Why I Blog

A few years ago, I didn’t really understand why, but I’ve always found it hard to talk about certain things, especially when they’re about me. Whenever someone asked something personal, my mind would just go blank.

Other times, I’d avoid sharing my feelings or experiences because it felt like admitting that I cared, that I got hurt, and that I let it happen to me. And deep down, maybe I was afraid that talking about it would mean I somehow deserved it or make the person I share it with think that.

Maybe I just couldn’t accept that I was mistreated. Maybe it was pride. I didn’t want to be seen as weak or worse, as a victim.

When I was in college, we were required to visit the school psychologist before the end of each school year. There was one time we even had to do group therapy. I found it uncomfortable to share anything in front of others, so the psychologist asked if I wanted to talk one-on-one. But even then, I couldn’t bring myself to open up. I didn’t know how. At the end of the session, she told me, “You should write a blog.”

At the time, I shrugged it off. It didn’t feel like something I’d actually do. I did have a Tumblr where I dumped a lot of my thoughts, but the idea of putting something more personal out in public felt wrong and too vulnerable.

But now? I think she was onto something.

Writing something you know others might read is different from writing just for yourself. It becomes a kind of one-sided conversation. And in that space, you slowly learn how to say things you’ve never said before to other people.

Maybe that’s how vulnerability works for me, not breaking down in front of someone, but just letting myself be seen, piece by piece. There’s a kind of safety in writing. You get to pause, to choose your words, to decide how much you’re willing to show. But there’s also a kind of courage in letting those thoughts exist outside of you.

These days, when I have an idea, an emotion, an observation or a thought that feels important, I write it down right away. I feel the need to list it down or process it before it disappears because once it disappears, it’s hard for me to retrace my thoughts and feelings and the reason for my actions. Writing helps me make sense of emotions, even when they’re unclear at first. It helps me recognize what I’m really feeling so that when I ask myself or when someone asks, I already understand.

I’ve also noticed that sharing what I’m thinking, asking questions and expressing emotions, makes everything feel lighter. It prevents misunderstandings and makes life feel a little less complicated. I still don’t always know how to express the full extent of what I feel, because half the time I’m still figuring it out. I have to sit with it, untangle it, and ask myself: Am I being logical? Or just emotional? Or both?

When I look at where I am now, I know I’ve made progress. I’m not as afraid of being seen. I’m not as hesitant to speak, even when I’m still learning how to say what I mean.

Starting a blog helped with that. It gave me a quiet space to speak without being interrupted or misread. A place where I could explain myself without rushing. The more I write, the more I understand myself better, not just the version I present to others, but the one I’m still getting to know.

This actually reminds me of Sherlock’s friend, John, who started blogging and it was his therapist who gave him that idea too. It seemed silly at first, but now I get it. Writing about your life, your thoughts, your realizations grounds you.

And sharing it with others? That’s where it begins. It softens the fear of being seen. Sometimes, it’s even cathartic.

Do Thrifted Clothes Ever Really Feel Like Yours?

There’s this one time I noticed my sister walking around the house wearing an unfamiliar oversized shirt. My sister likes wearing loose shirts but this one looked odd to me because it doesn’t feel or looked like it was hers and it’s also slightly worn out. I told her about it and she says that she thrifted it. We laughed about how it looked like she stole it from someone else’s closet.

After that, I stared at my closet and thought do the clothes I thrifted look like they belong to me?

It’s weird because I like the process of thrift shopping. I love the hunt and finding something nice or interesting. I even love making up backstories for the clothes. But also, sometimes I wear them and feel like I’m just borrowing someone else’s life in a way.

Seriously, whose jacket is this? Sometimes it feels like I’m cosplaying as the person who previously owned it.

When I solo traveled, it got even weirder and funny. Wearing thrifted clothes while exploring unfamiliar cities made me feel like I wasn’t alone. I’d wear a cardigan and suddenly I’d imagine a ghost of a young girl who previously owned it with me. Maybe she wore this it to lunch with her ex. Maybe she danced in it once. Or cried in it. And now it’s mine. Kind of. Sort of.

Late at night, I’d be lying on my bed thinking about the thrifted clothes in my luggage. Imagining their presence, scaring myself. Did I accidentally brought ghosts with me on the trip? Can I still call it a solo trip? They should make a horror movie about that 😆.

I know they’re just clothes. But thrifted stuff carries a history. It’s not the same as buying something new. New clothes feel empty like a fresh notebook. Thrifted ones feel like someone already wrote something on it.

I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think part of wearing thrifted clothes is accepting that they’ll never be fully “yours.” You just borrow them and give them a new story.

Some days, thrifted clothes feel like me. Like I chose it. Other days, it feels like it chose me, especially if it fits me just right.

And no, my thrifted clothes don’t always feel like mine. Yet here I am, wearing them anyway, trying to stitch them into my story.

What We Endure, We Begin to Keep

I used to hate the colors yellow and orange. They felt too bright, too loud, too much. But at some point, I made myself like them. I looked for reasons: warmth, joy, sunlight. I told myself they symbolized happiness. Eventually, the resistance softened. And now? I can’t stop liking them. I get a little obsessed, even.

It happened with Keroppi too. Back in grade school, all my notebooks were Keroppi-themed. I had no choice but to use them. So I stared at his strange little face until I got used to him. Then I wanted to like him. Then I did.

It’s strange how that works. Maybe even sad.

You really can learn to love almost anything if you try hard enough. And that’s kind of beautiful. It means joy can be sculpted from very little. That you can fall in love with life, piece by piece, just by noticing.

But there’s another side to it.

Sometimes, you train yourself to stay. In the job. In the city. In the relationship. You learn to tolerate what once made your skin crawl, not because it changed, but because you did. What was once unbearable becomes familiar. Then comfortable. Then permanent.

We like to call that adaptability. We praise it as a strength. And sometimes it is. Other times, it’s surrender in disguise. You start reshaping yourself to survive something you were never meant to stay in. Until one day, you wake up and barely recognize the shape you’ve become.

I’ve done that. With colors. With characters. With music. With entire chapters of my life. But I’ve also seen what it looks like to choose something different. To want something because I am free to want it. To reach for something good out of clarity.

That was the turning point. I realized I no longer want a life built on endurance. I want a life built on intention. Not love born from pain, but love chosen freely. Quietly. Because I asked for it. Because I could.

Comfort Killed the Connection

I had a theory that people start showing their real selves after 3 months. Its kinda like the three month rule that psychologists talks about.

The longest most people can pretend is 3 months. Even shorter if you made them comfortable enough and believe that no matter what they do is ok with you. That’s the paradox of comfort at least, in my experience. I used to think it would bring closeness or intimacy. But sometimes, the more at home people feel, the more they start treating you like an object or something they own, or worse, something they can use.

There’s this song I used to listen to where the lyrics go: familiarity breeds indifference. And we all know that indifference is the opposite of love right? Not hate but indifference. I don’t believe that though. I think familiarity breeds the truth. Sometimes, it uncovers a persons unfiltered versions. Sometimes, that truth is hard to look at. Sometimes it’s beautiful.

Comfort gives you the space to say every single thought in your head, even the weird ones, even the ugly ones, even the ones you didn’t realize were bothering you until they spilled out. It lets you verbalize the constant stream of noise that lives in your brain and know that someone’s listening and not judging you for it. When you find that with someone, it feels like magic.

What kind of person do you become when you know that there will not be any consequences or judgements on your actions? Because that maybe is the real you. Maybe it’s not black and white and people are soft on good days and sharp on bad ones. It seems like we’re all just trying to figure that out as we go. Before I spiral into an existential confusion, I’ll just say my conclusion: I don’t think comfort ruins a connection. I think it just reveals what’s already there.

Update at 3:16 am in May:

I’ve come up with another theory! Sometimes when we get too comfortable with someone we start to mirror them. In our eyes everything they do is acceptable no matter how extreme to the point that it blurs your own sense of right and wrong, and you don’t even realize it because being with them makes everything feel normal even when it’s not.

Update at 12:50 pm in June:

Sometimes we start treating the people close to us the same way we treat ourselves. I guess that’s why they say you can only truly love another person if you learned to love yourself.

No More Delusions

There was a time I became deeply fixated on someone. Not in a grounded, healthy kind of way. More like a spell I couldn’t shake off. Everything felt heightened, confusing, and irrational. My mind knew better, but my heart refused to listen.

I spent a lot of time trying to make sense of it. I excused things I shouldn’t have. I tried to empathize my way into feeling okay, telling myself he probably acted that way because of something going on in his life… or maybe something I did… or maybe it’s just who he is. I stretched my compassion past its breaking point, until it stopped being kindness and became self-abandonment.

I even made a pros and cons list. The cons ran like a grocery receipt. The pros? Mostly vague feelings and the fact that he had a nice face. And somehow, that still felt enough. At least, at the time.

Looking back, I wonder, was it love? Or just my ego trying to prove something? Was I in love, or was I just addicted to the emotional high of being chosen by someone who never really chose me?

I used to tell myself it was chemistry. That I’d never find this kind of connection again. But the truth is, it wasn’t chemistry. It was emotional confusion. And no matter how much I wanted it to mean something deeper, it never really did.

What I didn’t know then was that I was caught in cognitive dissonance—that mental tug-of-war when your actions and beliefs don’t align, and your brain fills in the gaps with excuses. I knew he wasn’t right for me. But I had already invested so much emotionally, I kept trying to make the story work.

It’s like luxury branding. When something feels out of reach, we automatically assign more value to it. We do the same with people. If someone is mysterious, inconsistent, and emotionally unavailable, it’s easy to turn that into a puzzle worth solving.

I grew up watching films and reading stories that romanticized this dynamic, the emotionally distant love interest who “softens” for the main character. So when someone was emotionally open with me, it felt boring. When someone was unclear, I became obsessed. That’s not love. That’s conditioning.

The truth is: if someone leaves you confused, anxious, or constantly second-guessing, that’s not your person. Maybe they’re not cruel. Maybe they’re just not emotionally mature enough to show up. And maybe it’s not your job to wait around while they figure it out.

In reality, not everyone who likes you genuinely wants to love you. Some people enjoy the comfort of knowing they can have your attention, even if they’re not prepared to fully show up. And when you’re still building your self-worth, that push-and-pull can easily be mistaken for love. You might think, if this feels so intense, it must be real.

I don’t look back in regret. I understand why I held on. But I also see now that I wasn’t choosing love, I was reacting to a pattern. I was mistaking intensity for meaning. And that kind of emotional guessing game can quietly reshape how you see yourself.

But here’s the hopeful part: it doesn’t last forever.

The more grounded you become in your self-worth, the easier it is to spot the difference between emotional unavailability and real connection. You stop projecting potential and start seeing people clearly. You stop chasing clarity and start expecting it. You stop craving the thrill of uncertainty and start choosing the calm of stability.

You realize love isn’t something you fight for, it’s something that flows when both people are ready.

And if you’re still in that confusing place, just remember:
If it brings more anxiety than peace, it’s not love.
If it feels like a puzzle, walk away.
The right person won’t make you feel small or unsure.
Real love doesn’t need decoding.

It shows up, clearly. Consistently. Kindly.