On Eco Bags and Emotional Attachments

I was buying a handmade eco bag. Naturally, I wanted the perfect one, something sturdy, something without flaws. Something that looked good and wouldn’t easily break.

Eventually, I found a bag that seemed strong and well-made, with only a few imperfections. I saved it, just in case I’d find something better.

And then I did, another bag with fewer flaws, almost perfect. But I had been holding on to the first one for so long, I felt bad letting it go. So, I saved both and kept browsing.

But then I got tired. And stopped searching.

When it came down to choosing between the two, I picked the first one not because it was better, but because it felt right. I couldn’t explain it. My intuition seems to be telling me that we were meant to be. The second one might’ve been closer to “perfect,” but I’ve learned to like the flaws of the first one. I saw charm in them. I didn’t think I could feel the same way about the second and if I got the second I know I would be thinking of the first one and maybe even regret it.

Maybe that’s how attachment in relationships works, too.

You hold on to someone not because they’re flawless, but because something about them feels familiar and comforting. You’re scared to let go, afraid you’ll never feel that kind of connection again or that it will haunt you.

Is that love? Maybe. Maybe it’s just attachment. Maybe it’s both.

Sometimes it’s a good thing. But when it starts doing you more harm than good, the hardest but kindest thing you can do is let go. I don’t mean “choose the other”, what I mean is choose yourself. Choose what brings peace to your soul. Choose what makes you genuinely happy. Let your intuition speak, and trust it enough to listen.

That way, your future self will thank you for making the decision you won’t regret.

Notes from Someone Still Learning to Shape Her Life

I used to feel like life was racing ahead of me. Everyone else seemed to know what they were doing, what career to pursue, what words to say, what choices to make. Meanwhile, I still didn’t know how to small talk without sounding like I was glitching. It was like they had access to some secret manual I never got. Like they had lived this life before and were just replaying it effortlessly, while I was fumbling through my very first try.

For the longest time, I felt clueless. So I just copied what other people said was good or moral or mature, what society says, what religion says. Yet I still constantly questioned myself, compared timelines, and felt like I was two steps behind.

But something changed when I stopped looking at everyone else and started looking inward.

I realized I have been moving forward just not in the same direction, and not at the same speed as others. I’ve healed parts of myself that no one else could see, learned to stop people-pleasing and discovered how comforting it is to enjoy my own company. I’ve wandered, paused, and begun again. And slowly, I’ve started to fall in love with the person I’m becoming.

I still don’t know exactly how things will unfold. I can’t predict the future. But what’s changed is this: I now know the kind of person I want to become. I know what I value, what I need, and the kind of life I want to build around that. And for now, that’s more than enough.

I just need to keep choosing the things that aligns with that version of myself while staying present enough to enjoy where I am. To grow, explore, and change. To make clear, gentle choices, not ones driven by fear or pressure. And to keep moving with integrity, even when no one’s looking, even when it’s easier not to.

In my own time. In my own way. That’s enough for now.

I Might Not Do Tarot Readings Again

Last December someone gifted me an adventure time tarot deck and I was happy and excited to use it. That same person was also the first one I ever read for. Though I didn’t really did well since I don’t know the cards well but I know the Adventure time characters so I could guess what each card meant based on the characters or what they’re doing. Weird thing is, before I met with that person, I had a bad dream and what’s even more crazy is something bad did happen a week before that to them. I don’t know if it had some significance or it was just something that happens.

After that, I kept reading for myself. Whenever I have a question, I’d shuffle the deck, pull a card, Google the meaning, and just… interpret. It’s nothing new to me though. Even before, I used to listen to card readings on YouTube which sometimes are accurate. Too accurate sometimes it even made me believe that a certain person was my soulmate. But the truth is when you’re with an avoidant person, you look for a reason to hold on to it even if it’s not based on any kind of reality. I realized that after being in a secure relationship. When I’m in a secure relationship, it’s just enough for me to know that we both love each other.

When something’s bugging my mind, I just ask and look at the tarot reading. It’s now much easier to do too because I can just tell Ai about the cards I picked and tell me what it meant. Doing the reading kinda gave me peace of mind. Even though I know it is not real, it gave me a temporary answer and made me stop overthinking.

There’s one time when my cat got lost. I was so worried about my cat and can’t stop thinking about it that I did a reading. It turned out that my reading was correct. It says that my cat was in my neighbor and they were thinking twice whether they should keep it or not but I shouldn’t worry because soon the cat will be back and that’s literally what happened. My neighbor brought the cat back saying that they heard that my dad was looking for a cat. How accurate it was kind of freaked me out.

I also did a tarot reading for my younger sister and friend too. They told me the reading was accurate like when I mention about a person or a situation, they say it sounds like someone they knew or like how did it knew that this person is working at somewhere related to transportation?

Last night, I lost my cat again. I tried to search everywhere. I checked all the usual spots but nothing. His sibling seems to be looking for him as well and it made me worry even more. I shuffled my card and did a reading and it says that my cat might be farther than expected but safe and that it was being taken care of by someone young. The next day, I was preparing my food when I felt a cat between my feet, I looked down and saw the missing cat and realized that the cat was just inside our house the whole time.

That made me realize that the reading was wrong. I don’t know why, but it made me rethink everything. Not just that reading, but all of them. The way I put so much weight into the possibility that a card knew more than I did. The way I used tarot as a crutch when I could’ve just asked questions out loud to the person or to myself.

Maybe I won’t do tarot for a while or ever. Maybe I’ll sit with the discomfort instead of not having an answer. And maybe, not everything is supposed to be understood or known.

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.