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I was going about my day, minding my own business, when it hit me: Crap! I haven’t written anything for my blog in ages. At first, I felt guilty, like I should have been documenting every thought, every little victory. But then I realized why I haven’t been writing: I’m finally living fully in the moment. I’m enjoying life in a way that makes chronicling it almost secondary. And maybe that’s okay. There’s something profound about being so present that you forget to record it—the way sunlight catches on leaves, the laughter spilling over on a late-night call, the quiet relief of finally letting go of something that used to weigh you down. To start the summer or rather, to close the school year, I finished my finals, and the relief was almost physical. I got an A in math, a subject that once felt like an insurmountable wall. That statistics course was a battleground for me: hours spent camped outside my professor’s office, countless nights wrestling with formulas and concepts. And yet, w...
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The Opposite of Control: True Friendship

I’ve often joked that my friends seem to live by one simple rule: do the exact opposite of what I suggest. If I tell them to take the safe route home, they’ll find a detour. If I advise them not to text that ex at 2 a.m., they’ll do it before I finish my sentence. Over time, though, I’ve realized this isn’t actually a sign of them ignoring me or not valuing my opinion, it’s just part of being human and wanting to make your own choices. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve stayed close with my friends for so many years because I choose to support them even when I disagree with their decisions. That doesn’t mean I always understand or approve, but it means I’m willing to stand by them regardless. I let them be their full, messy, complicated selves, and when they fall apart after that 2 a.m. text or end up lost on that risky detour, I’m there to pick them up. I’ve learned that true friendship isn’t about controlling or fixing someone’s path, it’s about walking beside them,...
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Midsommar (Indoors, with Pizza, and More Chaos Than Ceremony)

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Midsommar is supposed to be graceful. Outdoors. Surrounded by nature and delicate things. Flower crowns, white dresses, wooden tables under trees, girls named Freja whispering folklore while sipping elderflower cocktails. That is not what happened at my Midsommar party. Our version was inside, a little sweaty, and completely derailed in the best way. There were no birch trees or meadows. There was pizza. There were paper plates. There was a Bluetooth speaker blasting pop songs that slowly morphed into someone’s frat playlist. It was sticky and loud and covered in flower petals and glitter by the end. Honestly, it felt like summer itself cracked open and spilled onto the floor. It started out sweet. We wore flower crowns and for a few brief moments, the room actually felt ethereal. People laughed, helped each other put them on, and took cute photos. Then the drinks started flowing. The playlist got louder. The air got warmer. The vibe went from “gentle pagan ritual” to “why is someone ...
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Gavin Newsom’s Speech Calls Out Injustice and Defends Community Power

                 When California Governor Gavin Newsom took to the podium to respond to recent federal immigration raids and escalating militarization in Los Angeles, he did more than criticize a sitting president. He delivered a powerful defense of vulnerable communities, a clear-eyed warning about the dangers of unchecked federal power, and a rallying cry for civic action. Grounded in themes of racial justice, immigrant rights, and the erosion of democracy, Newsom’s speech makes one thing unmistakably clear: the fight against authoritarianism starts on the ground, with the people. From the beginning, Newsom centers his outrage on the human cost of immigration enforcement. He contrasts past bipartisan strategies focused on deporting those with serious criminal records or final orders of removal with what he calls “mass deportations,” which he says now indiscriminately target “hardworking immigrant families, regardless of their roots or ...
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What Your Coffee Order Says About You

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         I am not a Starbucks barista, but I am a loyal customer. So loyal, in fact, that my local Starbucks feels more like a second home than a coffee chain. I know the rhythm of the morning rush, the scent of espresso drifting out the door before the sun is fully up, and the faces behind the counter who remember not just my order, but my name. I visit the same location so often that I could probably take a shift behind the register if it weren’t for the fact that I have no idea how to work the espresso machine.      But it’s more than just frequency that connects me to this place. During one of the roughest chapters of my life, I practically lived there. When everything else felt uncertain, Starbucks became my constant. I would settle into the same corner seat, headphones in, laptop open, nursing a flat white for hours. It wasn’t just caffeine that kept me going, it was routine, familiarity, and the quiet kindness of people who noticed when I d...
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Returning Home

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                                 Coming back to a place that caused you pain is no small feat. There’s no dramatic soundtrack, no cinematic confrontation, just the realization that your body still remembers the ache, even if your mind has tried to move on. The sunlight still glints off the waves the same way, and the wind still smells like salt and sunscreen and childhood. I’m not the same and yet, somehow, I’m forced to meet the version of myself who used to walk these streets. The memories here belong to a younger me. A version of myself who was more anxious, more uncertain, more tightly wound by the expectations I thought I had to meet. That girl walked around with her shoulders tense, trying to be perfect, trying to be invisible and unforgettable at the same time. She sat quietly in the back corner of the library, rereading her notes until the pages blurred. She paced the walking path with...
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From Leaving to Loving: My Semester Reflection

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                           I began this semester with the unshakable feeling that I had made a mistake. No one tells you that starting over can feel just as difficult the second time around. It doesn’t get easier just because you’ve done it before. I arrived on campus feeling fragile, exhausted before the first week had even ended, and after only a few days, I did what I thought I needed to do: I left. I packed my things, got in my car, and went home. In hindsight, I don’t think I was running away. I think I was looking for something to hold onto, a familiar place, a familiar version of myself. Eventually, I made the harder choice: I came back. This time, I didn’t try to be brave all at once. I let myself be uncertain. I let myself be new. I reached out to people I barely knew and said yes to coffee, to walks, to late-night drives filled with music and silences that didn’t feel empty. I sat in dining halls w...
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