I have argued online more times than I care to admit — in comment threads under longform journalism, in the unruly back-and-forth of Twitter, in the less performative but still fraught spaces of Facebook groups. Some exchanges fizzled into productive curiosity; others lodged in my chest like a...
There’s a kind of ridiculous intimacy in keeping tiny regrets. They don’t announce themselves...
I remember a scene from a film more clearly than I remember a conversation I had last week. It’s...
There is a small ritual I return to whenever I want to understand a place: I go to the supermarket....
Ideas arrive in odd ways: in the margins of a newspaper, halfway through doing the washing up, in a...
There’s a particular ache I recognize now: the sudden rush of warmth when a song from my teenage...
I have a habit of trying to say too much. Sentences pile up like luggage at a station: necessary...
There is a small ritual I return to whenever I want to understand a place: I go to the supermarket. Not for the convenience of shopping, but because the items on the shelves — their packaging, the fonts, the claims and the price stickers — are a curious kind of public record. Reading supermarket labels has become a hobby of sorts, a way of learning the cultural history that finds its way into...
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Ideas arrive in odd ways: in the margins of a newspaper, halfway through doing the washing up, in a conversation that started about nothing important. Some I keep and scribble in a notebook; others evaporate by the time I reach for a pen. Over the years I’ve developed three quick, forgiving tests I run in my head before I decide whether an idea deserves a second look. They’re not rigorous...
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There’s a particular ache I recognize now: the sudden rush of warmth when a song from my teenage years plays, the way a scent can unspool an entire afternoon from a decade ago, the urge to pull an old sweater from the back of the wardrobe because it feels like a familiar shelter. Nostalgia has a voice that’s both tender and persuasive. It tells you what was good, what was simpler, what you...
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I have a habit of trying to say too much. Sentences pile up like luggage at a station: necessary items, a few souvenirs, and always one thing I convinced myself I absolutely needed but never use. Writing a short, stubbornly honest reflection forces me to leave the excess on the platform and board with only the essentials. Here’s how I do it — the method I return to when I want something...
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I used to think of walking as the default transit mode: a neutral, functional way to get from A to B. Lately I've been experimenting with a different idea — walking with purpose, not in the sense of a destination-oriented mission, but as a deliberate practice that reshapes attention, mood and small decisions over the day. These are not grand experiments. They are small shifts, easy enough to...
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I’ve been collecting small domestic oddities for years — a chipped teacup inherited from an aunt, a bent teaspoon that survived a move, a child's drawing folded so many times it became a soft square. At some point these things stopped feeling like clutter and started feeling like a private archive. That archive became my mini-museum: a curated corner of home where ordinary objects are given...
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Sometimes a conversation begins with weather or an awkward joke and drifts into polite non-commitment. Other times it opens with a strange, specific question — and the room rearranges itself. I’ve come to love that second kind of opening: the single odd question that acts like a key, unlocking a richer exchange. It feels more like an invitation than a line, and it nudges people away from...
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There are moments when an opinion feels like a small, hot coal in my palm — impossible to ignore, irresistible to fling into the conversation. Other times the thought is a cooler ember, better kept tucked away until the light can reach it without burning something fragile. Learning when to speak and when to hold back is less about self-censorship and more about social precision: knowing what an...
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I remember the first time a review landed in my inbox that felt like a small, cold knife. It wasn't a Goodreads one-star or an anonymous comment on a recipe blog; it was a thoughtful, sharp appraisal from a freelance editor who had paid for my workshop and then wrote back to explain why my piece had "missed the point" and felt "self-indulgent." For a while I read it the way you examine a bruise...
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I have a habit: whenever a thought arrives that feels too loud or too general, I make tea. It is a modest ritual—boil water, choose a leaf or a bag, wait—but it subtly rearranges the interior furniture of my day. Tea-making slows something down, or rather, it makes me notice the speed at which I am moving. It reveals how I steward time, how I make tiny decisions, and how I seek comfort in...
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