It was at a street festival, and the reader had built an entire persona around her craft. She wore the prettiest pastel blue sundress dotted with white daisies. You could tell she was petite, but she carried a larger-than-life presence that somehow beamed through the giant green alien mask she wore to conceal her identity. Yes, she actually had a massive papier-mâché alien head on. I still have no idea how she survived under it for hours. Toronto’s summer sun is not the kindest. I mean, I was wearing a sundress and wanted to sit inside a freezer.

This was my first tarot reading experience so naturally, my brain was racing with all sorts of questions I could ask. But thanks to that one tarot reader on TikTok, I knew exactly what not to ask. Her words rang like a prophecy; “don’t ask if anyone will come back, if you’ll land a job or if you’ll get famous. Your questions need to be super clear.” (I am paraphrasing here but she did say something along these lines)

The Alien Tarot Reader offered two services: a three-card spread or a “quick message from the universe.” I chose the former. Once she finished narrating her backstory in the most animated voice, she took a deliberate pause, held my friend’s hand in one of hers and mine in the other, and said:

“I cannot predict the future. Tarot cannot predict the future. In fact, nothing can predict the future. But what I can do is connect you with the future version of yourself and let that version of you send you a message.”

That was the first time I realized that what we call wanting to know the future might just be wanting reassurance from the person we’re becoming.

Why We Ache To Know About The Future

If you’ve been reading my work here for a while, you may remember the numerous times I’ve reiterated that I am not a skeptic. In fact, you’ll often find light astrological motifs woven into my writing. I love astrology! Not because it gives me an excuse to blame Mercury retrograde for my mishaps or Saturn for an especially intense streak of life lessons but simply because it helps build a pattern. And truth be told, I love connecting dots and watching them form a bigger picture.

(Plus, if I’m being honest, I also love guessing people’s zodiac signs and watching their eyes widen when I get it right.)

Whimsy aside, our brains are pattern-making machines.

Long before birth charts and tarot decks, survival depended on connecting dots swiftly and accurately. A change in birdsong could signal a predator. A rustle in the grass? Congratulations! You might be a lion pride’s Sunday brunch.

Pattern recognition allowed our ancestors to predict what might happen next and prepare for it before it arrived. And over the years, we’ve trained our brains to register uncertainty as danger.

Today, the “rustle in the grass” is a delayed text message or a job application left unacknowledged. The threat is no longer just physical, but the body reacts as if it is. Within a matter of mere seconds, our cortisol levels rise and the mind spirals, usually toward worst-case scenarios. We go full wilderness mode, hunting for information to close the loop.

If you’re like me, you might dress this up as boldness.

“I just don’t like collecting what-ifs.”

“I’d rather say it now than regret it later.”

It sounds decisive. Brave, even. But let’s call it what it is: intolerance of uncertainty.

Our brain would rather have a bad answer than no answer at all. Our body would rather brace for heartbreak than sit in the limbo of “maybe.” Certainty — even if it’s unpleasant — allows the nervous system to settle and relax.

Rather than going the long route (sitting with your emotions, writing it down, having a chat with yourself to address your nervous system etc), we reach for the future because we crave control.

In that sense, astrology, tarot and angel numbers are attempts at regulation, not necessarily delusional or illogical. They turn the raging anxiety of “what if?” into a narrative.

But here’s a question for the culture: if tarot truly predicted the future, wouldn’t it terrify us?

Because a fixed future leaves no room for agency or choice and that, to me, is far scarier than uncertainty.

Tarot As Mirror, Not Prophecy

For the record, I have a very rudimentary understanding of tarot. I don’t fully understand how this esoteric occult system works, and I have my fair share of hesitations (mostly because of the generic tarot readings that flood my FYP when I’m hanging on by a thread)

But from what I gathered that summer afternoon, tarot is less about prediction and more about exchange of energies.

What grounded me about my first reading was that she didn’t promise a glimpse into a fixed future or hand me a destination. She offered advice from a possible version of myself. Not certainty. Just guidance.

And that subtle shift changes everything.

This is how I look at tarot; instead of fate, I think tarot hands us archetypes and then waits to see what we do with them.

Take the Six of Cups (popularly associated with nostalgia or the return of a past lovers) Person A pulls it and hears music. Person B pulls it and feels dread. The card hasn’t changed and the meaning hasn’t shifted.

Same card, different experiences. Because somewhere deep down, we have already organized our memories into emotional categories.

My friends would label this as projection; the tendency to ascribe meaning to ambiguous triggers based on our internal landscape. When two people pull the same card and walk away with entirely different revelations, the message is less about the cosmos and more about the subconscious.

For me, tarot is a narrative-making tool, offering a symbolic language for fear, desire, grief and longing. It does a solid job at turning abstract anxiety into something we can hold in our hands.

Fate vs Free Will

If I looked at your birth chart and found Rahu in your ninth house, I might tell you that you’re destined to live far away from your birthplace. But if you never apply for the job abroad, file the visa or muster the courage to build a life across continents, that destiny will never see the light of day.

This is where nuance enters the chat.

Fate and hope are deeply comforting. The idea that certain people, opportunities, and heartbreaks were always going to find us makes life feel less arbitrary. Together, fate and hope suggest that even our detours are part of a design. But free will demands insists our choices matter, reinstating that we are not merely passengers, but participants.

If everything is written, then nothing is truly our fault.
If nothing is written, then everything is our responsibility.

Both extremes feel unbearable, depending on which side of the bed I wake up on. On a good day, I am completely at ease with the hustle and taking risks. But on the days when my world feels like it’s on fire, I’d rather blame fate than take an ounce of responsibility. Surrender feels spiritual when things are going well but feels like avoidance when they’re not.

Perhaps, this tension isn’t meant to be resolved. Maybe It’s best to live in-between, acting as though our decisions shape our lives, while trusting that what stays was meant to stay.

Or like my very good personal friend Taylor Swift said on “august”; “To live for the hope of it all”

If my first tarot experience left me grounded, my second left me giggling.

A couple of days back, I was at a festival with work friends when we stumbled upon a tarot reader and decided, collectively, to give it a shot. Our group consisted of two believers, one skeptic, and one exuberant woman oscillating between the two. Needless to say, our experiences varied.

This reader offered two services: an energy pull or “ask me anything about your future.” Despite the TikTok tarot reader’s earlier warnings, I asked the exact questions I had been told not to waste time on.

But instead of walking away with blind hope or devastating certainty, I simply raised an eyebrow and smiled at her predictions. I didn’t feel transformed or reassured.

Ah, hope. I miss the times you sat beside me when I still wore rose-colored glasses.

Here’s what I was listening to while writing this Substack

Quite a fitting album to stream considering it opens with “the1”

Much like the inspiration behind my earlier Substack, I read Kylee’s comment and thought, “wow! That’s a well-adjusted way to look at things.” Wanting to be haunted because it’s proof that something mattered (PS: do subscribe to their Substack and , thank you for the inspiration)

But would this logic sustain if you found out you were erased? Would you still want to be haunted?

I’m sitting on the bathroom floor burdened with memories I could have sworn once featured two souls.

I remember them as clearly as the night when something gentle took hold of my spirit and refused to leave. I think that was the night our hands brushed for the first time. I remember these moments with the same clarity as the afternoon light gleaming in your eyes, warming a hazel gaze I didn’t think could soften any further.

I remember because I lived there. I remember because I cared.

I am certain beyond doubt that these photographs once captured the golden edges of our torrid affair. And yet time, in her unfaithful ways, has left me unsure. My courage to defend the story of us is wearing thin in any court of law, across lands and oceans, even beneath the moons that witnessed it all.

On winter evenings your hollow confessions echo through the chambers of my soul. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the quiet violence of holding onto every word you spoke as if it were truth delivered straight from a prophet’s mouth.

But before I wallow in self-pity, I have something to confess:

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—for I mistook attention for intention, believing the moments I shared with my beloved would imprint themselves on his soul. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I think forced a good man to play a role I wrote alone for a film I believed we were making.

What an inconvenience that role must have been. The discomfort you must have experienced being held in my arms night after night. What a burden it must have been to perform affection so convincingly. What an accomplishment it must have been to be a chapter in my life while quietly erasing me from the footnotes of yours.

They say first love carries the purest essence of innocence. But innocent was the version of my before the night fate pulled the rug beneath my feet. Slamming me against the cold, hard floor of reality.

Innocence was the version of me the morning before I learned that the days you claimed were harrowing without me were anything but. I was innocent until the moment I realized that everything real happened after me, but everything real happened to me when I was with you. Love found you later. Choice found you later. Even heartbreak arrived on time—just not for us. Never with me nor in my absence.

There is a particular kind of deception in waking up to this realization.

I watch every I love you rearrange itself into a long con, violently colliding with the sincerity of my devotion. Okay fine, I raise my hands and surrender to the crime of loving in good faith and for believing that love would always linger in places it once bloomed. I accept all charges.

But before I’m imprisoned, please hear my confession again: I wasn’t waiting for a spectacle. No sky-written declaration announcing I mattered. No hidden track in the album of your life where my name appeared wrapped in cues only I could pick. Just a word — maybe two— in the liner notes.

I’ve never been one to beg for footnotes in the story of anyone’s life—least of all yours. I suppose being erased from the life you once wished to haunt does that to you.

But unlike the greatest con you played on me, I will keep you alive in my memory. Because who am I, if not a museum of everything I’ve loved? Gently tendering to every relic of love I’ve ever experienced.

It hurts now. It might hurt tomorrow too. But one day, it won’t hurt at all. And when that day comes, this story will be mine. Not yours. Not ours. Just mine.

I think I’ll sit on the bathroom floor a little longer, watching the pictures in my palms get replaced by sketches of the day the love I gave returns to me. I know this because love has remembered me before.

If anything, you were the anomaly.

Author’s Note

Hi, it’s Div.

I don’t usually end my essays with a personal note, but I wanted to briefly explain the intent behind this piece.

This essay is the second in a trilogy exploring memory and what it means to be remembered—or quietly erased—after something ends. The idea for a three-part series came to me after reading Kylee’s comment.

That first essay explored a familiar wish: if I couldn’t remain in someone’s life, perhaps my absence could linger. It was messy, angry and somewhat hopeful.

This piece, “I Existed. Pity You Don’t Remember,” sits in the bitter aftermath of that hope. It confronts the realization that you may not haunt anyone at all or earn the mercy of a footnote.

The final piece will close this cycle.

Thank you for sitting with these stories and allowing me to run wild with my delusional writings.

All the love (and hugs),

Div xx

A couple of days back, I was scrolling through my Notes app and came across a note titled “Angel Numbers in the Wild.”

During the summer of 2025, I started seeing repeated numbers everywhere—on my phone, on cars, on doors—so frequently that I began logging them just to see if a pattern would emerge.

You might be reading this and thinking, damn, this girl is not alright and honestly, fair. It does sound like something only an unhinged person would do. I mean, would a sane person use their Notes app to track angel numbers instead of grocery lists or to draft the most heartbreaking piece of modern literature? (Don’t worry, I use it for those activities too.)

But here’s the thing: summer 2025 was, without question, the most mentally sane and genuinely chirpy I had been in a long time.

I had no immediate stressors or tales of woes to wallow over. Instead of sad lores, there were concerts to attend (and outfits carefully curated to match the vibe), work was rewarding, matcha runs were plentiful and my summer dress collection was finally seeing the streets of Toronto.

Yes, my work visa was expiring in T-minus four months, but it didn’t ruin the season.

One might assume I was tracking these numbers because I was desperately searching for a sign, hoping the universe might clue me in on whether I’d somehow find a way to stay back.

But no.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t outsourcing a decision to the universe or looking to her for answers. I wasn’t asking what should I do?

I was simply enjoying the quiet comfort of believing that things might be working in my favour in general without needing a cosmic nudge spelling it out for me.

And that’s the distinction.

If you’re someone who sees numbers or signs “in the wild” and uses them to arrive at a conclusion, trust me when I say this: that’s not a sign your decision is right. That’s decision paralysis you haven’t worked through yet with a dash of spiritual psychosis.

(And yes, I’m speaking from lived experience)

Divine Sign vs Decision Paralysis

To be clear, I am not a skeptic. I am your average astrology-loving, divine-timing girl on the internet.

My favourite way to escape small talk is by asking people what their big three (sun, moon and rising) are or what time they were born. I am, as evidenced by my Notes app, someone who believes everything means something. I’ve also been on the flip side where I’ve outright outsourced my decisions and actions to the universe by giving her extremely specific instructions.

“Universe, if you do XYZ, I will do ABC.”

And more often than I can count, things have unfolded exactly according to the script I’d silently narrated. Sometimes to my delight and sometimes, very much to my detriment, I got what I asked for.

Which is why the Summer 2025 experience felt so freeing. Because for the first time, I clearly saw how liberating it can be to simply believe without waiting for a sign to validate every step.

That experience helped me understand how I can always stay on the liberated side of this cosmic litmus test a.k.a how to tell whether I’m stuck in decision paralysis or whether what I’m witnessing is actually a sign.

And it’s literally so simple.

If I ever find myself asking, “Is x a sign that I should do y ” then I am outsourcing my decision-making to the cosmos.

Sadly, that’s not being spiritual or a believer in the divine. That’s the sound of someone who already knows the truth—who has the answers—but is too chicken to either admit it or act on it.

How Do You Overcome Decision Paralysis?

Decision paralysis usually isn’t about not knowing. It’s about being afraid of what this knowing will require of you.

So instead of asking yourself (or the universe, your friend, your neighbour’s dog) “how do I decide,” the real question you should start asking yourself is “how do I stop hiding from my own agency.”

Here’s a quick guide for that:

Step 1: Notice When You’re Asking That Question

We’ve already discussed this, but on the off chance you skimmed through it, here’s a quick rundown: the second you find yourself thinking, “Is this a sign?” hit a hard pause. That angel number on your phone is probably not a sign you should accept the job, sign the new lease or text your ex, but the question is a sign that shows you already know what you want and you’re hoping for cosmic validation.

Step 2: Get Real With Yourself

Rather than ruminating and pondering over “Is X meant for me?” or “Is it cosmically meant for me?”, ask yourself, “What am I dying to hear?” “What do I desperately want to be true?”

Your answer may be inconvenient, but that’s how you know what’s real and that truth will help you chart out your next steps with clarity.

Step 3: Hold Your Horses

You’re probably in a state of decision paralysis because you’ve hinged too much on this one decision. While it’s true one decision can change your life, we often, by default, think of change as something scary—ergo the fear of making the wrong choice. But don’t decide your entire future based on one decision. Instead, decide the next, least intimidating step.

Step 4: Write It Down

Go ahead, pull out your Notes app or notepad for the pros and cons list. Nothing brings more clarity than pen to paper. Have that conversation with yourself and evaluate the consequences of your decision. But don’t wallow or spiral. Just write down your first thoughts and once you’re done, keep it away. Come back to it after a couple of hours and evaluate.

Step 5: Trust That You Can Handle Being Wrong

Cannot stress this enough, but this is extremely important.

This is the part we avoid admitting: you’re not afraid of choosing wrong. You’re afraid you won’t survive it.

But historically speaking, you have survived things you thought you wouldn’t—and here you are! Thriving, smiling, and looking very cute.

So don’t worry! You are capable of handling whatever consequences this decision will bring. And speaking from personal experience, once you’ve experienced the consequences of your decision and swallowed the Big ‘L pill,’ you have an evergreen hero story. One you’ll replay in your head whenever self-doubt creeps in, just to remind yourself you survived that. Bonus: It builds insane confidence.

Step 6: Just Chill

After you decide, resist the urge to pick the wound. No group chats, spiraling Notes app monologues, or tarot card pulls. In fact, go ahead and block those tarot keywords and anyone on your feed that interacts with tarot girlies, bringing those readings onto your page.

This is by no means a scientifically backed guide, but it’s tried and tested by me, and the results haven’t been shabby.

Not to toot my own horn, I’m usually good at making decisions and rarely get stuck in decision paralysis, but I swear every woman has a deep lore tied to the age-old question, “Universe, is this a sign?” that has sent her into a state of spiritual psychosis. It’s deeply embarrassing, mostly humbling, but a hilarious tale nonetheless.

I thought I was the only one until I came across a Reel on Instagram set to Taylor Swift’s “Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” with the copy that read, “When he sends you into spiritual psychosis.” The comments consisted of girls coming together and sharing their “Is this a sign from the universe?” stories—one of which was, “Me when the Uber code was my ex’s birthday so I thought we would get back together.”

It’s a shame I can’t find that Reel because the comments were top-tier.

But ladies, let’s be real. Do we really think the universe, in her infinite wisdom, has the time to send us signs about whether we should accept a subpar job offer or respond to a man’s text?

Be serious.

‘Hello, is anyone listening?’ is a weekly (maybe) personal essay series where I unpack thoughts I’ve avoided saying out loud, convinced they’d earn me a concerned look. But I’m publishing them anyway, hoping I’m not the exception and that at least one reader out there raises an eyebrow and whispers, “same.”

Last year, when I finally got on Hinge for reasons other than window-shopping and a good ol’ ego-boost (guilty as charged! Apologies for using the app as entertainment for nearly half a decade), I was immediately bombarded with the infamous “online dating playbook.” Everywhere I looked, TikTok and Instagram were overflowing with advice on how a “high-value woman” (whatever that means) should approach dating.

The funny thing is, I never had some long, exhausting list of dos and don’ts for my Hinge matches. In fact, I vividly remember telling my friends that my bar, when gauged by the standards set in by Hinge experts, was practically on the floor . All I wanted was a good conversation and, hopefully, no love bombing or abduction .

But as I started matching with people, sharing my experiences and getting aggressively targeted with “Hinge 101” content, I realized my take on dating was very much going against the tide.

Seriously, What’s Wrong With Coffee Dates?

For the record, I’ve always been a huge fan of coffee dates for one simple reason: they offer the perfect level of intimacy for a first encounter, which is almost none.

Unless your conversations on the apps (or wherever you met them) are absolutely riveting and the chemistry is already magnetic, I genuinely don’t see why two strangers should commit to three hours over dinner, choking on small talk and the pressure to be charming (as a Pisces stellium girl, I loathe small talk.)

But according to dating and relationship content creators, coffee dates are a no-go.

“You need to gauge a man’s ability to invest in you, and that can’t be achieved over coffee,” they say. Others argue that coffee dates signal low interest, or that men who suggest them are simply going on too many dates, making coffee the cheapest and most non-committal option.

I disagree.

If anything, this thinking opens the door to a different flavour of love bombing. Elaborate first dates, at best, are smoke and mirrors. When genuine connection is the rarest currency in modern dating, over-the-top first dates hit different, making it feel like persuasion and not pursuit.

And honestly, the dream isn’t to be pursued. It’s to be understood.

@drmaxbutterfield

Max Butterfield on Instagram: "How to grow your relationship

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Of course, this would be a very different conversation if you’d been dating someone for a year or two and they suddenly stopped putting effort into planning dates. That would be a red flag. But when you’re just getting to know someone, I don’t think a five-course dinner helps anyone.

Much of the online discourse seems to come from the “I treat myself well, so I need to see if a man will treat me better or at least equally” camp. And that’s fair. Completely valid. But if our definition of “being treated well” begins and ends with elaborate gestures on day one, then maybe first dates deserve a little more nuance and grace.

@esthersarphatie

Esther Sarphatie on Instagram: "Never accept a coffee date for …

The narrative implied in Ester Sarphatie’s video is beyond rudimentary and extremely click-baity. Accepting a coffee date will never, in any universe, imply that you’re a woman who’s okay with the bare minimum nor does it say anything about how you view yourself.

Sarphatie’s goes on to explain that the purpose of dating is to have fun and get to know the other person, something they claim cannot be achieved over coffee. Well, I have an anecdote that directly challenges this line of thinking.

From personal experience: my first date after years of chronic singleness was with someone I absolutely adored talking to online. He was charming, had a great profile, looked good, chose the perfect date-night spot in my favourite neighbourhood, and planned the dinner within days of us talking. (If you ever find yourself in Toronto, you must go to Bar Poet and try the NYC Spicy Rigatoni, the Poet Caesar Salad, and pair it with either the Poet Sour or The Juliet Rosé.)

I digress.

My friends approved of him instantly and were pleasantly shocked that I’d matched with someone who seemed that great so quickly. And as someone who’s very much a “this is a sign from the universe” kind of gal, the great conversation paired with one of my favourite restaurants in my favourite neighbourhood had my internal universe radar firing. (Don’t worry—I kept it under control.)

But the moment we met in person, it became the longest three hours of my life and felt like I was sitting across from a completely different person. I walked back to my friend’s place afterward, told her everything and left her genuinely stunned.

A few days later, I went on another first date and this time to a coffee spot literally twenty steps away from my work desk. It ended up being the most entertaining hour of my entire day. I was charmed and practically skipped to my friend’s place afterward, grinning like an idiot. In fact, that hour long coffee date gave me more insights as compared to the 3 hour dinner date.

Two dates. Both aligned with the “standards” set by me and by relationship content creators. And yet, the date I enjoyed most was the one creators had warned me against.

My goal here isn’t to devalue dating creators or the people who resonate with their advice. After all, stories and advice stem from experiences. It’s simply to point out that dating is deeply subjective. There are no universal rules nor should there be. But the content ecosystem we endlessly doomscroll through is slowly turning dating into an impossibly convoluted process… as if it wasn’t already the most complicated thing I’ve encountered in my adult life.

@thetaylorhiggins

TAYLOR HIGGINS on Instagram: "Suggesting coffee dates = signs o…

Do We Need More Relationship Content?

I have practically grown up on the internet, with Tumblr, Twitter and Wattpad building my teen personality brick by brick. This isn’t fluff information! If you grew up on the aforementioned platforms, you are aware of the darkest corners these platforms house. It’s safe to safe I’ve seen things I cannot unsee but nothing revolts me more than the new-age “I’m just a girl” content in the context of romantic relationships. One could argue it’s misogyny disguised as girly pop content at best (and they’d be right!")

Are These The Dating Standards I Have To Account For?

@thewanderfullylostduo

Muskaan Mittal | Aashish Gupta | Travel • Love on Instagram: "M…

Before someone jumps in with “it’s not that deep” or “it’s just for entertainment,” I’ll say this: what we normalize—even ironically—has consequences.

There’s a growing community online that openly dreams of relationships where one person takes the lead in everything—planning dates, vacations, even handling household expenses. In the Muskaan Mittal’s video referenced above, the woman’s role is portrayed as someone who merely exists as her husband’s “baby,” while her husband, Aashish, becomes the default authority in all other matters; financial, logical and practical.

And sure, I get it. It’s “content.” It’s for “entertainment.” But the next time you come across videos like this, I urge you to scroll through the comments. That’s what’s kept me up at night.

You’ll see people commenting “share your prayers,” “goals,” “God, me when,” or “I’m tired of being an ATM! I need this.” That’s when it stops being harmless entertainment and starts revealing something far more unsettling.

Personally, I see no value in reducing a woman’s role to merely existing for the sake of content. My greatest nightmare, frankly, is becoming dependent on another person to the point where I enter a state of decision paralysis and can’t think clearly in their absence. Narratives like the one presented in Mittal’s video actively encourage this kind of power imbalance and unfortunately, the algorithm seems to agree.

If you’re like me, this is nowhere close to the kind of relationship we want. But a quick glance at the comments might make us pause and wonder: is this what we should aim for? Do I not know the basics of dating?

It reminds me of conversations I’ve had with friends where I’m encouraged to “let the man pay” on dates. That’s the first rule. The second is even more confusing: offer to split, but don’t actually insist on paying the full amount. For context, I love picking up the cheque. I do it when I’m out with literally anyone. So I’ve always struggled to understand why dating should suddenly be different.

For the longest time, I thought something was wrong with me, that I’d somehow trained myself out of my feminine side. But it wasn’t until recently that I realized this: anything that makes me uncomfortable or forces me to pull out a pros-and-cons list just to justify my behaviour, is what’s actually steering me away from my femininity. That’s my litmus test.

It definitely goes against everything I see online, but it keeps me honest and true to myself. I’m not saying I’ll argue with a man if he genuinely wants to pay. I just want the conversation about splitting the bill to be on the table or decide to pay alternatingly.

The Not-So-Curious Case of Caregiving Imbalance

@_chetansharma867

CHETAN on Instagram: "❤️✨
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#fyp #explore #explorepag…

Pardon my French, but what the fuck?

There is absolutely nothing romantic about seeing your partner as a second mother. That’s straight up gross!

For centuries, mothers—especially brown mothers—have been applauded for the selfless love, care and affection they pour into their families. But a closer look reveals what this often really is: unpaid labour sustained by severe power imbalances in a patriarchal society. This is precisely why so many brown men grow up expecting their partners to love them (read: service them) with the same selflessness as their mothers.

In Chetan Sharma’s video, the roles appear reversed. They allude to a scenario where the woman takes care of the man while he merely exists (when compared to exhibit A where the man is everything and woman is just his “baby). And yet, it still makes me deeply uncomfortable, because once again, this is not a balanced relationship. The problem isn’t who is doing the caregiving; it’s the expectation that one person should exist primarily to serve, while the other is free to simply be.

Loss of Selfhood?

@alphamindsethub

Motivation • Success • Wealth on Instagram: "A true queen is a …

When I first came across this Reel, I genuinely thought it was a parody. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Someone quite literally found value in their words and decided to post them.

If a woman enters a relationship, her partner should not become the center of her universe or her sole priority. If you need further reinforcement, ask your mother! I bet she’ll tell you the same thing.

A woman’s life is made up of beautiful bonds, especially the ones she forges with her friends. Female friendships are singlehandedly some of the most transformative relationships one can nurture. So narratives like “When she’s in a relationship, her man becomes her priority” or “I don’t care who gets mad…he is my king” go against everything women before us fought so hard to achieve: independence, autonomy and the ability to build a full life where a relationship is part of it and not the entirety of it.

Saying “I don’t care who gets mad” also reinforces a long-standing issue single women have repeatedly called out: the way some women disappear from their own lives and friendships the moment they enter relationships. (And no, I’m not referring to abusive relationships, where a man systematically isolates a woman from her support system. That is an entirely different conversation.)

This video was posted to over 800K followers. Even if 1% found value in this video, that’s over 8,000 people who will expect women to drop everything for their partner—even if it’s not a life-or-death situation. Isn’t that a detrimental mindset?

Abandon Girlypop Videos STAT!

@callieeguerra

callie guerra on Instagram: "he’s aware that purses are filled …

Oh boy…

I can’t even begin to explain how irritated this video makes me.

This is one of those mindless girlypop videos that people applaud while it haunts me. It is neither cute nor funny. Anyone can pay for whatever is planned on a date night, but the expectation that a woman will not carry money—only “lip glosses”—is deeply stereotypical and incorrect.

What’s more unsettling is how casually this dynamic is packaged as aspirational. The woman is reduced to an aesthetic prop while the man is positioned as the default provider. It reinforces a power imbalance that has been historically harmful to women, all wrapped up in perfect lighting, aesthetic and a cute date night video.

Even if it’s “just content,” narratives like this do real damage. They normalize dependence, diminish agency and subtly suggest that a woman’s role in a healthy relationship is all about how little responsibility she carries. That isn’t romance...that’s regression. At least that’s the takeaway I’ve gathered from this video.

What bothers me even more is how videos like those I’ve shared above are often positioned as “what a healthy relationship looks like.” And sure, maybe the dynamic the creator shares with their partner is healthy. We don’t know what their relationship looks like behind the camera. But it is certainly not aspirational, nor is it a dynamic everyone wants or should want.

The problem is that the content ecosystem is so obsessed with views and virality that it churns out pure garbage, slapping labels like “healthy,” or “relationship goals” onto narratives that deserve more scrutiny. And if you dare to question it, you’re immediately painted as bitter, cynical, or someone who “just doesn’t get dating.”

@alphamindsethub

Motivation • Success • Wealth on Instagram: "Women often desire…

Maybe the real takeaway here is to stop outsourcing your dating journey to the internet.

Algorithms don’t know you and viral Reels don’t understand your nervous system or what feels right for you. If coffee dates work for you, go on them. If splitting the bill feels more authentic, do that. If you expect a dinner date at a posh spot, great! Nothing wrong with that.

Dating should not feel like a performance you’re constantly failing at.

What women should certainly not aspire to is to be in a relationship where they “turn off their brain,” blindly follow someone else’s intellect or strength and mistake dependence for safety. We are adults with lives, friendships, opinions, instincts and intellect. No healthy relationship—romantic or otherwise—should push you to abandon those. Trust and safety cannot be found at the bottom of submission and intellectual surrender.

Being feminine or masculine or anything in between has far more to do with authenticity than with replaying outdated roles. It’s about defining what those look like to you and not shrinking into a template that fit’s the internet’s standard.

There is no universal formula for dating, but there is one rule worth keeping: never build a relationship that requires you to be smaller or less aware than you already are. And trust me, you’ll scroll past thousands of pieces of dating advice that will feel inauthentic to you. Pay attention to that feeling and please for the love of god, do not follow it!

Leaving this here because Reese Witherspoon was so real for this speech. We really can’t move through the world with a man as our everything, especially not in this economy, ladies.

If you want something done, honey, do it yourself!

-Betty Reese (Mother, Reese Witherspoon)

P.S: Thank you so much for a 100 subscribers. Honestly, I started this Substack to make sense of my train of thoughts (and also because my therapist thought I’d be a great way to deal with my greatest nemesis; nostalgia, guilt and shame. So it genuinely warms my heart to see a 100 strangers (and the 5 IRLs who follow me here) would be interested in subscribing to my inner monologues.

Speaking of IRLs, my gorgeous friend, Sneha ( ), has a Substack too! Her words feel like a warm hug on a breezy evening! Feel free to read her essays here.

Like you, I too have a bucket list.

For the longest time, it resembled a checklist—tangible milestones to be achieved before I eventually caught up with The Creator. In hindsight, most of it was borrowed: inspired by others, filled with clichéd dreams that felt appropriate to experience in my twenties simply because they made sense.

But with each passing year, the list grew more audacious. It began demanding undivided attention and carefully carved-out time, turning experiences into projects and ambition into obligation. The list got longer; time, predictably, remained stuck at twenty-four hours a day.

What I want instead is a list of moments—small, indulgent, slightly cinematic—that gives me the incredible high of physically drawing a line across my bucket list items.

1. I want to experience a cinematic rain moment. Not an angry love confession in the rain (though that does sound incredibly romantic), but something quieter and more unserious like blasting 2000s or early-2010s pop and dancing to it, either alone or with someone who understands just how fucking goated that era of music truly was.

2. I want to be part of someone else’s dramatic love confession—specifically at an airport. I want to talk them through their thoughts until they realize they are, in fact, in love. Then I want to drive them to the airport, make every green light feel like a sign from the universe and get them there just in time to stop the love of their life from boarding. Essentially, I want to be Phoebe in the F.R.I.E.N.D.S finale, doing god’s work.

3. I want to host a dinner party for my friends. I’ll spend hours preparing a recipe pulled from Pinterest or Instagram only for things to go slightly haywire. But I’ll persevere and improvise. And the final dish…the final dish will look nothing like the original plan but it will be so unexpectedly good that my friends insist it becomes a staple. We’ll name it after the night or after me. Either feels earned.

4. I want to adopt pets—a Golden Retriever and a British Shorthair—named Ophelia and Odin. I want to give them pet passports with absurdly posh government names like Lady Ophelia Marigold Smith V and Sir Odin Theodore VI. I want to look a complete stranger dead in the eye when they ask my dog’s name and say, “Oh, her full name is Lady Ophelia Marigold Smith VI, but we call her Ophe at home.”

5. I want to publish a book. Not because I think I have something revolutionary to say or because it will alter the course of human history, but because someday, when someone is building their own library of life, the way I am now, I want my book to be part of it. I want someone to return to their childhood home, pull it off a shelf and remember the version of themselves who once loved it.

6. I want to finally understand how the whole “for your trouble” system works. I want to slip a host at an obnoxiously fancy restaurant some cash, say “for your trouble,” and be told that something just opened up

7. I want to crash a fancy wedding. Not for the free food, but because I own far too many wedding-appropriate outfits and have far too few weddings to attend. My friends really need to lock in and start sending out invitations.

8. I want to become best friends with someone’s grandma or grandpa. I want a Nick-and-Tran-from-New-Girl situation, meet them on a park bench and stumble into the most unexpectedly profound conversation of my life.

9. I want to meet a stranger at a bar in a country where no one knows me. I want to invent a fake identity of myself (maybe go by Kiara?) not to flirt, not to romanticize it later and definitely not because I want a low-maintaince, long distance situationship—but because I genuinely think I’d be good at helping them with whatever problem they’re carrying that night. I want to offer advice without consequence, empathy without history and then disappear back into my real life unchanged.

10. For my final sweet nothing, I will be stealing it from Callum Turner and Dua Lipa. I like to think of myself as original, but in this one specific instance, I need the universe to lock in and deliver the exact same thing for me.

Don’t get me wrong—I still want the obvious things. I want a freshly baked croissant from a quaint bakery in the French countryside, to jump out of a plane over the ocean, to go on a One Direction pilgrimage across the UK and visit every historic site where they filmed their music videos. Oh, and visit The Black Dog too (IYKYK). I want to sit in an Italian alley with a bottle of rosé and the juiciest rom-com novel I can find and devour both without shame. But alongside all of that, I want to experience every cinematic moment my brain has been weaving since it realized it’s exceptionally good at imagining things and turning them into stories.

I think I’m happy with this list. Should make for an excellent story when I finally dine with Creator.

Bonus: I want to grow a home garden that becomes the quiet pride of the neighbourhood. I want the herbs and tomatoes to be so good that people start waiting for harvest season, knowing that at some point I’ll knock on their door with a bag of homegrown produce, insisting they take more than they asked for.

Love me for a season and I’ll save you a grave in my cemetery.

Beneath the willows, where your favourite poets choose to rest, I’ll reserve you a plot right beside them. I wouldn’t have it any other way — after all, you placed them in my hands first and it’s only fair their names lie close to yours.

When the long afternoon light grazes the ivy swaddling your tombstone, your name will re-surface just once more, briefly defrosting the memories of the summer we spent many moons ago.

I think I’ll remember you for a second or two.

Despite how fleeting your echo may be, I promise to tend your plot without hesitation, even if your love was only ever meant for the season.

Love me for a selfless reason and I’ll save you a grave in my cemetery.

I’ll reserve you a plot adorned with fallen cherry blossoms, soft and pink like the evening sky that witnessed our union for the first time. I promise to lie beside it every Spring afternoon, reminiscing about our love that bloomed beautifully but never quite learned how to endure. I’ll honour it for the ember it set ablaze within me after long, cold winters of hushed solitude. Remembering how you poured into me while I was still becoming, I’ll tightly hold on to the memory of your hands teaching me how to nurture a garden where love can bloom.

It’s only fair to return the favour — with the purest intentions, of course — and promise to never let the colours fade away.

Love me wholeheartedly and I’ll save you a grave in my cemetery.

I’ll handpick the prettiest autumn leaves and lay them gently atop your grave, arranging them into a mosaic of every colour you ever witnessed in me. I’ll recall the night your hazel eyes sank into my bare soul, stripping away the versions I offered the world. You loved me as a whole — not an idea of me, nor a version stitched from the voices of others.

But even in your promises of permanence, I sensed the tremor of your approaching absence.

Every love I’ve held — for a season, for a reason, for a moment I thought would last forever — is promised a grave in the cemetery of my memories, where they’ll flicker and linger in quiet ebbs and flows.

But choose me and I won’t just remember you. Graves are for memories; you’ll be carved into my soul.

This Draft Zero is inspired by “? (Interlude)” from RM’s sophomore album, Right Place, Wrong Person — specifically the line:

“I just hope you remember me / the best grave in your cemetery.”

Something that keeps resurfacing in conversations with friends is the idea that love guarantees the luxury of being remembered. And maybe it does? Maybe the love we give ensures we’re held somewhere, even if only in a graveyard of memories. But memory, I’ve come to realize, is not permanent…at least not for the majority (not me though! Unfortunately, I remember everything and everyone.)

Having said that, I do think what feels rarer is choice. Loving someone may earn you a place in their past but choosing someone, again and again, gets you — and I apologize for sounding cheesy — imprinted on their soul . And that, to me, is worth infinitely more than “the best grave.”

This thought came to me while standing in line for overpriced popcorn & crispy Diet Coke at the cinema. It felt half-baked but exciting enough to explore. So I did…on my notes app. I hope my “overpriced popcorn and crispy diet coke thought” made sense idk xoxo

‘Hello, is anyone listening?’ is a weekly (maybe) personal essay series where I unpack thoughts, fears, and questions I’ve avoided saying out loud, convinced they’d earn me a concerned look and a silent diagnosis. I’m publishing them anyway, hoping I’m not the exception and that at least one reader out there raises an eyebrow and whispers, “same.”

I thought I had to heal before dating again.

You know how it goes—the ship sinks and you start dissecting the wreckage. Spiraling, you realize it wasn’t a manufacturing defect at all but a fatal string of errors that can be traced back to the co-captain— you.

So I did everything within reach to fix with myself. I started with individual therapy, then group therapy to fix my issues around vulnerability. I became more intentional about how I spoke to myself, in an effort to boost my self-esteem. I stopped making my bad days everyone else’s problem. I journaled daily. I left a promotion on the table to pursue a childhood dream because I thought that might fix things. (It did not. It just created new problems.)

That was over half a decade ago.

And if all of that still wasn’t enough, I always had a conveniently curated list of obstacles stopping me from dating.

First, the breakup—of course I wasn’t going to make space for someone new when my years-long routine revolved around someone else. Then it was the pandemic—which, to be fair, is a legitimate reason. How was I supposed to find someone out in the wild when there was no “out” to begin with?

Next it was never being in one city long enough to pursue dating. Later, it was moving to a new country. Soon, it was needing a “credible” job because what the hell am I supposed to put on my Hinge profile? Once all this was taken care of, it was fixing my face, my body, debating if it’s a good time to date because my visa expires soon.

I’m tired just reading it back.

I did all the things that are, traditionally, supposed to signal growth, progress and ultimately, healing. But if I’m being honest, I think I turned healing into a convenient shield; an explanation that sounded responsible enough to stop further questions from everyone around me, including myself.

Because healing, when stretched too far, can start to look a lot like avoidance.

Vulnerability—and the emotional labour of opening up to someone new—was what actually held me back from new experiences. Because if we’re being honest, I still find the act of being seen… a little cringe. Not in a “feelings are bad” way, but in a “please don’t look at me too closely in case you notice something I haven’t finished fixing yet” way (Which is hilarious, considering I love it when people trust me with their secrets and let me in.)

I think a part of me was operating from the assumption that everything ends eventually. And if the ending was inevitable, then I wanted to be absolutely certain that when the next relationship did end, it wouldn’t be because I hadn’t done the work.

I wanted to be able to say, See? I healed. I tried. I wasn’t the problem.

So I kept delaying dating and told myself I’d date once I was softer, less triggered, more secure—once I was 100% healed. Does such a version exist?

What I didn’t realize then was that this wasn’t self-awareness. It was self-protection dressed up as responsibility. I wasn’t avoiding dating because I didn’t want connection. I was avoiding it because being seen meant risking the possibility that things could still end… and that it might hurt anyway. Hence, I must fix myself to avoid even an ounce of rumination post break-up to circle back into my life.

A Generation Obsessed With Fixing

As the eldest daughter in a brown household, I grew up believing it was my responsibility to fix things…including people. Pair that with the books I consumed as a teenager, where the woman always stayed back to heal or save her love interest and suddenly you have a potent drug for obsessive fixers, like me and you.

Prolonged exposure to this narrative makes the behaviour feel almost biological, as if fixing is not an activity but your identity. It becomes a full-time job that quietly defines your worth. But the truth is far less romantic: You alone cannot fundamentally alter an interpersonal dynamic nor can you change a person because we are all operating with a subjective moral lens; one that’s curated from personal life experiences.

Once we realize this, all that energy, hypervigilance and obsessive need for control changes direction, turning inward.

If I can’t fix this, I must fix myself.

The problem isn’t with healing or acknowledging your shortcomings. Choosing to embark on a self-healing or growth journey often signals a high degree of self-awareness, showing you’re willing to hold up a mirror and examine yourself honestly. That shit is deeply uncomfortable!

Healing becomes an issue when we don’t actually know what a “healed” version of ourselves looks like or when we set wildly unrealistic standards shaped by social media, pop psychology and oversimplified narratives of growth.

Often, this realization arrives in the aftermath of a relationship ending—platonic, romantic — or a delayed ‘aha!’ moment. But how are we supposed to resolve interpersonal issues in isolation? Relationships are, by nature, relational. Yet we’re taught to internalize the failure, to believe that if something fell apart, it must be because we aren’t ‘fixed’ enough.

If you’ve found yourself caught in this contradiction, you’re not alone. I’m right there with you.

Is Your Healing Journey Performative?

Let’s say the societal understanding of healing is feeling complete. Like I mentioned earlier, I did everything—short of travelling to unknown lands—to fix myself. To heal. To grow.

Yet, I didn’t feel complete.

So does that make my healing journey… performative?

Maybe.

Pop psychology and “healing era” content on the internet makes it feel like there’s a universal roadmap and a cookie-cutter version of a healed self. Think back to the last “in my healing era” content you saw: travel, gym selfies, meditation, clean eating, journaling, blocking people, solo dates. All of that is great! I genuinely think more people should experience it.

The problem is when it ends there.

Rarely do we talk about how surface-level this can be, how little it scratches beneath the surface. I know because I’ve ticked every box on the performative healing checklist. (No, my matcha obsession has nothing to do with healing! Don’t blame her.)

At some point, it all became bland and surprise, surprise…the lessons kept repeating. So I skipped the aesthetic and dove straight into the uncomfortable stuff; shadow work, sitting with my emotions, and finally learning how to celebrate my flop era instead of running from it (I have an entire Substack dedicated to it! The party has been quite enthralling!)

My healing may have started performative (oops!), but it eventually became real. Vulnerable. Ugly. Uncomfortable.

Which makes social media litmus tests like “signs you’re healed” feel meaningless. How do you measure the effectiveness of a solution that was never designed for your problem?

So… Am I Healed?

Every day I learn something new about myself—something I either grow fond of or want to change. If it’s the latter, I try to take small, intentional steps to address it.

If I were to go by the litmus tests set by social media—or even the ones casually implied by my friends—then no, I haven’t. But if I choose to look at it through my own growth trajectory, then yes, I have healed to a certain extent.

If you haven’t figured it yet, I’ve struggled with vulnerability my entire life. Friends often told me I built walls so high that letting anyone in felt impossible. I was aware of it but last year my friendships deepened because I finally let people see me.

Fun fact: the first time I ever cried in front of someone else, I was at the ripe old age of 28.

People have also started seeing me beyond the version that was just innately independent and intimidating. I’ve begun hearing words like empathetic being used to describe me and if you’d told my 19-year-old self that someone would call her empathetic, she would’ve laughed. She couldn’t imagine herself as someone who could hold space for others emotionally.

So, for me, healing looks a lot like learning to embrace vulnerability. The other half of that healed version is split between maintaining boundaries and cultivating a stronger sense of confidence. For you, though, healing might look completely different—and that’s the point.

I like to think the years I spent building both my performative and real healing habits helped me understand myself. But I’m yet to practice being understood and that won’t come in isolation.

The goal isn’t to treat ourselves like projects under renovation and fix it once and for all. It’s to move through life aware of our strengths and honest about our shortcomings.

And Now the Real Question: Can You and I Date?

Not you dating me—don’t panic—but you get the point.

If you’ve been chronically single because you were on a never-ending quest to heal, maybe it’s time to step back into the arena.

Many of us stay in the bleachers because we want to be the best version of ourselves before dating again. But most emotional wounds only surface in relationships. The proof of real healing work comes to light when we learn how to communicate, respond and stay present amidst the chaos.

So if you’re not dating, ask yourself why. I recently did and the conversation was…fun:

• Is it because you are “working on yourself?” Great! But what does a fully healed version of you actually look like? Answer that before you embark on your healing journey.

• Are you avoiding fears that are hard to admit—rejection, being seen, repeating old patterns? Same! Unfortunately, those can only be faced head-on. Perhaps these aren’t fears at all! Just hesitations masquerading as fears and the only way to find out is by entering a relationship.

• Are your reasons rooted in self-worth? Not pretty, wealthy or interesting enough? For the right person, you will always be enough. Also, I don’t know what you look like, but I promise you’re cute.

• Are you waiting for a fairytale? Me too. I’m someone who believes in the invisible string theory. I like to think that someday, someone will look at me from across a room and suddenly everything in their world will soften and turn rosy, but why is that stopping you from putting yourself out there? All of that can still happen to people like you and me. And if I know anything about love and relationships, it usually shows up on a random Tuesday when you weren’t even looking for it.

All I’m saying is: it’s okay to date with your insecurities intact. It’s okay to start again whenever you’re ready, whether that’s months later or years later. Just don’t hide behind “not being healed enough.”

(This isn’t an endorsement of dating people who dodge accountability or live permanently in victim mode. That kind of work needs to be done offline with a therapist or a witch to cast a healing spell on you. But if your reasons sound anything like the ones discussed in the essay, then go on, date. At the very least, you’ll walk away with a story. And if nothing else… content for your next Substack!)

Thank you for reading! If you’ve related to the themes discussed in this essay, might I suggest you hit play on RM’s sophomore album ‘Right Place, Wrong Person.’ Across its tracks, RM grapples with conflicting emotions about identity, the uncertainty that accompanies growth and the quiet hope that persists even amid chaos. What I absolutely adore is how he encapsulates the central theme of my essay; that relationships and human connections are our mirrors, shaping and revealing parts of the self that can’t be accessed in isolation.

My nanaji is aging.

I have wrinkles on my forehead. They are concealed by my bangs. You can, however, see them peek through when I frown in worry as my mom tells me how my dad—who survived a major cardiac arrest this April— has suddenly developed a liking for crisps. He argues that he’s given up red meat, alcohol of all kinds, and cigarettes at the drop of a hat, so what’s a few fried slices of potatoes going to do? My dad hasn’t accompanied me to my hospital visits since I left home a decade ago. I should schedule his full-body check-up soon.

My papa is aging.

I have the body of a woman. It has carried me through thirty years of life—life that can be measured through the pressure I apply as I massage my mimmy’s (grandma) feet. It’s a little after-dinner tradition. I sit at the edge of the sofa with a tiny bowl of oil, her eyes glued to the screen in front of her and mine to her feet. There’s a specific technique that absorbs the pains of the day from her feet. When I first applied it decades ago, the pressure was precise and strong. Today, it has simmered down. I must be careful.

Twenty-nine years ago, my mimmy rushed me to the hospital after noticing my ever-so-subtle seizures as I lay in her lap with a high-degree fever. Last week, I knew from the sound of her dry cough that it wasn’t an everyday one and that it would bring her small inconveniences later that day. It did.

My mimmy is aging.

Growing up, I was told I was wiser beyond my years, and it always rubbed my mom the wrong way. She hated seeing strangers call her toddler mature. “You were a child,” she whined on a call a couple of months back. “I did not like it when they said you acted older than your age.”

A few weeks ago, she confessed that she’s told her childhood friends she comes to me for advice and that I offer the best advice to her. My mom, who is arguably the strongest woman I’ve known, asked me in a feeble voice if I see myself moving back to the city under the sun and living with my family again. I could tell my dad’s sudden health scare took a toll on her, making her infinitely terrified of a future where it’s just her, my dad, and my younger sister.

My mom is aging.

The other day, my mom and I were shopping and she came across gorgeous sofa covers. I suggested she go for the olive green ones as they’d fit well with our pink walls. She informed me the walls were painted white years ago. I wasn’t aware.

In poetic way, even my home is aging.

I always missed calls from my friends in college. Not because I was busy, but because my phone was always on silent. They joked that if they were dying and in need of urgent assistance, they would never dial my number.

Today, I sleep with my phone on general mode. Volume turned all the way up. Both Wi-Fi and mobile data switched on, just in case one decides to betray me. I’d like to believe this is second nature now. That it helped when my sister, home alone, navigated the kitchen for the first time. It was 4 a.m. EST on my side of the world. She wanted to cook a healthy, comforting meal for my mother, who was seated beside my dad in the ICU.

I walked her through the steps of making khichdi—a savoury porridge popular across South Asia. It’s like a grandmother’s hug. Despite cooking for years, I hit a hurdle when the pressure cooker started making a sound I wasn’t familiar with. Puzzled, I patched in the big guns. My mimmy joined the video call and effortlessly pointed out where we’d gone wrong. (If you’re curious, I’d asked my sister to add too much water.)

My sister is growing up.

A few weeks ago, my college friends and I decided to meet at our friend’s hill station estate, just like we used to years ago—same place, same people, same coffee mornings facing her gorgeous coffee estate. We almost made it happen. Until one of us couldn’t. She was visiting home instead, to sit beside her mother who’s fighting a health scare. No one complained. No one tried to reschedule as we always would. We understood without saying much.

The three fools are growing up.

I make it a point to hit 10,000 steps, even when I’m at work. But this year, I stayed glued to my phone instead. I didn’t miss a single call from home and offered whatever little assurance I could. I am a ridiculously optimistic person (after all, I am a Leo rising with an exalted Jupiter), and I’d like to believe that’s one of the reasons my mom called me after every tiny update from the doctors or why my colleagues turn to me for solutions, ideas, or support.

My dad survived his surgery and made a speedy recovery. I hit my annual targets two quarters early and earned a raise just seven months into my new job, in a new country, miles away from home all while managing an unfamiliar myriad of emotional highs and lows.

I am growing up.

I don’t want to.

But I must.

( Inspired by my life. Powered by “Never Grow Up” by my close personal friend, Taylor Swift)

I met my younger self for coffee today.

We decided to meet at her favourite café. She arrived 15 minutes late, and I arrived on time.

She’s shocked to see me embrace my unruly curls. I tell her we finally put down our straightener, though we occasionally love using it.

She ordered an iced cappuccino, and so did I.

Some things never change.

She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a black hoodie, and I’m wearing my favourite sundress. She’s loud, carefree, and full of life. She goes on, telling me about her friends and plans for the future, including her dream to write.

I smile, knowing everyone mentioned so far won’t be part of our lives anymore.

I tell her about all the incredible people she’ll meet soon and how not all of them will be part of her life in the long run, but that’s okay. She’s shocked and can’t wrap her head around the expiration dates on the bonds we’ll form over the next decade or so. Some romantic, many platonic.

I give her a glimpse into the future and tell her how she’ll grow in three different cities and the years she’ll spend writing as a music journalist. She can’t fathom the latter half. I show her magazines with her name printed on the pages.

She confesses she doesn’t really know who she is. I tell her about the dozens of lives she’ll live and how her perception of herself will change every now and then.

“That sounds confusing.”

“You’ll soon realize it’s one of your greatest strength,” I confess.

“Not knowing who you are?”

“Knowing you have the ability to change and transform based off new learnings, environments and lessons that life has plenty to offer.”

She tells me about her future plans, each age attached to a laundry list of goals she’s determined to achieve. I cross out the ones we’ve achieved and add the age when we achieved them. We did live a few dreams, but never at the ages she’d pictured.

“What am I like in the future?”

“A fiercely independent, courageous, empathetic, and deeply emotional woman trying to enjoy life and of course, build a vinyl collection.”

“Emotional? Empathetic?” She winces in disbelief.

I laugh. I can’t wait for the day she realizes these traits are going to be her greatest strengths too!

I thank her for her quiet inspiration and unyielding strength. After all, I am who I am, and where I am, because of her. And I urge her, gently, to lean into that confidence a little more, to trust the spark she already carries.

Just as I’m leaving, I turn around and pull out the hair tie holding her hair up.

“Your hair is beautiful,” I gush.

I hope we meet again.

[Draft Zero. Written in private on Feb 8, 2025 at 10:48 PM]

Bonus: Baby me :)

I made decisions with military precision, all to safeguard myself from guilt, shame, and—most of all—embarrassment. And in the process, I denied myself experiences. I never took a chance on myself purely because I was terrified of being perceived as a “loser.”

But like I said: what’s meant to find you will find you… eventually.

For the longest time, I equated vulnerability with embarrassment. I could get into the optics of it—how it stems from childhood, family dynamics, or even some random story where my emotions were twisted or belittled. But the truth is, I don’t have the answer. I don’t know why, for 28 years, I refused to cry in front of anyone or acknowledge the feelings that, frankly, have motivated every single one of us to launch our Substack.

But last year, I willingly walked into what my friends and I now call my “flop era” or, as a very dear friend put it, “renewing your membership to the International Association of Clowns.”

What is it with Fall/Winter Season and Flop Eras?

For the last three years, the universe has been consistent about humbling me during Q4.

This time last year, I let my ego and delusions take the wheel. Despite a chorus of very concerned voices from people who love me, I put on my best dress (fine, it was a pink sweater that now lives at Salvation Army) and walked in to have the infamous “one last conversation.”

For anyone currently on the fence about having a “one last conversation” with someone, do it! Jump the fence. The character development alone, depending on how well you handle the aftermath, is life-changing.

I knew in my bones what would be waiting for me on the other side. In every scenario my friends and I ran through (mostly me), the same ending appeared: my intuition trumping my delusions; my fear of rejection taking the crown; me not being chosen. It was the version where my dignity takes the brutal beating but I walk out knowing I saw it coming.

And now, exactly a year later, I have somehow managed to enter yet another flop era. And somehow, it’s the same flop era as last year with the same person, the same wounds, the same insecurities and the same themes.

But here’s the plot twist: this year, I’m celebrating it (With really cool bangs on my forehead and tattoos on my arms, might I add.)

So, You’ve Entered Your Flop Era Too? Congrats! Let’s Celebrate It.

The only reason I’ve landed in this position again is because I never processed this era last year… or the year before that… or five years ago. See? I told you — what’s meant to find you will find you. Even if you block it, mute it, ignore it, or pretend you’re “so over it now.” The universe will humble you.

So if you too are currently in a flop era of any kind, here is your guide to celebrating it.
I know, I know, I might not be the best person to offer advice considering I’m also in my flop era but I’ve been here thrice. I know my shit now.

How to Celebrate Your Flop Era

1. Sit in the Ashes (You Won’t Burn Twice)

Emotional maturity comes from sitting with our feelings and choosing our response. Whatever we’re feeling right now — guilt, shame, embarrassment, anger… hell, we might even still love the person who pushed us into this situation.

Sit. With. It.

I didn’t, but this time we’re going to hold space for it together.

For years, I buried these emotions. Then last year, I exhumed the situation that birthed them and chose to merely acknowledge their existence in the background. But this year? We’re celebrating them.

Good for us for having the capacity to love something so deeply that we had the courage to rip our own hearts out again. Good for us for risking vulnerability even when life with that person repeatedly proved it was never a rosy place.

Good for us for seeing value in ourselves, enough to believe we were worth being in someone’s life. Sure, they are the wrong puzzle piece for our jigsaw, but honestly? What’s life without lessons?

Yes it was stupid. It was self-abandonment. But I love the version of us that operated with whatever information we had at that time.

2. Find the Stupid Silver Linings

In some capacity, we’ve already destroyed our dignity and this experience has married our greatest insecurities and fears. Great! What an incredible couple! From here on, we know exactly what rock bottom feels like and we’re never letting anything hold that kind of power over us again. It’s not possible. This moment… this ugliness… it will linger gently, whispering its lessons when we least expect them.

How do I know?

Because this year, when the universe set the same old chapter in front of me, that tiny, quiet voice inside finally spoke and it stopped me from doing something I could never undo. Well partially. I still let myself down.

This is our rock bottom, and the only way is up. Whatever little step we take towards self-development will only take us higher. Bonus, we’ve let this burn us, tear us apart and destroy us, which means this next chapter is where we’re wiser. We’re going to think twice before doing anything “for the plot.”

Silver lining two: the confidence.

Whenever I reflect on this ongoing, extremely boring flop era that keeps coming back like seasonal allergies (I’m pretty sure my friends are bored of listening about this), I think: wow, if I can survive this, I can survive anything.

And it’s true. Throughout these years, I’ve switched careers, moved countries, gotten raises, held myself together through emotional aftershocks, and still shown up for my life.

I did that. And I’m sure you have such instances in your life as well.

So if we can survive that, we can literally survive anything.

And somehow, we’ve still grown into softer, more empathetic, kinder people. We didn’t let our capacity to love, cherish or celebrate diminish. We never hurt anyone voluntarily or knowingly.

Growth looks like that too.

3. Remember You’re Only Renting the Clown Makeup

A flop era is a season, not an identity. We are not full-time clowns! We were just temporarily performing at the circus.

We owe everything to this era. It gave us the courage to be vulnerable, to heal, to recognize our worth, and to build stronger relationships with the people who love us.

We are still works in progress, but the lessons we’ve learned are golden and defining.

And honestly? We have no one to thank but ourselves.

…

I spent two hours on a call with my friend, really talking, really listening, and it hit me: I’ve been searching for traces of love in a place where it never existed. And somehow, I keep stumbling into the same flop era, over and over.

But then she told her story. It’s the same story, the same chapter, the same lessons and I realized we are just living the same life at different times. She’s become this insanely talented, emotionally intelligent, wise woman. And in seeing her, I see my own future . It’s bright, empowering and content. She said there’s light at the end of this chapter, and that it feels incredible when you reach it.

And until I get there, I’ll be celebrating my flop era of my twenties, fully, fiercely, and without apology.

I lied.

I hope I haunt you.

I really do.

I hope my absence haunts you. Not every waking second of your life, but in those quiet moments of peace when you sit content, cocooned in your picket-fence dreams. Especially, when you’re carefully piecing together the life you chose to build without me. I hope the shrieks of our unfinished future haunts you.

I don’t wish to haunt you. Believe me, babe. I really don’t.

But on days when I walk down the grocery store aisle, I find myself praying that the confectioneries you once so adorably surprised me with stop you in your tracks, paralyzing you with a past you’re cursed to neither forget nor fondly reminisce about.

Do you instinctively reach for them? Or do you brush past them out of habit?

I’ll never know.

What an absolute waste of my precious life; the one I built after you. What an ironic twist to keep wasting it, wondering whether I still haunt you.

But who could blame me?

I’ve peered through those closed doors where I lie and quietly wonder about her: the one who took my spot next to you. In those haunting moments, I hope the phantom traces of my touch swiftly follow the path she has only just traced. I hope my ghostly brushes and my playful grazes linger, leaving you with a voracious hunger, that’s now impossible to satiate.

Is there a cure for rumination? Does it live in the past, the present or the future? Or perhaps it lives on the table I left behind.

Skeptics say time travel is a sham. The curious believe otherwise.

But a few of us — the ones who’ve lived the past and present concurrently — know better.

So believe me, my love when I say this: when you revisit your past with the eyes that have already lived a thousand versions of today, you start to see differently. Your gaze sharpens; your scrutiny deepens. And the walls scream back their warning: “The cure is definitely not in the past.”

I’m tired of being haunted by you. Exhausted, quite frankly.

But until I find the strength to flip the narrative or until I’m completely emotionally depleted:

I hope the echoes of my flirty compliments haunt you when you slip into that sweater: the one that brings out your hazel eyes that once consumed every inch of me.

I hope that once every year, the empty space in your wardrobe — where my hand-made gifts once lay — reminds you of all that’s gone, like an open grave waiting to pull you in.

I hope every time you tell a stranger your dreams, you feel the ghost of the past hovering over you, reminding you that it was my soul you once trusted to hold your secrets.

The one who pushed you. The one who pulled you. The one that held you.

The one who shaped your first understanding of love. The one who built the home you spent your youth in. A home we so carelessly abandoned.

In fact, I hope the version of yourself that existed with me haunts you too — for better or for worse. It’s a version you’ll never see, never experience, never feel. And decades later, it’s a version you’ll crave quietly and hopelessly. But no drug in the world could ever satiate that craving, except the warmth of my arms; a luxury you no longer possess.

No, I don’t want you back and yet I hope my absence never gives you peace.

Maybe one day I’ll reach the stage where I hope it will.

But not today.

Till then…I hope I haunt you, darling, until the very end of your living days.

This essay is inspired by ’s beautiful words and “Silver Springs” By Fleetwood Mac.

Hi, It’s Div!

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this essay!

This piece is part of on an ongoing untitled trilogy that explores what it means to be remembered—or quietly erased—after something ends. Think of it as a series that follows where love goes once it ends.

This first essay explored a familiar wish: if I couldn’t remain in someone’s life, perhaps my absence could linger. It was messy, angry and somewhat hopeful.

The second essay, “I Existed. Pity You Don’t Remember,” sits in the bitter aftermath of that hope. It confronts the realization that you may not haunt anyone at all or earn the mercy of a footnote.

Part 3 will be up soon but in the meantime, you may read part two below:

@alyssamckee_no but seriously #taylorswift #thescript #fyp #foryou

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Sure, thematically, they explore a similar concoction of emotions: loss, grief, denial. But the lyrical explorations of these tracks demand nuance — a nuance that only emerges when you dissect them through the lens of hope — both in its absence and its fragile presence within reality.

Allow me to break it down.

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The Man Who Can’t Be Moved

Massive emphasis on the ‘can’t’

Credit where due, songwriters Andrew Framptom, Daniel O’Donoghue, Mark Sheehan and Stephan Kipner masterfully stitched an evocative piece helmed by a protagonist who’s determined to get the love of his life back.

For the sake of this essay, we’ll call him Ted.

Driven by sheer devotion (or delusion. We’ll decide later), Ted vows to stay put and wait, singing “How can I move on when I’m still in love with you?/ If she changes her mind, this is the first place she will go.” This line alone paints a picture of ironclad hope: hope that a former lover is capable of remembering a once scared spot. Hope that despite their very intentional decision to part ways, they’d still be drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Unaware (or perhaps unwilling)to face reality, Ted perceives the act of moving on as impossible, tying his identity to the one who left. His hope is rooted in denial. Would the journey even be attemptable if he truly accepted that she’s moved on?

Yes. Absolutely! But he hasn’t reached that stage yet.

The repetition of “I’m not moving” in the chorus further underlines Ted’s determination and faith in his lover’s return. It mimics the senseless tantrums of a child. Though stubborn, it roots itself in the most earnest human emotion; need.

On the bridge, Ted’s hope spirals into a wild, far-fetched fantasy:

“Maybe I’ll get famous as the man who can’t be moved,
And maybe you won’t mean to, but you’ll see me on the news,
And you’ll come running to the corner ‘cause you know it’s just for you.”

This is a man wearing his yearning like a badge of honour. Depending on where you stand on the spectrum—from “I’m realistic when it comes to love” to “have you heard about the invisible string theory?”—Ted is either too devoted or too delusional for you. Regardless of where we land, I think we can unanimously agree: he’s deeply terrified to admit that sometimes, love simply isn’t enough.

Help! She’s Still At The Restaurant

Enter Swift’s protagonist, Augustine. I could go on and on about just how beautifully haunting “Right Where You Left Me” is. But I won’t. Not today, at least.

On “Right Where You Left Me,” you don’t see any grand declarations of love or yearning. If Ted’s humiliation ritual stems from his refusal to move, hers lies in her inability to leave.

Unlike Ted, who goes back to the starting point where he first saw his former partner—where love first blossomed—Augustine’s story begins on a grim note, haunting the same restaurant where her partner left her.

Augustine doesn’t have any tricks up her sleeve. Hell, she doesn’t even have people around her concerned enough to ask what’s going on or make a fuss about her presence. She just sits still, with “dust on her pinned-up hair,” as the world around her gets married, has kids, files taxes, maybe signs up for a few marathons, and moves the fuck on with their lives.

On the bridge, Swift becomes Augustine’s voice, giving us a peek into her mind and how exactly did Augustine get herself into this mess:

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?
Time went on for everybody else, she won’t know it
She’s still twenty-three inside her fantasy
How it was supposed to be
Did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion?
Breakups happen every day, you don’t have to lose it
She’s still twenty-three inside her fantasy
And you’re sitting in front of me

Technically, both Ted and Augustine have been victims of fantasies. However, one’s fantasy bruises their life, while the other pierces their soul.

If you guessed Augustine’s tragedy is brutal, you’re absolutely right.

Ted is a victim of a fantasy fueled by the future—a future in which his ex the love of his life will return to him. A future he hasn’t yet experienced, but for which he can chart a path for. Augustine, on the other hand, is stuck in the past. She’s already lived that fantasy, making it extremely difficult to see or live a future otherwise. It’s a fantasy in which she and her partner are together, buying that house, having kids, celebrating Christmas.

Meanwhile, Ted is fantasizing about getting back together. Both are unattainable, but at least Ted hasn’t experienced what it’s like to have someone return. He isn’t addicted to it yet and can always choose a different path into the future. Augustine has nowhere else to go. There are no roads in the past.

She does, however, let hope in on the pre-chorus

I’m sure that you got a wife out there
Kids and Christmas, but I’m unaware ‘cause I’m right where
I cause no harm, mind my business
If our love died young, I can’t bear witness, and it’s been so long
If you ever think you got it wrong, I’m right where

What’s important to note here isn’t that she thinks someday her former partner will realize he “got it all wrong”; it’s how she’s choosing to nurture that weak ray of hope amidst the roaring blaze of realizing he has moved on, has a wife and kids, and has established a well-rounded, Hallmark-card-perfect life.

This also shows just how long Augustine has resided in the restaurant, trying to make sense of everything that has happened, trying to make sense of time itself. If anything, Ted should perhaps peek into the restaurant—he might just see his future there.

So, who wins?

Anyone who has streamed these tracks while going through a break-up or divorce. JK.

Ted’s hope is loud and performative—nothing we haven’t seen romanticized in films and songs before. Augustine’s is quiet and self-inflicted. His story challenges fate; hers is a reluctant surrender to it. Ted stands on the corner, waiting and screaming, “What if she comes back?” Augustine is paralyzed by grief, unable to move. Both are relics of love’s most devastating side effect: hope that overstays its welcome.

But if we must crown a winner (and we must, because it makes me feel powerful), I’d give the title of “biggest loser ever (lovingly)” to Augustine.

Because at least Ted is doing something about his heartbreak. He’s out on the street, putting on a performance, making moves and declarations in hope that his love will take notice and return. This hope is powerful. Augustine, on the other hand, is frozen in time. Her heartbreak doesn’t perform; it just shatters into a million pieces over the only version of a future she’s ever known. She doesn’t chase love; she lets time pass through her. That’s not resilience. That’s heartbreaking. That’s haunting.

The way I see it, Ted can leave. Someday he’ll get tired and step away from his corner. Augustine can’t. She won’t. Not until she catches up with lost time. And has anyone won that race yet?

To love someone enough to stay stuck in the moment where they packed up and left is delusion. No, wait! It’s devotion. The line blurs when you’ve been there yourself.

Maybe that’s why these songs resonate (and maybe why I started writing this essay on my commute back home from my 9-5). Not because we’ve been Ted or Augustine, but because at some point, we’ve cycled through all the stages these two have struggling with separately.

So here’s to the man who couldn’t move, and the woman who didn’t leave. You’re just like us!

If you’re still reading this, please leave the restaurant. You’ve already tried everything the chef has to offer. Give up your spot and go try the delicacies from chefs out in the wild. And don’t you dare peek through the windows of this restaurant again to see what the chef is serving or who takes your spot at the table.

…

This March, my friend gifted me a poster on my birthday that reads,

“Do it for the plot.”

“A new report reveals that this is the healthiest mentality. If it works out, great. If not, it’s for the plot.”

I took those words very seriously. It hangs right opposite my bed and is the first thing I see when I open my eyes. I love this poster and the subtle impact it’s left on me. My friend, however, now lives under constant fear of the lores this poster may unlock in my life. (if you’re reading this: I appreciate everything you’ve done for me)

Since then, I’ve done quite a few things “for the plot.” Got unplanned tattoos on a random Saturday afternoon. Committed to my bangs (yes, even through summer, and as a curly-haired girlie, that’s a big deal). Downloaded Hinge, went on a grand total of two dates (three, if you count the second one with the same person), deleted it within two months, and took myself on many more (and better) dates instead.

Nothing too risqué compared to the lore that unfolded last December, the one that forced me to confront the elephant in the room: when will I finally stop needing answers for things buried in the past? When will I learn to let go with grace. When will I learn to walk away?

Spoiler alert: I haven’t figured out a timeline yet.

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Oh, and did I mention I got really, really into astrology? If anyone cares, I’m currently undergoing my Saturn return, and the slew of lessons refuses to leave me alone (at least until 2028).

But despite the cosmic bullying, I was doing great! I’d made peace with my humiliation ritual and learned some pretty great (read: bitter) life lessons. Slowly but steadily, the pieces started falling into place and my patterns became crystal clear. I’m flawed, deeply, but so is everyone else. And as poetic (or cheesy) as this sounds, scars from my past do in fact make up my constellation. I have no reason not to embrace my mistakes.

But what is that saying?

Ah, yes!

Old habits die in pieces, not all at once.

So, like clockwork, just a few months shy of the anniversary of my humiliation ritual (or the beginning of my healing journey, depending on whether you’re a glass-half-full or glass-half-empty kind of person), I let curiosity get the best of me. Again. For the millionth time. And I agreed to indulge in a brief flirtation with my past.

I kid you not—just a few weeks ago, I published my first Substack essay about accepting the past and honoring it for what it is. So you can imagine my bewilderment when I found myself agreeing to meet… well… let’s just call them the human embodiment of Mercury retrograde.

I’m not going to get into the details of the evening, but it included pours of alcohol (one of which was a terrible melon-flavoured drink), a game of pool, exchange of life-altering lores (none inspired by my life), record-breaking confidence courtesy of a blowout and bangs, and the biggest culprit of them all, my nemesis: nostalgia.

I loathe nostalgia.

Between those experiences and a slew of sweet nothings swirled with the melodies of “About You” by The 1975 and “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane echoing through the kitchen, it happened.

I got closure—or maybe I gave myself closure. I’m not sure what exactly happened, but some form of closure happened. And here’s everything I learned from it:

1. Yes, they remember you. Perhaps not around the clock, but they remember you—just like you do too.

2. The two of you will always remember each other. Unless one of you suffers the wrath of amnesia (hoping it’s not me as I have accumulated a wealth of life lessons that I aspire to pass on to my lineage as inheritance. I mean, something good has to come out of this, please)

3. You are over them. Getting over someone doesn’t erase their existence. You can be over someone and still care about them. That’s called being human, not being in love, and it’s definitely not your hall pass to a pity-pining party of one.

4. Pool is fun without rules. We should hit any ball and move it around with our hands to our desired spot.

5. Rosé fucking rules!

6. 0.000001% of the population reaps fruitful rewards from replanting seeds in the past. For the majority, it leads to barren fields: Dry, underwhelming and a graveyard of empty hopes.

7. Astrology is very real, provided you know how to read your chart.

8. People do change. Just like you did. Some go through quiet shifts, others undergo radical transformations. You just have to make peace with the fact that the version of someone you knew no longer exists. And if it helps, that version was something only you experienced. So yay, I guess?!

9. We need nostalgia to be federally regulated. She’s getting out of hand!

10. Closure is a myth.

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Contradictory, right? Calling closure a myth after listing out nine lessons from the meeting.

Because here’s the thing—the last conversation, the last meeting, closure itself—it’s all just a ruthless vacuum.

Even after everything I saw, heard and experienced that evening, pesky questions continue to come into existence.

How?

Why?

I thought last meetings would solve it all!

What was I to you that night?

What am I from here on?

How should we behave if we run into each other?

Is this our joint humiliation ritual?

That terrible melon-flavoured cocktail I ordered — The one you took a sip of— should we involve the authorities and get it off the menu? Perhaps, that’s how we honour our past and swear to never exhume it?

All these years, I thought we were strangers and I made peace with that fact (despite being someone who doesn’t get over anything in her life). So what now? Strangers with a fresh secret?

Great! I now have to get around this new definition.

See, kids? I told you. It’s a rabbit hole.

Don’t fall for the trap of the “Hey, let’s catch up” text. There is no catching up with the past. The roads don’t exist.

So yeah, another “for the plot” chapter has been completed.

“I should have gifted you a different poster”.

Note: This is part1/2 of what happens when you catch up with the past over drinks! Coffee to soon follow shortly. It’s slowly brewing. Everything said here is a figment of the author’s imagination. These events never happened. Or did they?

It was, strangely, scenic.

Desperate to impress the versions of myself that had died a million quiet deaths, I slipped into my favorite dress-and-cardigan duo. “That’s my favorite colour on you,” a petite voice echoed through the walls of my room. My eyes darted to nothing and emptiness.

As I scrawled through my room, searching for purses and hair ties, the melody of a familiar song stopped me in my tracks. Our song… No. Hang on. It’s just a song now. I pick up my scrunchie that was ever so comfortably nestled in the burrows of my laundry and softly sang along, careful not to let myself fall down the rabbit hole of my dear old foe, nostalgia.

Just as I’m about to leave, I paused and lifted my palms, blocking the soft yellow sunlight and within seconds shadow puppets danced across the wall—dogs, bunnies, birds, the most basic creatures known to mankind. Suddenly, I was twenty-something again—impressionable and convinced of my own innocence—back in a dimly lit room with ‘the one’ I once bled my heart out for. I chuckled knowing I know life’s best-kept secret now: “the one” is a fool’s drug. An empty prayer braided into our soul, binding us to futures that were never promised to be ours.

“I am only visiting three graves today,” I tell myself, eyeing the bouquet I picked a few hours earlier. Forget me not, black roses and poppies. I picked the best for the best.

Prior to this road trip, I had never visited a graveyard before—let alone one filled with my dreams. Will it be cold and lonely? Overwhelming? A painful reminder of all the dreadful if-onlys and what-ifs? My mind raced through stretched-out scenarios as I drove down winding mountain roads, each curve steering me closer to my glorious past.

…

“Honey, I’m home!” I announced to a sea of tombstones, some old, some new. I adjusted my postured just enough to make me seem tall as I brushed my fingers against the engravings of a few.

Here lies she who once longed to say, ‘May you enjoy growing old with her as much as I cherished growing up with her.

There’s something grounding about knowing someone has watched you cycle through a dozen versions of yourself and still stuck around. Pop culture taught me this early in my life and the shows I grew up on (from Grey’s Anatomy to Friends) drilled it in: friendship is the anchor.

So we chase our own “Christina to my Meredith” or “Monica to my Rachel.” Sometimes we get it. Sometimes we don’t. Some friendships survive. Some fizzle. A rare few leave you stranded at a fault line, unsure whether to mend it or walk away.

I may never get the giddy, post-proposal FaceTime call or the “It finally happened! I got the promotion” text. She may not send a courtesy invite to honour what we once had. But I will always remember her for laying the foundation of female friendship: the giggles of our teens, the secret languages, the tears when university separated us. I could have done better at keeping in touch—I own that and shall ever carry the guilt but for now, I choose to honor the bond rather than ruminate in what-ifs.

“Forget me not for you.” I announced.

I placed the lush bouquet on the grave and smile warmly. The ache in my chest is real, but it’s the kind that quietly reminded me: the aftermath was worth the pure love that came before.

Then it was time to face another grave.

Here lies the fool who once longed for well… a rather unrealistic love.

I winced at the words: an honest yet painful epitaph. It read like a record of self-abandonment and self-inflicted pity I wallowed in for years. I traced the stone and felt the weight of the years I let slip by while I darted between the unalterable past and silly what' if’s on loop. Seeing them move on was brutal proof that life continues, even if you’re not living it.

Someone decided to do life without you.

That lesson was merciless but so necessary. I mourned the version of myself who hit pause. I mourned the version who forgot who she was. I mourned the one who had to start from scratch, rebuilding a sense of self brick by brick in a city haunted by my past. I mourned, mourned and mourned.

That’s the thing about one’s first brush with love: somewhere between the sensible realization that it won’t last forever and the desperate belief that it’s “meant to be,” you uncover dormant parts of yourself. Parts that bring you closer to who you probably are. And for everything that was said (and mostly what was left unsaid), I’ll always be grateful for the radical transformation my “romance” forced into me after its timely demise.

Boundaries I could never build on my own rose naturally from the rubble. The aching need to apologize for my wrongdoings instilled a blaze of self-reflection I didn’t know I was capable of conjuring. And the ferocious hunger to love again eventually redirected itself inward, teaching me to pour all that affection back into my parched self.

And yet—in that steady climb toward becoming, in that gentle loss of innocence—I can’t help but wonder: is my sharpened caution toward love a blessing or a curse? I know I’ll never approach romance with the wide-eyed wonder I once carried. The fragile, reckless spell that makes love feel like… love has been stolen from me. Maybe I’ll understand its value when I need it most or, better yet, never notice its absence again.

Either way—thanks, I guess.

As I laid the black roses on the grave, a faint, annoying rumbling rose from beneath the earth. I scoffed, gathered twigs and stones, and pressed them into the earth sealing it again. “Been there. Done that,” I muttered, stamping once for good measure. Some things are better left dead.

This wasn’t so bad, I told myself as I patted my own back. I thought the worst was over until I lifted my head and saw a slew of graves belonging to the dreams I had fulfilled.

“Here lies the exiled dreamer”

“Here lies the writer”

“Here lies the keeper of her own keys”

Now this was a different ache. Heavy with lingering dread. Every dream I had once harboured and nurtured as a child rested under the willows. I walked past each one of them with a heavy heart; I’ll never have another chance to relive them. Yes, I’ve lived them. Yes, I’ve fulfilled them. Yes, I’ve achieved them. But unlike dead friendships and love affairs—both of which I can experience again—I can’t relive the high of fulfilling my childhood dreams ever again. Never.

So this is the wildly uncomfortable, nauseating, haunting dread people warned me about before visiting the dead. Nice!

Maybe we’ve become too cavalier with the term “dreams.” Perhaps not everything in life is supposed to be a dream. Some things can just be experiences. Rather than pitting our lives against a milestone of dreams, we should make a conscious decision to gather experiences that eventually accumulate into a dream life. Because the truth is—as sad as it sounds—recovering from the searing pain of a shattered dream robs you of the world’s most precious currency: time.

But experiences? We don’t pin our highest expectations on them, which makes it easier to bounce back and start chasing them again.

…

Before I knew it, it was time to depart from the graveyard of my dreams.

I lingered a little longer, meandering around. Ever so subtly, possibilities began to appear from the foggy skies. It was exciting. Exhilarating even.

As I walked down the road, I stumbled upon a garden of my dreams.

Fresh flowers bloomed in all their splendid glory. I could make out the outlines of a few faces—unfamiliar, yet smiling back at me. They were busy at work, tending to their respective patches, nurturing each bloom with care. I don’t know their faces yet but I can’t wait for the day when every tiny detail—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—is etched into my memory, tattooed on my heart. This garden feels like a promise: the dreams I’ve yet to meet, the people I’ve yet to know, all waiting to be discovered.

Yellow roses, peonies and daffodils called my name.

I can’t wait to hold them someday.