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.