The Sunday Draft

                                 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...

                           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...

                              I’ve written before that I believe rest is a radical act of self-respect. I still do, but I’ve come to realize that knowing something in theory and living it out in practice are two entirely different things. Rest isn’t just difficult, it can feel threatening. In a world where our value is so often measured by output, choosing to rest can feel like opting out of worth itself. I didn’t always feel this way. As a kid, rest was easy. I rested when I was tired. I fell asleep on couches mid-conversation, abandoned projects in favor of snacks, and spent entire Saturdays letting the day unfold without a plan. There was no shame in it. Somewhere along the way, though, I internalized the idea that I needed to earn my rest. That leisure had to be productive in disguise, like learning a new skill, reading for school, cleaning the kitchen while on a phone call. And if it wasn’...

                               I have long found myself captivated by the classical giants of literature, those revered texts that have endured the test of time. Yet, in the past few years, I’ve discovered a compelling shift in my reading habits. Contemporary works, while often overlooked in favor of their older counterparts, have emerged as some of the most profound and life-altering books I’ve encountered. These are stories that, despite their relatively recent publication, carry a weight and resonance akin to those traditional masterpieces. Each of them has left an indelible mark on me, and as I return to them at different stages of my life, they continue to stir something deep within, allowing me to re-examine myself and the world around me. In my personal library, these books have become my own classics—works I believe deserve far more recognition and attention than they often receive. One suc...