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...

  The Rising Sun We met in the pale light of a hallway, both of us drawn toward each other as though we had always known we were meant to. It wasn’t love, but something like it, the kind of friendship that feels inevitable, like the rising of the sun each morning. We grew into each other like vines on an arbor, winding around every corner of our lives until it seemed impossible to tell where I ended and she began. Those early days were soft. We moved through them in a haze of laughter and whispered secrets, as though the world could never touch us. We spent nights cocooned in blankets, having conversations we would forget but swearing at the time that they meant everything. We carved out a place in each other’s lives so tenderly, so effortlessly, that I never once questioned whether it could last. She was my mirror, reflecting back all the things I loved and feared about myself, but in her, they felt manageable, lighter. Together, we built a world that was small and safe, a sanctua...

                                 A year ago, I was exhausted—not just tired, but soul-deep worn out from trying to live a life that no longer felt like mine. I’d built my world around a dream I once believed in, poured everything into it, and wrapped my identity around it. Letting it go felt like betrayal: to myself, to those who supported me, to the version of me who once wanted it so badly. But here’s what I wish I’d known then: walking away isn’t failure. It’s growth. It’s maturity. And sometimes, it’s the bravest choice you can make. We’re taught that dreams are supposed to be linear. Pick one, chase it, fight for it, and eventually “make it.” But no one tells you that sometimes the dream stops fitting. That outgrowing something doesn’t make you weak or flaky, it just means you’re paying attention. Back then, I kept pushing through, even after the passion had faded. I thought success ...

                                             In Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, there’s a moment when Jane says, “I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit.” That line has always stayed with me, not just because it’s beautifully written, but because it captures something true about the kind of love and friendship that transcends distance, time, and even language. Jane and Rochester’s connection wasn’t perfect or easy. It was tested by circumstance, separation, and silence. And yet, across miles and without words, they felt each other. Their bond existed beyond physical nearness. It was soul-deep. It reminds me of the friendships that stay steady, even when life changes everything else. Spirit to spirit. There’s something profound about a FaceTime call ...