The month was many things, and for the most part, I spent it in a state of joy and gratitude. I was grateful to be in my twenties, living on my own in a foreign city, building a little community for myself and enjoying my days. The days spent in lovely company and, perhaps even more so, the days spent alone. But now, as a month that went by so quickly yet felt so full comes to an end, I find myself with a heavy heart whose origins I cannot quite place. I wonder if my heart is mourning what I’ve lost over the past month or two, or if it’s the dread of what’s to come.

October felt like the thread, the bridge, the period in between. I was no longer in the past, a fun and carefree, albeit anxiety-riddled, time in my life, a time when I had worries that seem almost trivial now. School had me worried, work had me worried, he had me worried. Not posting? worried. ot writing? Worried. Not reading? Worried. I was even worried that I wasn't watching enough shows. I’ve been trying to unpack that period. I wonder if I had so many little worries because I was trying to ignore what truly worried me, or if it’s simply human nature to find something to worry about. Anyways, back to October. That period is over, and while I mourn parts of it, I am still deeply nostalgic for the beauty of it all.

The beauty of my summer, in particular. I had a delightful, deeply insightful summer, and although I had those worries plaguing the corners of my mind, I woke up positively beaming every day. I travelled to five countries and ten cities, studied, enjoyed the company of the people I loved, explored new things, as you often do in the summer, and new people too. I learnt a lot, in general and about myself, and for that, I find myself mourning its end.

I also find myself in anticipation, but not without a fair share of dread, over what’s to come. Everything has always seemed so serious in November. At university, September arrives when summer has barely ended, and October is autumn in bloom. There’s the excitement of the season, the beauty of fall and the new season of life. But as the month fades, so does some of that excitement. Perhaps it's the earlier evenings, the dwindling sunlight or the absence of warmth, but November has always brought with it a quiet dread. And this year, I find myself stepping into an entirely new season of life, postgraduate life, riddled with uncertainties. The arrival of November seems to carry a little more weight this time around.

As I write this, with dread filling my chest, I am also filled with deep anticipation for the future and what it holds, and for what I am going to make of it. Over the past year, I've come to realise that I am capable of so much more than I know, if and only if I am willing to dedicate myself to it. So, I want to make three promises to myself this month, and I want you to put down three of yours as well.

1. I promise to be more disciplined.

2. I promise to constantly stay grateful.

3. I promise to achieve something that requires a great deal of dedication on my part.

Take this as your sign to make three promises to yourself as the month begins. Write them down, and come back to reflect on how well you’ve kept them as November comes to an end. I’d love for us to hold each other accountable, so you can leave your three promises in the comments or, if you’d feel more comfortable, send them to me privately. I’ll hold you accountable when the month comes to an end.

With love, Lola.

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When I think of my childhood, I think of its summers. The kind of summers where the light lasts forever, but the days feel oddly still. Disney shows play in the background. The hum of the fan. The feeling of waiting for something to happen.

Those long, listless summer days. Time stretched on with nothing to look forward to. The quiet dread of realising nothing was happening, and no one was coming to change that. If I had to summarise my childhood in one word, it would be this: bored.

Not sad. Not unhappy. Just… bored.

It’s strange to admit that, because boredom feels ungrateful. This boredom, however, was not dramatic. I had a good childhood. My lunchbox was always packed with a balanced diet and my favourite snacks. My mum dropped me off and picked me up every day. We went on family trips during the holidays. I had loving parents. I was cared for.

But I was bored.

I don’t remember much, but I remember that feeling. Especially during the summers. Summer was supposed to be exciting. It was meant to be what you counted down to all year. Freedom. Fun. Long days. But I always kind of dreaded it. The days felt so long and shapeless. During term times, I had somewhere to go. I had classmates to run around with. I had the library with its endless books. I had a reason to go out into the world.

In the summer, all of that disappeared.

I don’t know if it was odd that I didn’t find sitting inside for days on end alluring. Watching Disney shows. Playing Wii or Xbox with my little brother. It was fine, but not fulfilling. I missed having somewhere to be. I missed the chatter of school. I missed feeling stimulated.

I didn’t go out much during those summers. I didn’t visit friends’ houses. I didn’t go to the park on weekends. I never properly learned how to ride a bike. Swimming lessons were brief and forgettable. I had but one cousin in the same city, and sleepovers were fun, until they blurred into the same indoor stillness. Even the company couldn’t always cure the inertia.

If I’m honest, I think I’m still trying to escape my childhood summers. I think that’s why I take my will to go out and see the world so seriously now. Especially in the summer. I fill my days on purpose. With friends and alone. Restaurants, cafés, art galleries, pottery classes, and painting. The cinema. Ice-cream runs. Bake days. Afternoon teas. Game nights. Movie nights. Long walks just because.

Anything that makes the day feel lived.

I never really questioned why staying inside for too long makes me feel drained and slightly hopeless. Why I feel restless if I don’t leave the house for days. But I think it’s because it transports me back to those summers. The boredom. The stillness. The feeling of time stretching but not actually being used.

I sometimes wonder what a whimsical childhood feels like. Does it mean Saturdays in the park? Being signed up for judo, sewing, and swimming all at once? Learning to ride a bike properly? Museum trips. Tagging along to your parents’ workplaces. Sleepovers with friends that actually involved going out. Cousins everywhere. Noise. Activity.

I don’t resent my parents. I don’t blame them. They gave me stability and love in their own way. But I have made an intentional choice: to fill my adult life with the whimsy my childhood lacked.

And one day, if I have a child, I will be deliberate about their summers. About their Saturdays. About making sure their days feel expansive. Lived. Remembered.

With love,

Lola.

I’m writing this after a 15-hour flight, returning to the UK after spending a month back home.

I’ve never been someone who fears change. In fact, I’ve always chased it. I crave the freshness it brings, the sense of renewal, the quiet promise of reinvention. Every opportunity for change has been one I’ve willingly embraced.

As a child, I constantly rearranged the furniture in my room. I counted down the days to a new school year, new supplies, new uniforms, new classrooms, new teachers. Later, I moved cities for every stage of my education. I changed apartments every single academic year.

Change has always felt like growth.

So why is it that someone who welcomes change so openly is also deeply, painfully nostalgic?

I miss every version of my life as I’m living it. I miss the seasons, weeks, days, even fleeting seconds, spent in the company of people I love.

I miss being 17 and walking through London alone, watching the trees come back to life in spring. I miss passing through Borough Market and debating whether to buy fruit just because I could. I miss the security guard at Sainsbury’s who made me smile every time I walked in. I even miss walking past the hotel where my mum and sister were staying, and feeling the ache of missing them while they were still within reach.

In my first year of university, I dismissed the city as grey and uninspiring. By my second autumn there, it began to feel like a piece of me. I romanticised the fallen leaves scattered across the pavements. In my final year, I moved to a quieter neighbourhood, another change, another fresh start. And yet, when it was time to leave, I cried in the back seat of the moving car, my head resting on my mother’s lap.

I wasn’t crying because I didn’t want what was next.
I was crying because I knew that chapter would never exist in quite the same way again.

The most recent change has been the hardest.

After graduating, I moved back home for a year. At first, I resisted it. The transition from structured education to the in-between space of uncertainty felt disorienting. When the excitement of summer faded, I felt lost. I had no routine, no tangible milestones, no clear direction. Days blurred together. I woke up without purpose and slept without rest.

But somewhere in that stillness, something shifted.

I made a decision to live deliberately again. To build structure where there was none. To seek growth even without external pressure. As the Qur’an reminds us: “With every hardship comes ease” (94:5–6).

That year became one of the most transformative of my life.

I stepped outside my comfort zone. I built meaningful relationships. I became healthier, more disciplined, and braver. I found joy in ordinary days. I spent evenings praying beside my mother and sisters during Ramadan. I shared laughter with coworkers who became close friends. I’d go upstairs after work just to show my mum my outfit. I created small daily and weekly rituals.

I built a life I didn’t expect to love as much as I did.

And that is why returning for my master’s has felt heavier than I anticipated.

I assumed the nostalgia would pass quickly. It hasn’t. Because for the first time, this wasn’t a change I actively desired. It was simply the next logical step.

For someone who thrives on reinvention, this experience has taught me something unexpected:
You can crave growth and still grieve what you’re outgrowing.
You can be excited for the future and still mourn the past.
You can be a creature of change and still long for permanence.

Perhaps nostalgia isn’t resistance to change.
Perhaps it’s evidence that you were fully present.

And maybe the goal isn’t to stop feeling it, but to trust that one day I’ll look back at this chapter with the same tenderness.

With love, Lola.

Let’s start by addressing health anxiety.

If you are a hypochondriac or have ever experienced health anxiety firsthand, you’ll understand the gravity of it. One moment, I would be completely healthy, and the next, discovering a particular illness and its symptoms would make those very symptoms physically manifest in my body.

I could then spend the next few hours, days, or even weeks trying to convince myself that I could not have suddenly developed this disease. But my mind and body would not align. My chest would ache relentlessly, my mind refusing to rest. One day would pass, then two, then three, without even a wink of sleep.

This would eventually lead to dissociation. My body no longer felt like mine. I couldn’t enjoy anything, not food, not nature, not even rest. I would sit at my favourite spot on the balcony, the soft morning breeze gently brushing against my cold hands and feet. I tried to think happy thoughts, to envision my future, but I couldn’t.

Instead, I thought about illness. About my body failing me. About being stuck in the cold, eerily bright rooms of the hospital. I thought about how slowly my world would shrink until the only emotion directed at me would be pity, and oh, how I despise being pitied. I thought about how much I would not want that life.

I thought about death. About the hereafter. About how unready I felt to face my Lord. I thought about everything I hadn’t experienced yet, and all that I might never experience. I thought about the milestones my siblings and friends would reach in the future.

And then I thought of my mum.

That’s when I cried. I sobbed violently because, for the first time in a while, I finally felt something.

I then went to the doctor.

And somehow, just stepping into the hospital made me feel better. Even better when, suddenly, my symptoms dulled. I began taking steps to manage my anxiety: proper sleep, yoga, calming teas, meditation, prayer, and keeping myself busy.

It got better.

But it always came back.

A TikTok explaining the symptoms of a disease.

A headache that lingered too long.

Back pain from sitting too much.

And just like that, the cycle would restart.

This awful experience taught me the impermanence of life. No one lives forever,and because of that, we should live as fully as we can.

It also made my other problems feel so much smaller. Before this, I could never confidently call myself a social person. Now, I can honestly say I’m comfortable talking to people and rarely overthink my interactions.

Right after my worst episode of health anxiety, the month I turned 21, I made a promise to myself: to do less talking and take more initiative.

That promise led me to attend my first event alone. I really enjoyed it. Not just the event itself, but the fact that I had done something so far outside my comfort zone.

That newfound zeal for life pushed me further. Over the past year, I’ve done many things that once terrified me. I started my first-ever job and had an amazing experience because I was determined to enjoy my everyday life.

I went on my first solo trip after applying for what felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. At first, it was daunting, but my desire to experience life outweighed my anxiety. I wandered into random restaurants, had some of the best meals of my life, spoke to strangers, spoke in rooms full of “important” people, asked questions, and truly put myself out there.

It was incredible.

I became more open, to experiences and to people. I started saying yes more often, and I enjoyed it. I began my master’s degree in a new city. I’ve always found change to be a double-edged sword: craving new beginnings while feeling deeply nostalgic for the past. I think I’ll write about that someday.

But what I know for certain is this: what I would call the most horrible mental experience of my life completely reshaped how I view and approach living.

I guess it’s true, there is sunshine after the storm.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Even the clichés are true.

With love, Lola.

Love, romantic love, is such a confusing emotion to me. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel. I never know if I actually like someone, or if I like the idea of them. I never know if it’s boredom that drives me to romanticise them in my head.

I tell myself my feelings are valid, but what’s the actual root of these feelings? And why do they feel so much bigger than anything I’ve ever felt before?

I’m not a jealous person, not in friendships or towards people in general. However, even the thought of a prospective partner being involved with someone else enrages me. This rage feels unnatural because I’ve never felt it before. It’s foreign and overwhelming, and it makes me think that maybe love itself is foreign and overwhelming to me.

Overthinking? I’m not an overthinker. Okay, I say that with a grain of salt because I am a raging hypochondriac, but that’s usually my only source of overthinking. However, when it comes to anything romantic, I overthink. When I really like someone, I really overthink.

It starts slow. He takes forever to text back, and I go about my day normally. Then suddenly I think: why is he taking forever? Was it something I said? I start overanalysing everything, trying to prove to myself whether he actually likes me or not. It doesn’t suit me. It doesn’t feel like me.

Opening up, I’m not the most open person. I sometimes joke about things without ever really getting into anything meaningful. Catch me in the wee hours of the night, and you might accidentally hear my deepest, darkest secrets. But I avoid late-night conversations because I know myself, I’m not very open.

And this makes love harder to imagine on me.

How can someone love you without truly knowing you? But to me, being known feels deeply personal. I don’t want to open myself up fully in the name of a “talking stage,” and if that makes me closed off, then so be it.

I get over things fast, but do I ever truly recover? I am absolutely terrified of heartbreak. I don’t think I could handle it, so I’m grateful I’ve managed to avoid it so far. I would hate to be one of those girls who wallow in heartbreak, but I have this feeling that I might be.

And I know I would recover, because trust me, I know no man is worth all that. But before my brain finally catches up, I can already imagine the pain my heart would go through.

I watch shows where a man who absolutely adored a woman betrays her in the most heinous ways, or simply falls out of love. Which brings me to my next point.

Falling out of love.

What does it mean to fall out of love? And why do we fall out of love? I understand that when a relationship has problems, constant disagreements, unresolved issues, love can fade. But a sudden, sporadic end to a passionate love is something I cannot understand.

What am I meant to do if I finally fall in love, wholeheartedly and stupidly, and after a few years, he just… falls out of love? That sounds absolutely insane. And horrendous.

My friends always say they can absolutely imagine me in love or in a relationship because, apparently, it just suits me. I don’t know how to feel about that, because I simply can’t imagine it myself.

Is it a lack of imagination on my part? Maybe that’s why I’m awful at art. Or have these fears quietly banished the idea of love entirely from my subconscious?

With love, Lola.

You think back to 20, visiting Edinburgh. That was your first time at the beach, you stared into the sea and lost yourself in its endless horizon.

Then there was 19, when you travelled to Spain. There was the initial hesitation of taking the trip, but looking back, you’re thankful you did. You marveled at the orange trees, seemingly mundane yet somehow captivating-the view of the orange trees of those vibrant orange trees still lingers in your mind.

At 18, you wandered through The Wallace Collection, captivated by both the art and the crowd. You spot a couple, as you often do, but for some reason this view stuck with you. The view of a woman in her brown trench, one arm intertwined with his, the other outstretched pointing at the painting.

At 17, you found yourself alone, in a new city, a new country. You spent countless moments staring out your window at the view of three magnificent bronze horses, through the snow, the rain and eventually some sunshine as the seasons changed. With the view as your sole companion.

At 16, you’d sit in the garden at boarding school, staring at the view of the grass, the swings or simply gazing into the vastness of your thoughts.

You probably spent those years observing and cherishing the various views life offered. Yet, it isn’t just the sights that you held dear; it’s also the moments.

The excitement of your first job, visiting the beach with your friends, taking risks that paid off, witnessing genuine love, gaining some independence and relishing the last year you could spend every day surrounded by friends . Those moments are what you truly cherished.

I love Lara Jean, so kind, soft spoken and feminine. She’s the sweetest teenage protagonist I’ve watched in a while. When Peter said right before he kissed her, Beautiful Lara Jean, I thought to myself, that’s perfect. The soft, dreamy tone paired with words that describe her perfectly, beautiful Lara Jean.

I actually decided to watch the movies after binging the XO kitty series. My sister was watching it, and because she’s usually such a serious person and I’m usually the one who gives the silly shows a chance, I gave it one.

Catherine Song Covey, “Kitty to her friends”, I loved her. I did! The in-your-face confidence that comes with being American, maybe or maybe it’s a younger sister who was never told she couldn’t do anything.

Anyways, I loved that unabashed confidence she had, through all her embarrassing moments. I sometimes found myself cringing so hard I had to put it on pause, but then I thought, you know what? It actually doesn’t matter; it didn’t matter to her by the next two scenes, so why would it matter to me? I found myself getting comfortable with her embarrassing displays, finding them less embarrassing till I didn’t find them embarrassing at all. And I found myself hoping I could do that for myself as well, be unabashedly myself, confident in whatever I say and do, even the cringeworthy moments. Because it is better to be cringe and free.