I am writing this with a misplaced emotion. The original draft was gonna be a grumpy story of me complaining about the downsides of adulthood, and after some food I decided to pivot.

Sometimes life gets overwhelming, each one of us is struggling in their own story in their own strings of hurdles. I’m not gonna say I have seen the end of it, just it gets easier to untangle and unravel the spiral with time. Everything can go in million of path, may be a conjugation of multiple mixed decisions. The milestones keep on coming, even if they are small or smaller than others either from your roadmap or in comparison to others, is still a location of your current prepositions. Even if you are still and unmotivated at one point.

I am no longer a teenager or new to adulthood; guess I can finally take solace in Counting Stars by OneRepublic.

The old, but I'm not that old
Young, but I'm not that bold
And I don't think the world is sold
On just doin' what we're told

We all have taken on responsibilities, a role in society, and silent obligations to fulfil. Yet, the line between living and surviving feels increasingly blurred. How many of us are burnt out, anxious about the future, or overwhelmed by career choices and relationship milestones? We are tired of living up to rigid expectations and weary of labeling and comparing our struggles, that we have forgotten that tiny glimpse of happiness we ever found throughout the lifetime.

I smile when I see it’s not raining and can commute to my destination without getting soggy. Or, grateful that I didn’t trip of the stairs cause my shoe laces were undone.

I have a friend, who questions the existence of God, while me who grew up in a religious upbringing, might be seen as lightheaded by the former.
I’m not gonna comment on existence of God. But, when we are at our down we all are on our knees, and we hold onto a faith, that last flimsy straw, trying to believe that everything gonna work its way. That faith has been the best friend to all of us, that faith is what drives the mind and body. Some call it God, the Universe, or the Karma or dominos effect to all the efforts put in together. In the end, it’s all in you. It’s you who gonna dust yourself off, and pat your back, take deep breaths and march on with a battered face adorned with courage.

Dumbledore was right when he said: ‘Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.’

Well most of the times its not that easy like flicking on a switch. It takes great deal of experience to cast an Patronus, and many of us forget that we have that potential, just haven’t unlocked.

There are days I cherish, and other days, I wish I could simply vanish. There is never an easy way out, is there? We all wail inaudibly, cranking up the music to bury our feelings as we attempt to walk through the brewing storm.

I have badgered myself for making the same mistake over and over again, may be more than a lot, past over the limit of calling myself an idiot and haven’t managed to pass without making the same hinderance again. Which makes sense, all problems aren’t gonna get solved with the same solutions, there are multiple variations of one, but still different. And sometimes, the code is broken and we get in. It will take time, but trust me you will be there at the end of the labyrinth.

Like Luna Lovegood said; ‘things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. If not always in the way we expect’

The things we lose or long for will eventually find their way back to us, though rarely in the way we expect. I am still navigating this truth myself, and will share when I reach sublimation.

I’m not suggesting that we all huddle together and solve the world’s problem — there are plenty of brilliant minds on it already. If you are actually an individual who is actively solving the world-ly problem, I’m grateful for your contribution and promise do my part in my way and time.

However, for the rest of us, perhaps we should focus on challenges within our own lives, may be start with the easiest one. Charity begins at home; let’s resolve the inner turmoil then we attempt to mend the world. One day at a time.

True bravery isn’t marching blindly into the storm, that would be reckless. A brave heart belongs to the one who feels the fear but finds the courage to walk forward anyway.

I hope you find that strength and the faith to carry you through another night. Remember, while your path may feel solitary, you are never truly alone.

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Here’s your footnotes writer. I’m working on staying consistent with my 2026 bingo board. I have to say, whoever said “before changing someone, try changing yourself” was right. It takes a great deal of effort to change myself, and it would be even greater to change someone else. So, I’m focusing on making efforts to improve myself.

April was a rollercoaster. Amidst the shifts in AI, war, inflation, and global warming, I’ve focused on setting goals that bring me satisfaction. Though individual change seems small, even a +0.001% shift matters. Results depend on many factors, and even in ideal conditions, change can be subtle. So, how do we measure our efforts?

What I have learned from my former workspace is to define a goal through Title, Action, Measure, and Progress Notes. For example, let’s say you want to tidy up your closet. How would you achieve that? First, set a goal title. It shouldn’t be something generic like “Have an organized closet.” While that’s alright, it doesn’t clearly describe the end result of completing the tasks. For example, “Decluttering the Closet” makes more sense and is clearer; it represents the end result you wish to achieve. Now, what actions are required to achieve the goal of having an organized closet?

Let’s apply the framework to a real example: the dreaded closet.

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Decluttering the Closet

Remember not to overthink the process.

The framework should not be the work, it should do your work.

You can use a simple notepad, or just sing ‘ching’ as you cross out a task in your mind. So, next time a random inspiration hits you in the middle of the night, I hope a mind-map will help you reach satisfaction. Perhaps post it on social media or treat yourself for taking that small step. It all starts with showing up!

I would love to hear if this goal thing worked for you!

Hope you’re making good progress by the end of May and can share your wins (and any bumps in the road) with me.

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Till then, toodles!

It’s March 22, 2026. The sun feels noticeably brighter today compared to the last few days, and maybe it’s just the tranquility of a peaceful Sunday afternoon that makes me feel this way. The temperature outside is a warm 32°C, and the gentle, cool breeze against my skin intensifies my anticipation for the refreshing evenings that summer nights promise. I find myself eagerly anticipating the sunset, dreaming of the twinkling stars that will emerge and admiring the moon as it graces the sky.

This weekend, I consciously decided to step outside on my own, embracing a small but meaningful solo adventure. While my exploration only took me a modest distance of about 1000 yards from my room, I am choosing to view this as a small victory within the context of the summer season.

The first thing I did today was visit my local bookstore, Champaca, which recently renovated. I was thrilled to see the changes they made, and a tiny thought flickered in the back of my mind about my favorite spot. It’s a spot near the window, but not so close that the sun will scorch my face, and far enough away so that I can feel the breeze. The fan is at a good distance, so it doesn’t disturb my pages, keeping them from flying away as soon as I set my book down. There’s a tapestry of purple flowers that hangs over my head, and lush green climbers welcome me to swing with them.

My usual spot is now surrounded by boxes, waiting to be opened, and the books inside them, eagerly awaiting their place on the shelves. I settled into a seat close to my usual haven and observed the three other readers in the space.

A guy got up and walked to the other side of the table to pour himself a glass of water. He had quite a spread, and I saw him scribbling something on his notepad. I couldn’t recognize the book he was reading, but I saw a pink-shaded book, whose name I can’t recall. I swear I saw a recommendation for that book. And a girl who was sitting facing the window was reading a book about seals. I saw that these two people were writing in a notebook, their thoughts about the words streaming in front of their eyes. Then the third person, I have no idea what he was reading, he left after I came in.

The staff at the bookstore were busy sorting books and restocking the shelves, particularly the children’s section. I waited for them to finish so I could see how they were organizing everything. A thought then occurred to me: would it be alright to offer my assistance? What could be more fulfilling for a book lover than helping arrange the shelves?

So those were the characters I encountered at the bookstore today. But they weren’t the only enigma I shared time with; I was also in Provence, France, in 1920, in the world created by Lucy Steeds in her book, The Artist.

I’m glad it’s warm in the book, too. I see Joseph Adelaide, trying to sit still as he poses for the painter, Edouard Tartuffe, who wants to be called Tata. Joseph isn’t used to the country heat, and his white skin has gotten tanned as he spends time in the summer of Provence. He even got scolded by Tata for getting tanned. Why? Joseph has been asked to be the muse for “The Young Man with an Orange.”

The painter in the book, Tartuffe, is fictional. He is portrayed as a famous, reclusive painter living in Provence in 1920. While Lucy writes him as a contemporary of real historical figures like Paul Cézanne and includes interactions with real people such as the art collector Peggy Guggenheim, Tartuffe himself is entirely a creation of the author.

Tata’s name is a literary reference to the title character of Molière’s famous 17th-century play, Tartuffe, a name that has since become a common noun used to describe a hypocritical pretender. In the book, Tats’s personality mirrors this origin, as he is depicted as a controlling and “monstrous” figure whose public genius masks a deeply flawed private life.

So far, I’ve read up until page 92, and I feel terrible for Ettie. She lost her mother at a young age, so young that she doesn’t remember her face, and Edouard has essentially kept her captive. He even stops her from eating her dinner because he decided to paint her half-eaten meal. It’s so weird; he doesn’t communicate with the outside world and has ensured that his niece, Ettie, is disconnected from it too.

He tells her that he painted over her mother’s only portrait because he ran out of canvas, and he even killed the goldfinch Ettie had when she was nine, the only creature she ever talked to. There is no one to feed her or look out for her; even the maid and the villagers have been shunted out of the house. He is like a possessive dragon who has captured Ettie.

Then Joseph barges in and manages to strike a deal: an article in exchange for becoming Edouard’s muse. However, when Joseph asks about his work for the piece, he receives only grunts. He’s forced to remain perfectly stiff, and his hair even has to be caught in a certain way to stay exactly the same for the painting. I’m at a loss for words to call him, I’ll just call him a tyrant.

Joseph also carries a dark past. He spent his youth rebelling against the war, having lost his older brother, Rupert, to it, a responsibility his father had forced him into. It felt eerily real, given current circumstances. The wealthy remain sheltered in their safe havens, debating over maps while countless innocents pay the price of their greed.

Be it the 90s or today’s 2020s, the world hasn’t changed much. At this rate, I don’t mind dying. There’s nothing left in this world worth saving; humanity is crumbling. I feel like I’m living under the Big Brother’s eye. I won’t deny that I don’t use AI; I need it to fix my grammar, spelling, and punctuation. But when I start using it to pull up ideas for a piece, to string words from my mind, that’s where real control is lost. I’m not worried that AI will take our jobs; I’m worried that it will stop our thoughts, freeze ideation. We can’t think of freedom, liberation, justice, because those words would be erased from our memory. Then it becomes easy for some to pull the strings. If you can’t even pull the word to express ‘Freedom,’ you won’t ask for it, you won’t fight for it.

Well, enough of those thoughts. If you’ve read this far, I’m grateful you came this far, and if you somehow agree with my thoughts, I’d say there’s still hope left in this world.

The weight of these thoughts usually settles deep in my chest, and today, it manifested as a sharp reminder that I needed to eat, since I skipped breakfast. By the time I reached page 92 (starting from page 19), I felt my hunger pangs and decided to bid farewell to the stacks of books.

I’m walking out, scrolling on my phone to order food. I’m craving some soup, but the place I wanted to order from had run out of delivery partners. This left me to walk around my neighborhood to find a place that serves good soup. I’m looking for some veggies, maybe broccoli or mushrooms. It’s weird to venture to a restaurant and break bread with yourself, so here I am, standing in front of the restaurant, the waiter asking if I’m solo. Well, newsflash, yes, I am.

I see the board, and they are serving soup. I wanted to order that; it’s called Zuppa di Peperoni Arrostiti; a bell pepper, onion, and carrot soup. Not bad, I thought, it’s a seasonal dish, and I thought a warm dish with local vegetables would be perfect for the curing the cold inside me. Since the soup will be heavy, I wanted pasta, but a bowl of pasta with soup would be too much, so I ordered Chicken Lasagna. They asked if I wanted something to drink. I considered wine to avoid any awkwardness, but ultimately decided against it. Firstly, I haven’t tried wine yet, and I’m not really a fan of alcohol. I’ve never drank it in my life, yet, so I thought, not today, at least not alone. So, I ordered a single espresso. I’m proud of my order today. I skipped dessert, though, as I was already full from the soup, so I let the espresso do the work of a Tiramisu.

Well, that was my lunch. I was reading a book, I carry two in case my mood changes and I was reading Patti Smith’s Just Kids. While I waited for my food, I wrote some words in the diary I carry whenever I go outside, the contents of which you are reading now. The bill was decent, and I noted for future reference that I shouldn’t have ordered so much. Then, I walked back to my room only to find that my roommate had locked me out. Well, guess the adventure never ends!

As my boyfriend says, “Ocean Waves,” I need to calm down.

So, I sipped some water and waited for the door to be opened. To end the afternoon, I wrote this draft. I hope you enjoyed it. My lesson from the day? Maybe going out alone isn’t that bad. Maybe having someone to break bread with so that you have room for dessert is a luxury in this age. Although, if you’re reading this, my person with whom I usually split the bill, we will go and visit the same restaurant again, and we are ordering dessert.

Adios!

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute.
We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.
And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business these are all noble pursuits necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, and love; these are what we stay alive for.

To quote from Whitman —

“Oh me, Oh life of the question of these recurring.
Of the endless trains of the faithless of cities filled with the foolish.
What good amid these? Oh me, Oh life.”
“Answe..that you are here and life exists...You are here. Life exists, and identity.
The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.”

That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

What will your verse be?

— Dead Poets Society (1989): Mr Keating (Robin Williams)

I’ve decided to live by his words. In a world that moves too fast, where every day feels like the same routine replaying like a broken cassette, our lives rush forward with the constant fear that we’re running out of time. In the middle of this relentless loop, taking a moment for ourselves, just to breathe, to pause, to step away from the weekly grind, has becomes an act of survival. We need something that gives life meaning, something that offers solace. And I believe that something is art.

Art will save us. And art doesn’t mean standing in Paris with a beret, holding a horsehair brush and painting the Mona Lisa. It’s far more expansive and far more human than that.

Why is art important?

We live in a culture that quietly sidelines creative work. We’re told it’s for children or for the retired. It’s an indulgence, a decoration, something nice to have but not necessary. These narratives aren’t harmless; they actively diminish how we value creation, and in doing so, how we value ourselves.

Today, I want to walk you through why I believe art makes the world a better place.

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When we think of art or artists, we often place them on an unreachable pedestal. We admire them from afar while shrinking ourselves with familiar phrases like “I’m not good enough” or “I can’t draw.” But creativity isn’t limited to galleries or canvases. It can be a reel where you talk about your favourite skincare product, a meal you cook with care, a song you hum, or words you choose to write down.

Art, at its core, is a creative act, an act of doing something to bring something into existence with the intention to connect.

Even the greatest artists have doubted the worth of their work. Leo Tolstoy once grew ashamed of his masterpieces, believing his creative output mattered less than his later religious and moral convictions. And Sally Rooney, one of the most successful novelists of our time, has openly questioned the social value of fiction. In a 2024 interview, she said that even if her novels are “really good,” they are “not going to save the planet.”

And yet, imagine a world without War and Peace or Conversations with Friends. Imagine how much quieter, flatter, and lonelier it would be.

How many of us have stopped publishing on Substack because we feared our drafts weren’t worthy of someone’s time? How many of us abandoned an instrument, convinced that quitting the piano would be more sensible, so we could study neuroscience, or work at NASA, or do something that feels more useful?

We often tell ourselves, “How can I dance when there’s so much pain in the world?” And yet, it is that very dancing that helps us survive the pain of the world. We need it now more than ever to navigate our way through difficult times.

Art was never meant to compete with saving the world. It exists to remind us why the world is worth saving in the first place.

Art isn’t only for children, or for the retired, or for times of peace. Art is for now. We need it now more than ever.

We are a culture that is focused on productivity and how to optimise our lifestyle, how to be the best version of ourselves. We read books on investing and letting money work for us, listen to podcasts about making the most of our time, and debate the right diet to follow while hitting the gym. Yet, no one talks about creativity. No one tells us how to make things. Creativity has become the missing pillar of self-development.

It’s easy to follow a twenty-minute video on organising our lives, but where is the twenty-minute video that asks us to sit at a desk with a pen? Or the twenty minutes spent dancing on the bed, simply because it feels right?

If we want to live a fulfilled, eventful life, we need creativity. Making art gives us a sense of urgency and reminds us that our lives are still within our control. I can control my pen strokes. I can shape the characters in the manuscript I’m working on. Even when everything else feels like it’s spiralling, creativity gives me a small but vital sense of order. It reminds me that I can still influence what unfolds. Creativity offers the power to enact change, to bring coherence to the chaos we experience.

Many of us experience existential depression, moments when life feels meaningless and stripped of purpose. When we begin to ask ourselves, “What’s the point of going forward?” we often turn to substitute experiences to fill the gap such as doom-scrolling, gaming addiction, or compulsive shopping.

I truly believe there is an answer here. When we consume so much hard news about the world, it’s only natural to feel deeply anxious and depressed about the future. In moments like these, the way back is through art, through returning to our creativity. And it’s worth remembering that creativity doesn’t belong to one form alone; it can show up in countless ways, each one valid.

Creativity is our power to enact change. It’s how we reclaim our sense of agency in a world that constantly tries to take it away. Yet so many of us leave creativity on the sidelines, dismissing it as play, a luxury, as something trivial or indulgent. But there is profound power in choosing to pick up an instrument, a pen, or any medium at all, and making something. In that moment, the power is in your hands.

Creating art reclaims our most valuable resource: attention. In a society that profits from keeping us glued to our phones, fixated on that application for hours and end up with feeling guilty the next morning; choosing to give our attention to art becomes a quiet act of rebellion. Writing a small piece of poetry or working on a personal project isn’t just a pleasant way to spend time; it is a radical decision about where your life’s energy goes. We are in a culture trained to consume endlessly, and in doing so, we’ve forgotten how to make.

Making art is activism. It’s like using your voice, taking up space, and creating something human in a world which is driven by efficiency and profit is inherently political. Policy and legislation do matter, but the culture is moved by art. We are moved on a deeply human level by what we read, watch, listen to, and create. Art connects us in ways nothing else can.

In the face of advancing technology and AI, there has never been a more important time for humans to create. We don’t turn to art for perfection; we turn to it for humanity, for its vulnerability, imperfection, and connection. That is something no bot can replace.

I’m sure you’ve come across the idea that AI can’t make bad art. And in a way, that’s precisely the problem. When art becomes effortless, the act of making it risks turning into a luxury. I’m not saying that art created with the help of an artificial mind isn’t art at all, but I do wonder where we are in that process. Are we present? Are we connected to what’s being made?

When creativity is reduced to writing a prompt and waiting for an image to appear, something essential is lost. The quiet joy of struggle, the intimacy of the process, the feeling of being inside the work as it unfolds. Creation becomes consumption again. And the danger is that true, lived-in creativity begins to feel rare, when it should remain deeply human and within reach.

Art is also legacy. We can leave this world having spent years scrolling, or we can leave behind something that carries a piece of us - a recipe, a song, a story, a poem. You don’t have to become world-famous like William Shakespeare to live on through your work, remembered through stories like Romeo and Juliet or epics such as the Iliad and the Odyssey.

But you do have to start making. Because creating is not selfish; it is generous. Your art may be the antidote to someone else’s pain.

We need your art. You are inherently creative, and you have something beautiful to give this world. It’s time to take that seriously.

I learned that the average person spends around two hours and twenty to thirty minutes a day on social media. If someone has been active on these platforms from the age of fifteen to thirty-five, that adds up to nearly three and a half years of their life spent scrolling. Can you imagine dedicating that much time simply to consuming content? The mental fatigue and brain fog that come with it are hard to ignore, its deeply concerning.

So what’s your choice? Will you let your heart loosen a little and express itself through some form of creativity, or continue surrendering years to quiet mental fatigue?

Pick the hobby you’ve been meaning to try. You don’t have to commit to it, and you don’t have to be good at it. It’s perfectly normal to have more than five hobbies. Creativity isn’t meant to be efficient; it’s meant to be lived.

I hope you enjoyed reading this piece. If it resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Until then, farewell. I’ll see you soon with fresh ideas.

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Wishing you a happy new year, I hope by the time to scan through this draft, all the timezones have turned their calendars to 1st January, 2026.

So did 2025 fare you well? It did have some amount of obstacles and troubles to survive from, well Kelly Clarkson wasn’t kidding when she sang what does not kill you makes you stronger.

Congratulations on making it!

So, any resolutions yet? (just kidding)

I’m never entirely convinced by resolutions, though I make them anyway. So this time, instead of planning ahead, I thought I’d begin by noticing what’s already here.

Here’s to the kickstart of many goals — today, in the series Footnotes of My Life, I present twenty-five things in 2025 that I appreciate and am grateful for.

1. I started a Substack, and I have to say, it’s been a good way to release my thoughts in a literary form. I still believe I’m raw at writing, but that’s part of the appeal. I want to explore different writing styles, and along the way, I’ve discovered writers who have quietly shaped my desire to write.

2. I learned my own rules around coffee. My golden rule is no coffee with milk after 11 a.m., and only espresso after lunch, because I read somewhere that it helps with digestion. Though I’m a cold-brew girl at heart, I usually end up diluting my espresso by the end of the day.

3. I love tiramisu, and I can’t get over it. It’s officially my dessert of 2025. Does that make me a coffeeholic?

4. Oh, I tried pickleball—and I was terrible at it. Still, it was fun. Can I blame the wind for all my troubles?

5. I ate quite a variety of fruits this year. I usually don’t enjoy eating fruit, mostly because they are good at deceiving me of their sourness, and I’m not a fan of sour flavours. So I tried dragon fruit, persimmon, strawberry, and sugar palm fruit. I’m now surprisingly good at making strawberry mocktails.

6. I tried go-karting. As someone who struggles to coordinate her brain with her feet, a vehicle becomes a weapon in my hands. The first time, I pulled over almost immediately—I had entered the track right after watching a 30-minute video on 15 ways one could get killed. Midway through the race, I was convinced I’d be responsible for adding the sixteenth. I proudly finished last. The second time, I got stuck on a ramp but somehow managed not to crash into anyone and still finished the race. Will I try it again? No.

7. One evening, I rented a cycle around the park, letting the road lead me wherever it pleased. I was tired, but my heart felt full—the breeze on my skin and the trees arching over the road made it worth every slow turn of the pedal.

8. I bought myself a constellation necklace—five tiny stars embedded in it—and it might be the prettiest thing I own.

9. Through joining social clubs, I became part of the Eleven A.M. Club, where I learned what a zine is and tried my hand at paper weaving. I’m especially grateful for the host’s ideas, which quietly taught me more than I expected. My favourite so far has been the flower arrangement workshop; I ended up making two arrangements. More than making the bouquets, what astonished me most was the photography session, where my arm briefly became an unpaid artist for a shoot.

10. This year, I began bringing flowers home, with sunflowers quickly becoming my favourite. I even attended a bouquet workshop and ended up making two arrangements of my own.

11. I joined a book club where people gather once a month to discuss what they’ve read since the last meeting. I’ve met many wise and thoughtful people there—great conversations, good coffee. Honestly, that feels like my retirement plan.

12. I got to play Secret Santa with my colleagues and received a book from my wishlist—from my Secret Hater. I admire him a lot; he’s pushed me, challenged me, and taught me more than he knows. It’s not easy to find seniors like that. I’m lucky—and deeply grateful.

13. I came to appreciate the quiet relief of stretching after a workout, and slowly learned how the female body responds better to a different approach to exercise. That understanding made me value home workouts more than the idea of simply hitting the gym. They leave me feeling steadier, more energised, and stronger than before.

14. Health is wealth. In 2025, I found myself moving between different departments of medicine, and I now carry a quiet list of things I need to avoid so I don’t end up in that white room again. I read Small Rain during my knee-strain phase, and the narrator’s monologue still lingers with me. Taking care of one’s health isn’t easy when life stays busy—not because I’m glued to my workstation all the time, but because it’s about the food I consume and the water I drink. I learned, for instance, how important it is to clean water bottles regularly—ideally once a week, or, if you’re lazy like me, at least once a month.

15. I learned how to cook fish this year. Growing up, I never learned to cook meat or eggs, so after moving out, cooking fish for the first time felt like a small milestone. I even managed to make it just the way my grandmother—on my mother’s side—used to.

16. I visited about five art galleries in 2025, and each visit left me wanting to study art more deeply—learning how to read brushstrokes, how a withering leaf can exist beside blooming life, and how both quietly point toward the same end. I’m glad these galleries don’t allow photographs; it forces me to truly remember the paintings. I’ve found my favourites along the way—Claude Monet and Mario Miranda stand at the top of that list.

17. I read 17 books this year, and whenever I say that out loud, I hear Jess Mariano asking, “What is ‘much’?” Reading isn’t always easy when you have a lot going on—sometimes a book feels like a chore, and you read it anyway. Still, I moved through a wide range of genres, thanks largely to Jack Edwards, whose Inklings and reviews have often made choosing my next read easier.

18. I bought many things this year that might seem useless to the world, and I’m perfectly fine with that. My favourite purchase was a LEGO set—the flying car driven by Ron in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Sitting down and completing that set, piece by piece, turned out to be the most satisfying part of it all.

19. I grew a great deal in my professional life this year. I’m not someone who immediately warms up to people at a first meeting, which can make collaborative projects harder at the start. It’s almost as if my brain temporarily shuts out their words. But I’ve learned that when I don’t feel an instant connection with someone, it often means I’ll form a much stronger bond with them over time. Thankfully, by the end of the year, I had grown to genuinely like my colleagues—quite differently from my first impressions of them.

20. My website finally got its kickstart. I wanted a place to share my rambles with the world. The process is long—the ideation, the design, choosing a theme, and building a brand that represents me. It takes big steps and a lot of thinking, so I couldn’t wait for everything to be perfect. I have a plan taking shape now, and to quench the urge to create, I started publishing my essays here. Hopefully, in 2026, I’ll share that website with the world.

21. I went on a trip with my boyfriend—my first trip without family—and one that didn’t demand a strict list of things to do, only flow and enthusiasm. We reached the destination three hours early and ended up stranded at the beach, but at least we caught the sunrise with all our luggage piled beside us. I stayed there for three days, and they turned out to be some of the best days.

22. I fought a lot with the people around me this year. There was a phase when irritation settled into something heavier, tightening in my chest and making it hard to breathe. When left unattended, those emotions only grew more complex with time. With some people, I lashed out, convincing myself it wouldn’t affect them; once the anger left my system, I was left holding the wounds I had caused. With others, I suppressed it until it became unbearable, and when I ran from it, someone else took the fall. It became a cycle.

    They didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve to carry it either. Pain doesn’t justify more pain.

    I don’t expect forgiveness, and I know a simple apology doesn’t heal everything—but I still choose to try. Even if it takes time, I’m committed to making amends. I now know which voices to quiet and which to listen to, and that responsibility is mine alone.

23. I’m learning what love is. I’ve watched films and read fiction where characters call it love, but who truly gets to define it? I think I’ve found my answer. Love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a person. Sometimes, it can even be a dream, or a quiet cup of coffee. In 2025, love is a person for me. In films, no one calls someone “love” without reason. This person has seen me at my worst and my best, and despite all of it, chose to hold me when I was falling apart. He is love to me.

24. On my last trip of 2025, I found a cozy café. Sitting there—sipping tea on a cold night and again in a quiet morning—made up for everything that went wrong on that trip. It taught me that plans are often made to be destroyed, only to be rebuilt from the pieces into something unexpectedly beautiful.

25. Lastly, I’m grateful for my ability to write here. For having a space where I can express myself—to you and to the world—without judgement. Writing has become reflective for me; I often find my answers as I write. I’m grateful that language exists, and that we can carry our thoughts across lives.

Thank you for taking the time to read through my list.

As the calendar quietly turns, I still find myself wondering whether the arrival of a new year truly changes anything at all. We congratulate ourselves for surviving the old one—and perhaps that alone is reason enough—yet we cannot help asking if the next will be kinder.

So instead of promising transformation, I chose to end the year by noticing what already sustains me—a modest exercise in gratitude, and perhaps a more honest one.

I hope that, as you read through the page, you found a little joy or quiet solace in them too.

Happy New Year.

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How has this week been faring for you so far? I hear it’s started snowing in some places already. Outside my own window, the weather is getting colder, the sunshine softer, the evenings darker and nights longer. The days feel short but strangely peaceful and the nights quieter. The daylight hours perfect for a picnic if the breeze is kind and the sun basking the skin with its kind warmth, perfect for staying in if the warmth calls you home.

And truly, if a day is planned around small pleasures, it rarely turns dull.
Sure, the occasional bump arrives, but the good usually outweighs the inconveniences. It all depends on you how you measure your weighs.

Looking back, 2025 has been one of those strange years that felt slow at first and then suddenly rushed forward. February and March stretched forever. February being the shortest month, felt longer than ever. Well, there were some flowers give-n-take occasions but still slower than usual, or it was just me who felt it. August and September just vanished. And now here we are, already inching toward December.

Time slipped through the cracks this year.
But so did I, and maybe that’s what growing up feels like.

I traveled more than I expected to — not excessively, but enough to feel like my soul got a small recharge. I craved the sea and I craved the thrill. I’m an outdoor person, as long as the activities don’t remotely endanger my life. Yet this was also a year of hospitals, waiting rooms, and uncertainty. In May especially, my weekends felt like episodes of Dr. House, I was navigating scans, tests, and updates, but from the patient’s couch.

Meanwhile, my friends were getting married, or changing jobs.
My family was welcoming babies.
Life was blooming everywhere, even in the middle of exhaustion.

We are the generation finally growing into ourselves; slowly, quietly, unevenly. Soon we’ll be the ones carrying the weight of decisions, the ones the next generation will look to.

Some of us have found our place.
Some of us are still searching.
All of us are changing.

And somewhere in this confusing year, I began turning to art more than ever before. Not the loud, intimidating kind — but the small, private, everyday versions:

• books I kept buying even when my TBR groaned, so i joined a book club

• music that made mundane mornings feel cinematic,

• paintings I started making without expecting them to be “good,”

• writing here on Substack,

• dabbling in building a website,

• joining club simply minding my collage and zines.

I didn’t plan any of this.
They were small experiments, but somehow they stitched the year together. They made the slow days feel grateful and the fast ones feel thrilling.

One evening, as I was walking into a club, a girl stopped me because I was wearing an Evanescence shirt. She squealed, actually squealed, that she’d finally found someone else who knew the band. Meanwhile, I stood there red-cheeked, because I had picked the shirt purely at random. I didn’t know the weight, the nostalgia, or the emotional history it carried for people. It was like Andy being humbled by Miranda in that Cerulean sweater scene.

So I did what any embarrassed but curious person would do:
I went home and started listening.

Turns out, Evanescence is good. Really good. I remember liking a few songs but can’t seem to find them in my playlist anymore — maybe they slipped into my queue during a rushed morning, like most things in my life.

(edit: apparently it was ‘Going Under’. My memory is a sieve, not a brain.)

From there, I drifted into ABBA, thanks to that dinner with my colleagues.
My favourite? Lay All Your Love On Me.
A song that feels like dancing barefoot in someone’s memory.

I even watched the Mamma Mia! movies, partly because they’re basically a musical stitched together with ABBA’s greatest hits. The storyline is a little chaotic (in a charming way), but the aesthetics and the views are absolutely top-notch.

And FYI, did you know Mamma Mia! has a character played by our very kind and unshakeable Mrs. Weasley?
Yes — Julie Walters herself.
A cultural crossover I didn’t expect.

And then, naturally, this trail of musical archaeology led me to Elton John, mostly because I own a shirt of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and realised it was time I earned the right to wear it.

There’s a peculiar happiness in hearing a song you’ve just discovered suddenly play in a café or a restaurant. That happened to me often this year. My boyfriend would look at me, half-confused, half-amused, because somehow the world had started playing my playlist back to me.
A melody-ous coincidence, if there ever was one.

They say old is gold, and this year proved that in the softest ways.
So much of the music we listen to today traces its heartbeat back to singers from those earlier eras.
I hope I meet that Evanescence girl again, this time proudly as someone who actually listens to the band, not just wears the shirt.

One lesson learned:
before picking a merchandise tee of an unknown artist, I should probably do my research.
I tried buying a Dua Lipa shirt recently, but my size was out of stock; perhaps the universe intervening before I ended up in another accidental fandom.

And yet, 2025 had its own bops.
We had APT. by Bruno Mars and Rosé, and Soda Pop by the saga boys of K-POP’s Demon Hunters.
Play either of them and my head starts nodding, my shoulders joining in uninvited.

I might be late to ABBA, Evanescence, or Elton John.
I might not have lived their golden eras.
But their songs still revive something in the souls of today, including mine.

I’m yet to explore The Beatles (don’t come at me).
And when I need to concentrate, I retreat to lofi music, the soft hum of a world that doesn’t demand anything from me.
Kidding. It’s actually this Slytherin Dungeon playlist I made. When I’m in a crunch, I let the devil take the wheel.

Any singers I should try out? Drop your suggestions in the comment box.

If my writing is enjoyable, feel free to subscribe. It costs $0.00.
Until then, Adios!

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As someone who’s read way too many detective novels, I know the first rule: your habit will become the death of you.
Words I fully internalised after reading Richard Osman’s The Bullet That Missed, where Elizabeth and her husband Stephen get snubbed by a drug dealer. Elizabeth says a detective should never retrace the same path at the same time — a rule meant to avoid enemies, if you have any… or people in general, if you’re like me.

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So naturally, I don’t have a fixed sequence for my mornings.
I just… flow with the time.

I wake up around 8–8:30. If I wake up earlier, it’s usually because my father called and I answered with a voice that sounds like I’ve climbed out of a grave. On the way, I snooze my alarms, especially my deranged one set for 6:46 am. I couldn’t perfectly land the minutes hand on 9, so 6:46 it is.

What’s the first thing I do after waking up?
Groan about the beautiful dream I can’t recall. If I’m in a good mood, the groan sometimes comes with background music.

A week ago, and during rare bursts of motivation, I exercise.
Nothing fancy — just my dumbbells and a YouTube playlist.
If I manage to survive without sweating a bucket, I attempt breakfast.

Mostly, it’s a blender situation.

Important question:
Is it healthy to add coffee to a banana shake?
I want to try it so badly. I almost did today, but grinding beans felt like a task my half-awake brain refused to file.

After some fuel, I hit my treadmill. I curate my playlist like it’s a life-or-death situation. Lately, it’s either the F1: The Movie album or K-POP’s Demon Hunter’s Soda Pop. And tell me why it’s impossible not to bop my shoulders to “my little soda pop”? I literally did the shoulder step while writing this.

I try to run for 30 minutes, but unfortunately I have a job because I need money to buy books. By the end, I’m just a floating head. My arms and legs? Missing, Your Honour.
And honestly, sometimes I wonder why I put my legs through this torture. Is it something I actually want, or something I got influenced into wanting? I see people around me singing praises of fitness and how “aligned” they feel after their gym sessions.
Maybe it’s not alignment, or wish to sing with the group.
Maybe it’s just discipline dressed up as motivation.

By 10:30, I’m contemplating life choices and loudly wondering why I have “nothing to wear.” I’m usually on my third outfit change by this point.

Then, finally, comes my iced americano. While dancing through APT. by Rosé and Bruno Mars, I first ask my lovely machine to produce an espresso, and if I’m feeling daring, I’ll make it a double. No milk at this point. Just ice cubes in my tumbler, which I basically chug in one sip.

It’s 11 am, and I’m already late for work, but somehow my legs run faster toward the cab. Miraculously, I clock in before lunch.

And that, dear reader, is my morning routine.
Oh! And don’t forget the sunscreen.

The morning hours are my rituals. I don’t mind a late start or an early one. As long as I feel the satisfaction of getting things done, I’m fine. I’m the Blair Waldorf of my life — my business is (mostly) in order.

I do wish to wake up earlier sometimes.
The last time I did, I picked up a book and had to leave it at a cliffhanger because I was running late for office.
I hate adulting sometimes.
I thought my 20s would look like F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Spoiler: they don’t.

My mornings conclude with my cold coffee. And yours?

I don’t remember ever being a morning person two years ago — I used to rise only after the sun was well over my head. But now, when every hour of the day feels rushed, my mornings feel like the only quiet I get.
While I bop to Soda Pop or APT., I slip into a strange little pocket of bliss — unbothered, awake, and fully mine.
Not too warm, not too cold. Just… me.Thank you for reading, gentle heart.
If your routine is also held together by caffeine and chaos. Welcome home.

Tell me:
Are your mornings structured, chaotic, or “I’ll figure it out when I wake up”?

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We’re officially in the fall season.

Today, in the Footnotes of My Life edition, I wish you a cozy, happy fall — a season when the leaves begin to rust, bringing that Narnia and Santa-is-real feeling to my heart.

Being a total fall-crazy head, I throw myself into all the “fall-approved” activities, not just wearing turtlenecks and sipping hot chocolate. I have a strict film watchlist. Every year starts with a Dead Poets Society rewatch, followed by Gilmore Girls.

If you’re currently watching Gilmore Girls and want to avoid spoilers, this is your cue to scroll away, because this might just be the draft where I confess my love for the series.

Although, to be fair, I’m mostly here to gush about a few of my favorite characters and I promise, none of it really touches the main plot. I’ll try my best to keep it spoiler-free, and if a little coffee spills along the way, I swear it won’t ruin your watch.

And if you haven’t watched the show yet, I highly recommend giving it a try. Start with just one episode — or better, complete the first season. I promise you’ll fall in love with it. Maybe after reading my little anecdotes here, you’ll want to give it a shot.

A small-town setup with such vibrant characters. My favourites? Paris Geller and Michel Gerard. I always sip my coffee during their remarks. Pure joy. I especially love the part when Paris becomes the Chief Editor of Yale Daily News. Liza Weil played that role so perfectly; no one else could’ve done it better.

Here’s one of my favourite lines from Paris:

“I am not your mother or your hugger. If you need some love, get a hooker. If you’re having a bad day, find a ledge or a way to deal. My door is not open to you. Ever.”

I have a thing for rhyme — so this one instantly makes it to my top list.

Paris started off as a “villain,” but as she evolved, she became one of the most enjoyable characters to watch. She’s goal-oriented, fiercely intelligent, maybe a little mean at times, but she brought such a unique energy to the show.

I still laugh at that moment when a guy asks her out and she says, “Aw, I missed the moment when I was asked out.” Classic Paris.

“Are you going to move? Or do you need a 5, 6, 7, 8?”

She’s hardworking, and even though she has a complicated relationship with her parents, her bond with her nanny shows such a soft, kind side of her. Her energy can seem intense, but she always makes sure everyone on her team gives their best. She’s the reason Rory managed to increase her WPM!

And that debate scene was hilarious. Poor Brad — terrified of Paris after transferring schools, only to find her competing against him. Of course, his team lost.

Then, after being elected as Student Body President, she was invited to D.C., and the members of Congress were practically running away from her. There’s this one scene where a senator manages to slip away to the restroom just to avoid her — and when she appears, he bolts in the opposite direction. That’s the kind of energy she had.

I know it might seem harsh, but it’s Paris. She wouldn’t be her without that.

She even dated a professor, who also happened to be Rory’s grandfather’s friend. Definitely a weird Paris phase. It was also kind of rude how she was cheating on her Princeton boyfriend (whose name I honestly can’t remember). She broke up with him like she was placing a return on an order; cold, efficient, and a little heartbreaking.

But then again, who doesn’t have flaws?

She might look harsh on the surface, but isn’t every academically driven girl a bit like her? Smart, strong-willed, maybe a little unaware of her rage-fueled intensity; but admirable all the same.

She dreamed of going to Harvard, and it broke my heart when she didn’t get in. But she bounced back, got into Yale, and grew into such a mature, grounded woman.

Paris Geller was, and still is the kind of friend I’d do anything to have.

Michel Gerard, played by Yanic Truesdale, is one of the most colorful characters in Gilmore Girls. He’s eccentric, dramatic, and unapologetically sassy. The kind of person who can make eye-rolling feel like an art form.

As the front desk manager (and later, a vital part of the Dragonfly Inn dream team with Lorelai and Sookie), Michel brings a certain French flair — equal parts elegance and attitude. His dry wit and endless complaints are what make him unforgettable.

“People are particularly stupid today. I can’t talk to any more of them.”

That line alone sums him up perfectly. Michel is a mix of awful and adorable, grumpy in the most entertaining way.

His relationship with Lorelai and Sookie is one of my favorite dynamics in the show. They bicker constantly, but underneath all that sarcasm, there’s real affection. Their banter feels like friendship disguised as mockery. Very on-brand for Michel.

“Excuse me. There is a phone call for you, and if I’m to fetch you like a dog, I’d like a cookie and a raise.”

The man’s comedic timing is unmatched.

Fun fact: Michel is terrified of swans. During a wedding event at the Inn, he volunteers to find the missing swan, just to avoid working with the harp player who was a little too charmed by him. That’s Michel in a nutshell, petty, particular, and painfully funny.

He’s also absurdly meticulous about his appearance. Of course, he’s French, his suits are impeccable, and his shoes always shine. I still laugh at the scene where he asks Sookie to make him a pancake with exactly thirteen blueberries. She catches him counting them, of course.

He’s such a diva. But honestly? The show wouldn’t be the same without him.

Among all the main stars that Gilmore Girls revolves around, these two — Paris and Michel — add such a distinct flare to the show. They’re not just side characters, they’re the spice that keeps the world of Stars Hollow interesting.

I don’t know what that says about me, but I’ve been told more than once that I can be a bit cold, like Paris; those sharp edges, big ambitions, and a heart that only opens when it’s safe to. And maybe that’s why I see a bit of my soul in Michel too. A bit dramatic, particular, and quietly yearning for order in a messy world.

But I do wish Stars Hollow were real, and that I could stay at the Dragonfly Inn and enjoy Sookie’s cooking.

So, are you going to rewatch or give the series a coffee shot? I’m curious to know who your favorite character would be. Maybe we could bond over that.

What’s your fall ritual? I’d love to know what makes this season special for you.

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This weekend, I’m attending my monthly Sunday club, and this time, the activity is to write something.

I picked the theme “Invention,” and one of the prompts caught my eye — “The first sound you hear when you wake up.”

And oh boy, no one complains about it quite the way I do.

So, before I lose my flow, I hope you enjoy what I wrote while listening to Serenade in G Major, K.525 “Eine kleine Nachtmusik”: II. Romanze (Andante), by Christopher Warren-Green & London Chamber Orchestra.

I don’t even know why I went and searched for the exact title — maybe the music just deserved it.

The first sound I hear when I wake up these days is the ambulance — followed by cars honking.

It always makes me wonder: why does someone have to rush that early in the morning? And why can’t others just stop and let the ambulance pass, so the siren can finally rest?

I don’t want this to sound like a complaint about traffic or a rant about honking psychology — that would make it sound like a school essay. This isn’t that.

What I really mean is that those sounds remind me of a time when the world woke up differently.

When I was a kid, I’d wake up to birds chirping, the sound of the wind moving through trees, and the smell of fresh air slipping through the window. The first thing I’d see after opening my eyes was green. The lush leaves and yellow flowers blooming outside. The world felt soft, slow, and blissful.

I wasn’t an early bird, so it took quite an effort for my father to get me out of bed. Sometimes, he’d just pull me by my ankles. A morning torture I wasn’t exactly fond of.

Back then, his mornings were free. He’d take me on his daily walk, usually around 6 a.m. I’d drag my feet a little, still half asleep, but I’d go anyway.

We lived near a university campus, so our route circled the quiet residential quarters. People from nearby areas would come for their morning walks too. I used to get praised by familiar faces — “such an obedient kid,” they’d say, seeing me trotting beside my father. I secretly enjoyed that.

During those walks, he’d teach me things: why the sun changes color from red to yellow, how to identify different trees, how some seeds could be pressed to extract antibacterial oils.

And then there was that flower, the one in the picture below. Its scientific name is Nyctanthes arbor-tristis, also called night-flowering jasmine, or shiuli in Bengali. The name arbor-tristis translates to “sad tree,” because the flowers bloom at night and fall by dawn.

When I’d touch the flowers, they’d scatter easily, showering me in soft orange and white petals. I loved that part. Press them gently against your palm, and they leave behind a faint orange tint, the kind that smells like morning.

PS: I didn’t know it was called the “sad tree” until I started writing this, but now that I do, it makes sense. Whenever I visit, not a single flower stays on the branch. I pick them from the ground — no harm done to the tree.

Knowing its name now, I think I understand its sadness — a tree that blooms only to let go, just as I had to let go of those peaceful mornings and the soft filter of childhood.

If you grew up in a Hindu household, you’ve probably seen many deities being worshipped at home. My family wasn’t an exception. We had an entire room dedicated to it. Each deity, I learned, had their own favourite flowers.

One of them was the arakha flower — known in English as the crown flower or giant milkweed, with the scientific name Calotropis gigantea.

It’s said to be the favourite of Goddess Saraswati, the Indian goddess of wisdom — a peaceful counterpart to Athena. Beyond its role in worship, the arakha flower is also valued for its medicinal properties, though I can’t quite recall what they were. All I can add is that it blooms in two gentle shades — lavender and white. I’ve always liked the lavender ones more. After we plucked them, my father would string them into a garland to offer to Goddess Saraswati.

Then there was the dragonhead, a flowering plant from the mint family that includes many species. I usually kept my distance from them because they always attracted bees, and I was terrified of being stung.

I used to keep a small herbology notebook where I’d write down everything I learned — the names of flowers, their colours, their uses.

Those were chaotic yet peaceful mornings.

Now, I live in a new city, and I’ve grown too lazy to wake up early and run to the park nearby. When I first moved here, I used to go often. That’s where I found a little hill with an arch on top, it felt like the doorway to Narnia. Magical, almost as if my inner child had found a place to breathe again. I would run the same route every morning, the way my father used to.

I’d come across new flowers that sparked my curiosity, but now I don’t have my father beside me to name them. Sometimes I send him photos and ask what they’re called. He usually can’t remember, so I make up names of my own. One of them I call tiger lily cause it’s in bright red, shaped like a folded lily. These flowers fall just like the ones from the sad tree.

Sometimes, I miss those words. The things he taught me, the things I learned on those walks. I once wanted to be a botanist, studying plants and their quiet mysteries. But that dream wilted somewhere along the way. I grew up, earned a degree in computer science, and now work a nine-to-five.

Still, one day, I want to wake up to that same smell of morning air — instead of the scream of an ambulance.

That’s all for today’s Footnotes of My Life.
May your mornings be gentle, your sirens few, and your coffee just right.

If you enjoyed this piece, subscribe to follow along — and join me for more quiet ramblings and Sunday thoughts.

Today, in the Footnotes of My Life edition, I bring you another small rumbling from my mind.

In Bengali, there are two words that carry a heavy feeling in my heart — ghar (house) and badi (home).
I was too young back then to realise how different they truly were. My father once told me that house refers to someone else’s habitat, while home is your own. I never truly understood its depth, but I’d been using the word correctly all along.

The place I grew up in was my address for twenty years of my life. It was the neighbourhood I used to call my home — the streets where I played as a kid, got chased by dogs at 6:30 a.m. (don’t ask me why I was out that early), or pulled harmless tricks on the neighbours. I played cricket, stayed out late at friends’ houses, and planned world dominations we never followed through on.

In 2020, I moved to a new neighbourhood with my family. I never liked the new one; still don’t.

The old neighbourhood I used to call home still lingers in my memory.

But what I miss most are the people, the family I made with the old couples next door. I was never close to my own grandparents, but I found two pairs of them in that neighbourhood. They brought me gifts, tolerated my tantrums, and taught me kindness in their quiet ways.

I miss them. I miss those streets where I learned to ride my cycle and taught my brother to ride his.

When we moved, the farewell was bitter. I never told my parents how sad I was because I could already see it on their faces. That was the first time I truly understood what my father meant by the difference between a house and a home.

Years later, that lesson would return to me when I had to leave again. This time not just my street, but my city.

Fast forward: I moved again, this time to a new city.

I cried my first night alone, away from my parents. People ask me why I don’t call them often, but the truth is, it breaks my heart to talk to my mother from miles away when I used to do it just by walking four steps. That realisation saddened me, but it also armoured me.

The new city was louder, faster, and a little too bright at night. The air smelled different.

Now, when I visit my family. I barely recognise the old neighbourhood, my home. Even the streets can’t bring back that old sense of belonging. I felt homeless.
It doesn’t hurt as much anymore when I leave the city I grew up in — and maybe that hurts in a different way.

These days, I keep myself busy.
I take on new Jira tickets, pick up new hobbies; anything to keep my heart from sitting still.

While on my way to work, I look at the trees and the birds flying above. The strange city I live in sometimes feels like home, but deep down I know it’s an illusion. It might never accept me. It might always label me an outsider.

And the home I grew up in, the ties have weakened. It no longer radiates the warmth I crave. I feel cold, and my heart colder.
I had forgotten what warmth felt like.
I didn’t cry; I just stared blankly at the birds, chirping happily in their home.

Those were the tundra years of my life.

Then, slowly, I started letting new faces in.
I shared my joys and my sorrows with them. It wasn’t quick. It took months to open up. But their kindness, their warmth, their pain, their laughter — I felt all of it. And little by little, the warmth reached my heart again.

Somewhere between coffee runs and late-night talks, the silence inside me began to loosen.

That’s when I realised: the home I was longing for was never a place. It was within me, and among the people who made me feel seen.

It takes people and shared memories to build a home, not bricks and sticks.

Maybe that’s who I’ll call my badi — my people, my home.

What about you? Where do you find your sense of home these days?
Let me know in the comments below. I’d love to hear what home means to you.

And since we’re in the season of light, Happy Diwali! 🪔
I hope the home and love you seek come to you as bright and prosperous as the festival itself.

Until next time,
Sadhana

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Hello, curious readers!

I finally managed to disturb your screen time with something that might stretch your brain a little, without demanding you scroll for new content every five seconds.

So, today’s theme is Footnotes of My Life, the little things I admired.

I’ve been holding on to this memory, waiting for the right moment to cast Expecto Patronum. I think my owl got lost somewhere (must’ve been a daft one). Since there’s no harm in sharing happy memories, here it goes.

I was flipping through the pages of my book while on my way in the metro. The sunlight scattered through the glass, breaking into a beautiful band of rainbow. The scene outside was so green, dense, blooming flowers cascading from the trees’ branches. I felt content in that moment.

I hope you could picture it. And if it made you happy, maybe you can use it to cast your own Patronus. I hope mine would be an otter or a capybara. What would yours be?

We know from Lupin’s lesson that every happy memory can’t be a powerful one. So while I list mine, help me decide which one I should pick.

It was early November, and I decided to go for a morning run. Well, not exactly a run. I don’t have that level of sporting spirit. I just like to walk through Cubbon Park, sharing the track with other early risers.

And one spectacular morning, I was blessed with a scene I still can’t forget. Three adorable dogs were running around a tree, playing hide-and-seek. The smallest one of the trio hid behind a bush while the other two circled around, searching for him. Then, with perfect timing, when they looked in opposite directions, that little fluffball leapt out and rolled on the grass, triumphant in his trick.

These are the little things that often go unnoticed amid everything else happening in our lives. It’s hard to breathe without planning or thinking about something that furrows our brows.

Some of my friends get migraines, and I do too, occasionally. Yet here I am, sitting and typing these thoughts while trying to shut out the noise of the world.

I’m not saying shutting the world out or focusing on “important things” is irrelevant. We need those mind-numbing spirals; they make us who we are. They make the itch for tiny joys even more meaningful.

You’ve got to hustle to deserve those small delights; they complement each other. You need to starve for one to enjoy the other.

But sometimes, we keep ourselves starved for so long that the hunger for joy slowly fades.

Well, we can’t look for these small moments all the time.
Maybe that’s why I’ve started paying closer attention to the world again, not through moments this time, but through colors.

A YouTube short suggested picking a color for the month, and every time you notice it, take a picture.

You might’ve seen similar reels on Instagram too, where the creator asks you to look around and find something in your favorite color. The idea is simple: it grounds you, reminds you that you’re in a safe space, and that whatever’s troubling you will eventually come to ease.

I like this theory of color. Maybe that’s why we choose to paint our walls in shades that soothe us.

Wanna know what I did with mine? I asked them to paint the walls pink, just so I’d stop buying pink clothes. My wardrobe was brimming with them.

Did it work? Kind of. I just started buying another color instead.

Now that I don’t live among pink walls anymore, I’m back to buying pink clothes again. And honestly, as long as it matches my mood, I’m fine with it.

I finally get to choose pink without guilt. I’ve grown past the phase of thinking “pink is too girly for me.” It’s okay to like pink, to wear pink, to own pink, as long as it feels like you.

So yes, surprisingly, I chose pink for my noticing-things challenge this month.

I like every pink except strawberry flavor, not a big fan of that one.

What about you, what color would you pick for the challenge?

Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Until then, I’ll be back here with another story from my mind.

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