t Leave
The first time Mira thought about leaving Raj, she was washing spinach. The leaves were muddy, stubborn. She scrubbed each one as if dirt could be reasoned with. Raj was asleep in the other room, snoring softly with the TV still murmuring—one of those historical docuseries he insisted on watching but never finished. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Not the kind of fight where you slam doors or throw pans. It was quieter than that. Like the kind of silence you find in attics. Still, a little stale. A place where time has settled like dust on old …
The Helping Hand That Held Me Down
Aria spotted the old man from halfway down the block. White kurta, too-thin legs, translucent skin that looked like creased paper. He stood at the foot of the stairs outside the ration shop, gripping a plastic bag so orange it looked radioactive. She slowed down. He didn’t ask for help. Just stood there, swaying slightly, like someone caught between decision and defeat. The bag was too heavy. That much was clear. Aria had two choices. Keep walking like she didn’t see him—or stop and carry someone else’s weight for a while. She …
Take Your Power Back Before You Start To Believe You Never Had Any
Losing power doesn’t feel like a collapse. It feels like compromise. You don’t notice it at first. You skip the morning walk once, then twice. You downplay what you want. You swallow your opinion to keep the peace. You call it “adjusting.” Eventually, you start forgetting what it felt like to drive your own life. You move, but you’re not the one steering. I’ve done it. Smiled through discomfort. Said yes out of habit. Avoided decisions so I wouldn’t have to be the one responsible if they went sideways. It felt smart at the time—easier …
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Stop Climbing. The Ladder’s a Lie.
You hit the goal. It lands. Kind of. There’s that brief flicker of satisfaction—like a match flaring up in a windstorm. And then, almost on cue, the itch returns. You think about the next thing. The better version. The upgrade. Whatever it is you’re supposed to be wanting now. Nobody warns you how fast a win can rot. Not because it’s not real—but because it was never built to hold your worth. At best, it’s a sugar hit. At worst, it’s proof that your idea of “enough” is broken. They call it drive. Hustle. Vision. Give it a slick name and …
Dear Friend,
You look fine. That’s the part that annoys me most. You show up, smile politely, throw in a joke to deflect, and everyone thinks you’ve got it together. But I know you’re running on fumes. Not just physically. The kind of tired that makes your bones feel like concrete and your thoughts like traffic. You keep trying to out-hustle your own sadness, like maybe if you stay busy enough, the ache won’t catch up. But it always does. You’ve been dragging the weight of things that should’ve been released a long time ago. Old guilt, broken …