I Am Not Who I Was, and That’s Okay

There was a version of me I used to recognize without trying. He moved through the world with a kind of certainty, even in moments of doubt. He laughed easily, trusted quickly, and believed that things, people, plans, feelings, would somehow work out if he just held on tightly enough. I didn’t know I was losing him at the time. There was no clear moment, no dramatic before and after. Just a slow unraveling, quiet and almost unnoticeable, until one day I realized I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to “heal.” It’s a word people throw around so easily, like it’s a destination you eventually arrive at. Like one day you wake up and everything makes sense again. But healing, at least for me, hasn’t looked anything like that. It hasn’t been loud or cinematic. It’s been quiet. Subtle. Sometimes so subtle that I mistake it for nothing at all.

Because the truth is, when you’ve been through a lot, you don’t always come back the same. And maybe you’re not supposed to.

There were days when everything felt heavy for no clear reason. Days when I carried things I couldn’t explain out loud. I learned how to keep going even when I didn’t feel okay, how to show up in spaces while parts of me were still somewhere else entirely. And in doing that, I started to change. Not all at once, not in ways anyone could easily point out, but in the way I thought, the way I reacted, the way I protected myself.

At first, I didn’t like that change. It felt like I was losing something important. I missed the version of me who didn’t overthink every word, who didn’t hesitate before trusting, who didn’t feel the need to guard himself so carefully. I kept trying to find my way back to him, as if healing meant returning to who I used to be.

But the more time passed, the more I started to understand something I didn’t want to admit at first: I’m not going back.

And that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Because somewhere in the middle of all this, between the hard days and the quiet ones, between feeling lost and trying to feel okay, I started to notice small changes. The kind that don’t announce themselves. The kind you only recognize when you look back.

I noticed that I was a little more patient with myself. That I didn’t blame myself as quickly for things I couldn’t control. That I was learning, slowly, how to sit with my emotions instead of running from them. I noticed that I was setting boundaries I would’ve ignored before. That I was choosing peace in situations where I once would have chosen to stay and fight just to feel something familiar.

None of it felt like a breakthrough. It just felt like… surviving better.

And maybe that’s what healing really is. Not becoming a perfect, untouched version of yourself, but becoming someone who knows how to carry what they’ve been through without letting it consume them.

There are still moments when I miss who I used to be. I miss the simplicity of it, the lightness. I miss not knowing how certain things feel. But I’ve come to realize that missing that version of myself doesn’t mean I need to become him again. It just means he mattered. It means he was real. And it means that parts of him still exist in me, even now.

Just not in the same way.

I think healing is learning how to live with that truth. That you can honor who you were without trying to recreate him. That you can acknowledge the pain without letting it define you. That you can move forward without having everything figured out.

Right now, I’m somewhere in between. Not who I was, but not entirely who I’m becoming either. And for the first time in a while, I think that’s okay.

Because I’m learning that healing doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it looks like getting through the day without falling apart. Sometimes it looks like choosing yourself in small, quiet ways no one else sees. Sometimes it looks like sitting with your thoughts and realizing they don’t scare you as much as they used to.

And sometimes, it looks like this, admitting that you’ve changed, that things have affected you, that you’re not the same person you once were… and choosing to be okay with that.

I am not who I was.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly who I’m meant to be becoming.

a different kind of good

 Lately, life feels different. Not louder, not bigger, just more honest. Like I’m finally showing up as myself instead of editing every move before I make it.

I’ve been saying yes.

Yes to things that feel unfamiliar.
Yes to moments I used to avoid.
Yes to being present instead of overthinking everything into silence.

And maybe the biggest change is this: I stopped standing in my own way.

For so long, 'no' felt safer. It kept things predictable. It kept me in control. But it also kept me stuck, circling the same thoughts, the same fears, the same version of myself.

Now I’m choosing something else.

I’m letting life happen.
I’m letting myself grow without asking if I’m “ready enough.”
I’m learning that becoming isn’t supposed to feel comfortable, it’s supposed to feel real.

And yeah, it’s new. A little unfamiliar. But it feels like movement. Like I’m finally going somewhere instead of just thinking about it.

So this is me, doing good in my own way.

On some new sh*t.
Saying yes.* 
Not because everything is perfect, but because I am no longer holding myself back.





*peep that reference ;)

The Seer

 They called her al-Mubsira, the one who sees.

It was not a title given in reverence, but in suspicion.

In the small stone town clinging to the mountain like a stubborn prayer, women were meant to see only what was in front of them: the laundry line, the steaming pot, the path to the mosque or church on Fridays or Sundays. They were not meant to see what was hidden, and certainly not what was yet to come.

But the Seer had been born with a gaze that seemed to pierce through walls, through faces, through centuries. When she was a child, she would speak of things before they happened, a neighbor’s wedding, a drought, a soldier’s return. Her mother would hush her and pinch her arm beneath the table, whispering don’t say such things, but by then it was too late. The town had noticed.

At first, they laughed. Then, when the things she spoke began to happen, they prayed louder in her presence. She could feel the weight of their eyes in the market, some curious, some fearful, some laced with a bitter awe.

In a place where scripture was quoted as though it were the last word on every woman’s life, the Seer became a theological riddle. Men in the mosque shook their heads: If God wanted such visions, He would have sent them to a man. In the church, whispers curled around the incense: Perhaps she is touched by something unholy.

They never asked her if the visions were a blessing or a curse.

But she knew the truth, that sight was not a gift bestowed gently. It was an inheritance soaked in the grief of every woman before her who had been told to stay quiet, stay soft, stay in the shadow of men who did not see as far. The visions came to her like storms, leaving her trembling and sleepless. She would see a mother burying her son before the soldiers had even marched into town; she would see the moon’s shadow over the valley before anyone had thought to mark the calendar.

And still, she lived alone. It was easier that way.

Women came to her in secret, cloaked and quiet, asking questions their husbands would have scorned. Will the child I carry survive? Will my sister return? Should I leave him? The Seer would look into their eyes, not to predict, but to listen for the truth they already feared. Sometimes, she gave them answers. Sometimes, she gave them silence, because silence was kinder.

They said she defied the will of God. She said God’s will was far more complex than they dared to admit. In the scripture she had been taught, there were women who led armies, women who defied kings, women who bore prophecies in their own trembling voices. But those stories had been buried under centuries of male interpretation, smoothed down until the women were no more than obedient shadows.

So the Seer refused to be obedient.

When they called her dangerous, she wore the word like an amulet. When they avoided her in the street, she smiled to herself, for it meant they still feared what a woman could be.

And when she looked at the mountain, at its steadfast spine cutting the horizon, she thought: Perhaps I was born to be misunderstood. And perhaps that is its own kind of freedom.

Because to be a woman who sees, in a world that tells you not to, is to resist every prayer they have ever prayed to keep you blind.

Light, Even Then

 I saw a rainbow today.

It felt almost ironic, considering the kind of week I’ve been having, the kind where everything familiar suddenly feels slightly misplaced, like furniture moved in the dark. Nothing catastrophic. Just the quiet realization that something you thought would stay… didn’t.

I wasn’t looking for meaning when I noticed it. I was actually trying not to think at all. Just walking, just existing, carrying that strange heaviness that follows disappointment, the kind that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

And then color appeared across the sky.

Soft. Unbothered. Completely indifferent to whatever was breaking or healing below it.

People like to say rainbows are signs. Proof that things will get better. That endings lead somewhere beautiful. I don’t know if I believe in guarantees like that anymore.

But I do think timing matters.

Because a rainbow only shows itself when rain hasn’t fully left yet. The storm is still nearby. The air still feels heavy. And somehow, light insists on arriving anyway.

Standing there, I realized maybe healing doesn’t begin when pain disappears. Maybe it begins the moment you notice beauty again, even while your chest still aches a little.

It didn’t fix anything.
It didn’t bring answers back.
It didn’t undo what ended.

But for a moment, it made the world feel wider than my sadness.

And that was enough.

 

A Manifesto for Being Human Again

 We live in a world that has never been more connected, yet people have never felt more alone.

We are always online. Always available. Always reachable. And somehow, we are also always distant. Conversations have been replaced by notifications. Presence has been replaced by performance. We measure relationships through response times, likes, and views, mistaking constant contact for genuine connection. But connection is not speed. Connection is depth. And depth requires something modern life rarely allows us: silence, patience, and emotional presence.

We are witnessing a quiet transformation of human interaction. Social media promised community, but it often delivers comparison. It promised self-expression, but it frequently produces self-curation. Identity has become something to design, edit, and market rather than discover. People no longer simply exist, they present themselves. We craft digital versions of who we are, polishing flaws, filtering reality, shaping perception. Over time, the distance between the self we perform and the self we feel begins to grow. And in that gap, authenticity slowly disappears.

At the same time, success culture has become one of the most powerful forces shaping modern identity. Productivity is glorified. Busyness is praised. Rest is treated as weakness. We are told that our worth is measured by output, by how much we produce, achieve, and accomplish. The language of modern life reflects this belief: optimization, efficiency, growth, results. Human beings are increasingly treated like systems that must constantly improve.

This culture creates a dangerous illusion: that value must always be earned. That slowing down is failure. That exhaustion is proof of dedication. But a life defined only by productivity is not a meaningful life, it is a mechanical one. When success becomes the center of identity, existence becomes performance, and living becomes a race with no finish line.

Under this pressure, something essential is being lost: our ability to feel deeply.

We have learned to scroll past tragedy, to consume suffering as information, to process emotion quickly and move on. We experience everything, joy, grief, anger, love, in fragments. Attention spans shrink, and emotional depth shrinks with them. Instead of sitting with discomfort, we distract ourselves. Instead of reflecting, we react. Instead of feeling, we manage feelings efficiently.

But emotional depth is not a weakness. It is a fundamental part of being human. To feel deeply is to care, to connect, to understand. A society that discourages deep feeling gradually produces individuals who are disconnected not only from others, but from themselves.

This disconnection has consequences. Mental health struggles are no longer rare or hidden, they are widespread. Anxiety, burnout, and emotional exhaustion have become common experiences rather than exceptions. Yet even as mental health challenges grow, the culture that contributes to them often remains unchanged. People are encouraged to cope individually with problems that are systemic. They are told to manage stress while remaining in environments that continuously create it.

We must question a system that demands constant productivity while neglecting emotional well-being. Mental health is not a secondary concern. It is not an obstacle to success. It is the foundation of a meaningful life. A society that values achievement more than well-being ultimately sacrifices its humanity.

The modern world teaches us to move faster, produce more, and feel less. It encourages comparison over connection, performance over authenticity, and productivity over presence. But we are not machines designed for endless output. We are emotional, relational, complex beings who require rest, meaning, and genuine connection.

This manifesto calls for a redefinition of what it means to live well.

We must choose presence over performance.
We must choose authenticity over approval.
We must choose connection over constant visibility.
We must choose emotional health over endless productivity.

We must remember how to be human again,

not efficient, not optimized, not curated, but present, imperfect, and deeply alive.

Because a meaningful life is not measured by how much we produce, but by how deeply we connect, how honestly we live, and how fully we allow ourselves to feel.

 

Romanticizing Life One Stanza at a Time

I learned that self-love isn’t loud.
It doesn’t arrive with flowers or dramatic confessions.
It shows up in the small, almost invisible choices
getting out of bed on hard mornings,
speaking to myself gently when the world feels sharp,
staying when leaving would be easier.

I am learning to love myself the way poetry loves silence
without rushing to fill it,
without asking it to perform,
just allowing it to exist as it is.

Some days, self-love is a celebration.
Other days, it’s survival.
And on the days in between,
it’s romanticizing the fact that I’m still here,
still writing,
still choosing tenderness over cruelty, especially toward myself.

So this Valentine’s Day,
I don’t wait to be chosen.
I choose.
I choose patience.
I choose softness.
I choose to fall in love with my life,
one stanza at a time. 💌

Everyone Was at the End Except Me - a FOMO elegy

I. The Invitation

They sent me a golden envelope sealed with static.

The text read: Party at the end of the world. Bring nothing. Come undone.

I RSVP’d maybe,

but the app crashed,

or time folded,

or I blinked too long and missed the deadline.

Across the street, the sky turned crimson.

People wore sunglasses at midnight and danced to frequencies only dogs could hear.

I watched from my window as the Earth’s axis tilted three degrees and nobody spilled their drinks.

II. The Timeline

Stories poured in:

Karaoke with ghosts.

Champagne that tasted like childhood memories.

An exorcism-turned-dance-battle.

Someone proposed to the void, and the void said yes.

I tapped through it all in silence,

thumb aching,

wifi flickering,

wondering how the apocalypse smelled.

(Was it sandalwood and regret? Burnt toast and missed chances?)

My screen asked,

Do you want to go live?

But I hadn’t been “live” in months.

Only buffering.

Always buffering.

III. The Echo Room

Now the world is quiet.

Or gone.

Or paused on a frame I wasn’t in.

I wear the clothes I would’ve worn.

Say the jokes I would’ve said.

Slow dance with a shadow wearing my name tag.

Outside, the stars hold a debrief.

No one mentions me.

Still, sometimes I think I hear the party

in the static between radio stations,

in the click of an unplugged keyboard,

in dreams where everyone’s leaving

and I’m still tying my shoes.