The way I remember being happy is a bit suspicious.

I can recall the feeling of some specific afternoons with an embarrassing amount of affection. The light coming through a window. The sound of someone laughing in another room. The nothingness of a day that had no reason to be remembered at all. I can return to these moments years later and feel, for a second as though I have been given something back.

But I have begun to wonder whether I am remembering those days, or simply remembering that I was happy. This distinction seems small until you start thinking about it.

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Because I cannot remember what I was thinking about that afternoon. I cannot remember whether I was worried about something, whether I had somewhere else I wanted to be, whether I spent part of the day wishing for a life that looked nothing like the one I was living. I remember the warmth of the memory, but not necessarily the weather. I remember that I was happy, but I cannot prove that I was.

Perhaps I have mistaken the feeling of looking back fondly for the feeling of having been happy in the first place.

And if that is possible, what else have I gotten wrong?

I think about this more often than is probably reasonable. The past feels like the one thing in my life I should be able to trust. It has already happened. It should, by now, have settled into something definite. The people have come and gone, the conversations have ended, the doors have closed. Surely, of all the things I cannot control, what has already happened should be beyond my reach.

But still, I can remember a person differently depending on the day I remember them.

On some days, I remember their kindness first. On others, I remember the things they said that made me question myself. Sometimes I think of a friendship as one of the loveliest things that ever happened to me. Sometimes I wonder why I spent so long trying to make it work. Both versions feel true when I am inside them.

I find this unsettling. I don’t expect myself to remember everything correctly, but I have never considered the possibility that my memories might be changing while I am busy trusting them.

What if the past is not a place I return to but a story I keep telling myself until I forget that I am the one telling it?

And what happens when the storyteller is also the person who needs the story to make sense?

I suspect we are not very good at being witnesses to our own lives. We are too close to the evidence. We have something to gain from certain interpretations and something to lose from others. We remember the things that explain us, the things that make our decisions seem reasonable, the things that allow us to recognize ourselves in the person we have become.

We are both the witness and the defense attorney. Occasionally, I suspect we are the person who committed the crime.

I can imagine a version of myself telling a story about an old relationship. In her version, she was patient. She was understanding. She stayed because she believed in people and wanted to give them the chance to become who they promised they would be.

In another version, she was afraid to leave. She confused being needed with being loved. She kept waiting for a different ending because admitting that the story had become painful meant admitting how long she had been willing to live through it.

Which version is telling the truth?

Both. Neither. What if the difference between them is not what happened, but what I am now willing to admit about the person I was when it happened.

That is what is most difficult about memory: it seems to change as we do, and it rarely tells us that it has changed.

A person we once loved becomes someone we can understand without wanting back. A childhood we thought was ordinary becomes precious when we realize how much of it we can no longer recall. Something we spent years regretting begins to look like a decision made by someone who had fewer choices than we now remember.

We call this perspective. We call it growing up. We say that time has given us a clearer view of things.

But is clarity always what time gives us? Sometimes I think time simply makes us more convincing.

We become better at explaining why we did what we did. Better at finding the lesson in our mistakes, the reason behind our losses, the small but necessary purpose of the things that hurt us. We learn how to tell a story in which the person we used to be was always, in some way on her way to becoming us.

Isn’t that a comforting thought? I understand the desire to look back at a difficult year and believe it was taking us somewhere. I understand wanting to think that the people who left made room for the people who stayed, that the opportunities we missed were not meant for us, that the things we lost were teaching us how to hold on to what mattered.

I have told myself versions of these stories, too.

Do we sometimes give the past a purpose simply because we struggle to accept that things can happen without one.

Maybe a person can leave our lives without having arrived to teach us anything. We can spend years wanting something that was never right for us. An experience can hurt us without making us stronger, and we can still go on to build a life we love.

Must everything become meaningful before we are allowed to make peace with it?

I am not sure.

The dishonesty that interests me, one that does not involve inventing events or deliberately changing facts is the dishonesty of omission. The little things we leave out because they do not fit the story we have settled on.

When I remember someone I loved, do I remember the person who existed, or the person I needed them to be? When I remember being lonely, do I remember the loneliness itself, or the explanation I eventually found for it? When I think about a decision I regret, am I remembering the choices I had, or am I judging a younger version of myself with information she could not possibly have possessed?

I wonder how often the truth is sitting in the details we have stopped mentioning.

The moment before the argument. The days before the friendship ended, when we already knew something was wrong but preferred not to name it. The small, ordinary disappointments that never seemed important enough to remember, until we needed to explain why something that once mattered so much eventually fell apart.

We do not rewrite our lives in grand gestures. We do it through the little things we forget to include.

And maybe this is why two people can remember the same relationship as two entirely different experiences.

One remembers the beginning, the other the end. One remembers what was promised, the other what was repeatedly postponed. One remembers feeling loved, the other remembers trying very hard to feel loved.

They can sit across from each other years later and tell their stories with complete sincerity, each wondering how the other could possibly have understood things so differently.

I used to think that, if two people disagreed about the past, one of them must be wrong.

Now I wonder if we ever really experience the same thing as the people standing beside us. We arrive at every moment carrying different fears, different expectations, different ideas about what things mean. We listen for different things in the same sentence. We notice different silences. We leave a room with different versions of what happened inside it.

Memory does not betray us by failing to preserve a single, objective experience. I think there was never a single experience for it to preserve.

Still, I find myself wanting to know what really happened.

I want to know whether I was as happy as I remember, whether the people I miss were as good to me as I sometimes make them out to be, whether I have forgiven certain things because I finally understand them or because I have forgotten how much they hurt. I want to know if the person I used to be would agree with the stories I tell about her now.

But she is not here to ask.

This is something i struggle with, with becoming older. The person who could have corrected our memories is often the person we have become too distant from to recognize. We remember being young, but we cannot return to the mind that experienced it. We remember what we believed, but we cannot recover the exact shape of that belief before life complicated it.

We look back at our younger selves with all the knowledge they did not have, and then wonder why their decisions seem so obvious to us now.

Perhaps we have been unfair to them.

The girl who stayed was not foolish. The girl who left was not brave. The person who made a decision we now regret was not ignoring the truth, but living with a different understanding of it.

We keep telling ourselves that we should have known better. But better than what? Better than a person who had not yet lived through the things that would teach her?

I think the past becomes less honest the more certain we become about it.

The older I get, the less interested I am in deciding exactly who I was. I am beginning to suspect that the girl I remember is partly a character I have created from fragments: a few clear images, a handful of embarrassing decisions, certain things people said about me and the person I have since become.

I have taken these fragments and arranged them into a life that makes sense to me.

What if you have done the same.

All of us are walking around with private histories that are almost, but not entirely, true. We tell each other where we came from, why we are the way we are, what happened to us, whom we loved and why we left. We build identities out of memories and then use those identities to decide what we are capable of doing next.

I am the kind of person who always leaves before she can be left.

I have never been good at letting things go.

I have always known what I wanted.

I have heard people say things like these, and I have said some of them myself. There is something comforting about turning a series of experiences into a sentence about who we are. A sentence gives us something solid to stand on. It allows us to believe that our lives have a pattern, that we can recognize ourselves in our own behaviour.

But what if the sentence becomes another kind of memory? What if we repeat it so often that we begin to arrange our lives around it, selecting the experiences that prove it right and overlooking the ones that don’t?

Maybe we remember ourselves into becoming the people we believe we have always been.

And if that is true, remembering is not merely an act of looking backward. It is also an act of creation.

Which brings me back to the question I cannot seem to leave alone.

At what point does a memory become a lie?

Is it when we forget something important? When we replace a fact with a feeling? When we turn a person into a villain because it is easier than admitting that we loved someone who was sometimes unkind and sometimes wonderful? When we insist that a painful experience was necessary because we cannot bear the thought that it might simply have been painful?

Or is a memory a lie only when we refuse to question it?

I don’t think I want to become suspicious of everything I remember. There is enough uncertainty in the present without turning the past into another thing I cannot trust. I want to be able to miss people. I want to remember places with affection. I want to believe that the happiness I felt was real, even if I can no longer reconstruct every ordinary detail of the days in which I felt it.

The answer for me is not to stop telling myself stories. It is to remember that they are stories.

To leave a little room for the possibility that we misunderstood someone, that our younger selves were not always reliable judges of what was happening to them, that the version of the past we carry today might look different to us in another ten years.

To be careful when we say this is how it happened, when what we really mean is this is how I remember it.

I think there is a difference.

Isn’t there so much freedom in accepting that. We do not have to choose between believing everything we remember and believing nothing at all. We can hold our memories close without demanding that they be perfect. We can love a person we no longer understand. We can be grateful for a time in our lives without pretending it was happier than it was. We can forgive our younger selves without rewriting their mistakes into acts of courage.

We can let the past be complicated.

I find myself thinking about that now when I remember the happy afternoons. I wonder what I was worried about, what I was hoping for, what I might have complained about if someone had asked me how my life was going at the time.

I wonder whether I knew I was happy.

Happiness is (a lot of times) something we recognize only after it has become a memory, when the ordinary details have fallen away and all that remains is the feeling that something was good, and that we did not know how good it was until we could no longer return to it.

I would like to believe that this does not make the memory a lie.

I would like to believe that a thing can change in our minds without becoming meaningless, that forgetting certain details does not erase the truth of having been there, that the stories we tell about our lives can be imperfect and still be worth telling.

But I also want to be careful.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life defending a version of the past simply because I have grown attached to the person I get to be inside it.

I want to be able to look back and discover that I was wrong about something. To admit that I did not understand a person, that I misunderstood myself, that a moment I have spent years romanticizing was perhaps more ordinary than I remember.

I want the truth to be allowed to surprise me, even when it comes from my own life. Because perhaps the most unsettling possibility is not that our memories lie to us.

It is that we sometimes prefer them when they do.

And perhaps the most honest thing we can do with the past is not to find the perfect way to remember it, but to accept that we will never be able to see it from every side.

We can only return to it as the people we are now, carrying everything that has happened since, trying to make sense of a life that was never as simple as it looks from a distance.

I suppose I will keep remembering those afternoons. I will keep missing people, revisiting conversations, wondering what might have happened if I had said something differently. I will keep trying to understand the girl I used to be, even though I know that every attempt to understand her changes the way I see her.

I think that is inevitable.

In the end, I would rather have an imperfect memory that leaves room for the truth than a beautiful one that has no room for anything else.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

I always wonder what people would do if they suddenly had nothing to prove.

If there were no careers to climb, no milestones to reach by a certain age, no pressure to turn every interest into a skill and every skill into something useful. If, for a moment, nobody was asking what you did for a living, where you were going, or what you planned to do next.

What would a good day look like then?

I imagine long conversations that stretch into the evening. Reading until you lose track of time. Learning something simply because it fascinates you. Having dinner with people you love, with nowhere else you need to be.

It sounds simple, almost disappointingly so. And yet so much of modern life seems to revolve around getting somewhere else. We work toward a better future, a better version of ourselves, a life that will eventually give us the freedom to slow down.

But what if the way we imagine a good life is only one possibility?

I started thinking about this while exploring how different cultures and philosophical traditions have understood the idea of a life well spent. The more I read, the more I realized that the question itself is much older than our modern obsession with productivity, success and self-improvement.

And the answers are not always what you might expect.

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The ancient Greeks believed there was more to life than working

Imagine walking through ancient Athens. You pass a marketplace filled with people trading goods, craftsmen working at their trades, and citizens gathering to discuss politics and philosophy.

In the middle of all this, a question emerges: what is all this work actually for?

For Aristotle, one answer was that the highest human good was eudaimonia, a concept often translated as flourishing or living well. It was not simply about feeling happy. It was about living in a way that allowed you to develop and exercise your human capacities.

And one of the things Aristotle considered especially valuable was contemplation: thinking deeply, pursuing knowledge, and trying to understand the world.

There was even a Greek word for leisure: scholē. It referred to freedom from necessary work, but not necessarily to the kind of leisure we associate with holidays or watching television. It could mean having the time to learn, think, discuss ideas, and engage in activities that were worthwhile in themselves.

In other words, the point of having free time was not simply to recover enough energy to return to work. It was to have the freedom to do something meaningful with your life.

I find that idea interesting because of how we treat our time today.

We have become very good at making everything useful. We read to become more knowledgeable, exercise to become healthier, travel to broaden our horizons, and learn new skills to improve our prospects. Even our hobbies can start to feel like another opportunity to become better at something.

And there is nothing wrong with wanting to grow. But sometimes I wonder whether we have forgotten how to do things without expecting something in return.

When was the last time you read a book without thinking about what you could learn from it? Or spent an afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive and didn’t feel a little guilty about it?

The ancient Greek ideal of leisure invites us to consider a different possibility: perhaps a good life requires not only the ability to work, but also the freedom to think, wonder, and simply be.

Of course, this ideal was shaped by an unequal society. The leisure of some Greek citizens depended on the labor of others, including enslaved people, while women were largely excluded from public philosophical and political life. It was never a universal freedom.

But the question it raises still feels relevant.

What is the point of building a life if you never have the time to experience it?

What if being wealthy meant needing less?

Now imagine a very different way of life.

Instead of measuring your success by your salary, the size of your home, or the number of things you own, you measure it by whether you have enough to eat, a place to sleep, people to spend time with, and enough freedom to enjoy your day.

This might sound like an idealized fantasy of a simpler life. But it connects to an interesting argument made by anthropologist Marshall Sahlins.

In 1972, Sahlins popularized the idea of the original affluent society. He challenged the assumption that hunter-gatherer societies were necessarily poor because they possessed relatively few material goods.

His argument was that some hunter-gatherer communities could meet their needs without devoting every waking hour to producing and accumulating more. In certain environments, people could spend comparatively limited time obtaining food and other necessities, leaving room for social life and other activities.

This does not mean that hunter-gatherers lived easy lives. Conditions varied enormously between communities, and their lives could involve physical hardship, uncertainty, and periods of scarcity. Sahlins’s interpretation has also been debated by other anthropologists.

What interests me most is the question beneath his argument.

We often assume that the way to become wealthier is to have more. More money, more possessions, more opportunities. But there is another way to think about abundance: to need less in order to feel that you have enough.

Think about how easily our idea of enough changes.

You want a salary that allows you to live comfortably. Then you start imagining what life would look like with a little more money. You reach a goal, adjust to it and begin looking toward the next one. The things you once dreamed of eventually become ordinary, and new desires take their place.

There is always something else to want.

And ofcourse that is not entirely our fault. We live in a world that constantly presents us with new things to desire, while reminding us of everything we do not yet have. But what happens when the pursuit of more becomes so consuming that we have less time to enjoy what we already possess?

I don’t think the answer is to reject money or pretend that material comfort doesn’t matter. Financial security can give people independence, safety, and freedom. Wanting a better life is not a flaw. But shouldn’t we ask ourselves what we actually want more money to give us.

Is it freedom? Security? Time with our families? The ability to travel, create, or live somewhere we love? And if those are the things we want, are we building a life that brings us closer to them?

What if wealth is not only about how much you can accumulate, but also about how much of your life you get to enjoy.

In ancient China, a good life was about the person you became

So far, we have looked at a life devoted to contemplation and a way of thinking about wealth that challenges endless accumulation.

But what if a good life has less to do with what you own or accomplish, and more to do with who you are to the people around you?

This was an important question in the philosophy of Confucius, who lived in China from 551 to 479 BCE.

Confucius was interested in what makes a person good and what allows a society to flourish. His teachings, preserved in a collection known as the Analects, placed great importance on moral character, learning, and the relationships that shape our lives.

One of his central concepts was ren, often translated as humaneness or benevolence. It describes a quality of moral humanity that becomes visible in how we treat others.

Another important concept was xiao, or filial piety: respect and care for one’s parents and ancestors.

In this tradition, becoming a good person was not simply a matter of having good intentions. It required practice. You learned through your actions, your relationships, your responsibilities and your willingness to reflect on your own behavior.

And I think there is something beautiful about that.

So much of our modern language around personal growth is focused on the self. We talk about becoming our best selves, finding our purpose, following our dreams, and refusing to settle for a life that doesn’t fulfill us.

But how often do we ask a different set of questions?

Am I becoming a good friend? Am I someone other people can rely on? Do I treat people with kindness when I have nothing to gain from them? Am I willing to admit when I am wrong?

We can be ambitious, intelligent, and successful, and still have a great deal to learn about being human.

Confucian philosophy reminds us that our lives are not lived in isolation. We become who we are through our relationships with others, and the way we treat people is part of the life we are creating.

Of course, Confucianism also developed within a hierarchical society, and its emphasis on duty and social roles can raise difficult questions about obedience and individual freedom. Its teachings should not be reduced to the idea that we must always put others before ourselves.

But there is a difference between living only for other people’s approval and recognizing that our lives have meaning beyond ourselves.

What if a good life is not only about what you manage to become, but also about how people feel when they are part of your life.

The four aims of life in Hindu philosophy

There is another assumption I find interesting: the idea that we must choose between enjoying life and searching for something deeper.

We often treat pleasure and purpose as opposites. We imagine that a meaningful life requires discipline and sacrifice, while the things that bring us joy are distractions from what really matters.

But Hindu philosophy offers a framework that brings several dimensions of human life into conversation.

It is known as the purusharthas, or the four aims of human life: dharma, artha, kama, and moksha.

The first is dharma, which broadly concerns moral responsibility, right conduct, and the duties that shape how we live. It asks us to consider not only what we want, but how we should act.

The second is artha: material prosperity, resources, and security. A stable life matters. Having the means to support yourself and fulfill your responsibilities is not necessarily at odds with living meaningfully.

The third is kama, which encompasses pleasure, love, desire, beauty, and enjoyment. It recognizes that human life is not meant to be made up entirely of obligations. Love, art, intimacy, and the simple pleasures of being alive have a place, too.

And then there is moksha: spiritual liberation, often understood as freedom from the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

The idea is interesting because it gives us a way to think about a life that includes both ordinary human desires and a search for something beyond them.

You can want financial security and still question whether money is the most important thing in your life. You can enjoy beauty and pleasure without expecting them to give your life its entire meaning. You can take your responsibilities seriously while still asking deeper questions about who you are and what you believe.

The four aims do not represent one universal interpretation shared by every Hindu tradition. Their meanings and relationships differ across schools of thought. But together, they offer a rich framework for thinking about what a complete life might involve.

I like that this perspective doesn’t necessarily ask us to reject the world in order to find meaning. Instead, it invites us to think about how we participate in the world, what we value within it and whether our desires are balanced by a deeper understanding of ourselves.

What if a meaningful life doesn’t require us to stop enjoying the world. Maybe it asks us to enjoy it without forgetting that there is more to life than what we can possess.

Islamic Wisdom: Gratitude, Patience and Trust

Of all the perspectives in this essay, this is perhaps the one that feels closest to home.

As a Muslim, alhamdulillah, I grew up with the idea that gratitude is not something we reserve for the moments when life goes exactly as we hoped. It is something we are encouraged to carry with us through all of it: the beautiful moments, the difficult ones, and the ordinary days we sometimes forget to appreciate.

And the more I think about what it means to live a life well spent, the more I realize how deeply this idea is woven into Islam.

One of the most familiar expressions in a Muslim’s life is alhamdulillah, meaning “all praise is due to Allah.” We say it when something wonderful happens, when we hear good news, when we finish a meal, and often simply in response to being asked how we are. It’s beautiful to me, the fact that gratitude is not reserved for extraordinary moments.

Sometimes it is as simple as waking up in the morning, having food on your table, being surrounded by people you love, or finding peace after a difficult period in your life.

Alhamdulillah for the things we prayed for. Alhamdulillah for the things we once took for granted. And even when life does not unfold the way we imagined, there is still room to recognize what remains.

I think we can become so focused on the things we are trying to achieve that we forget how much of our present lives once belonged to our dreams. The opportunities we have now, the people who are still with us, the experiences we get to have: at some point, some of these things were things we hoped for.

And yet, once we have them, we often move on to wanting something else.

Islam repeatedly reminds us of the importance of shukr, or gratitude. In the Qur’an, gratitude is closely connected to recognizing and appreciating Allah’s blessings. It is not simply about being satisfied with everything in your circumstances or pretending that hardship does not exist. It is about remembering that there is more to your life than what is missing from it.

Another concept that feels deeply connected to this is sabr, often translated as patience or perseverance.

Sabr is not necessarily about sitting back and accepting whatever happens to you. It can mean continuing to do what is right when things are difficult, remaining steadfast when you do not have all the answers, and trusting Allah even when you cannot yet understand how things will unfold.

And then there is tawakkul: placing your trust in Allah while still making an effort.

I have always find this comforting because so much of modern life encourages us to believe that everything depends on us. We are told to plan better, work harder, make the right decisions and take control of our futures. And while responsibility and effort matter, there are also things we cannot control, no matter how carefully we plan.

Tawakkul reminds us that we can do our part without carrying the weight of believing we must control every outcome.

We can work toward our goals, make du’a for the things we hope for, and take steps toward the future we want, while accepting that the outcome is ultimately not ours to determine.

For me, that balance between effort and surrender is so meaningful. It does not ask us to abandon our ambitions. It asks us to remember that our ambitions are not the only things that matter, and that our worth is not determined by whether everything unfolds according to our plans.

Islam also places great importance on how we treat other people. Charity, generosity, caring for family, honoring guests, and helping those in need are not merely nice additions to an otherwise successful life. They are deeply connected to our responsibilities as human beings and our relationship with Allah.

A good life, then, is not only about what we accumulate for ourselves. It is also about what we give, how we behave, and the intentions behind our actions.

And perhaps that is what I find most interesting about this perspective: it changes the way we think about success itself.

Success is not simply getting everything you prayed for. It is also who you become along the way. It is how you respond when things go wrong, whether you remember to be grateful when things go right, and whether your pursuit of a better life brings you closer to the values you believe in.

Of course, being Muslim does not mean that I always find it easy to practise gratitude or patience. Like anyone else, I can become caught up in what I want next, worry about the future, or struggle to understand why something is happening the way it is.

But faith is not about never having those moments. For me it is about having something to return to when you do.

A reminder to pause. To say alhamdulillah. To make du’a. To do what you can and leave what you cannot control to Allah.

And to remember that even while you are working toward the life you hope to have, there is a life happening right in front of you.

What if a life well spent is not one in which we get everything we want, but one in which we learn to be grateful for what we have, patient with what we are going through, and trusting in what we cannot yet see.

So, What Does It Actually Mean to Spend Your Life Well?

After exploring these different philosophies, I keep coming back to one thought: perhaps we have made the idea of a good life far more complicated than it needs to be.

The ancient Greeks remind us that life should leave room for curiosity, contemplation, and the freedom to pursue things simply because they matter to us.

Sahlins’s interpretation of hunter-gatherer societies challenges us to question whether having more necessarily means being richer.

Confucius reminds us that the person we become, and the way we treat others, matter just as much as what we achieve.

Hindu philosophy offers a way to think about the different dimensions of being human: our responsibilities, our ambitions, our capacity for pleasure, and our search for something deeper.

And in Islam, I find a reminder to be grateful for what I have, patient with what I am going through, and trusting in Allah even when I cannot see how things will unfold.

These traditions come from different places, histories, and beliefs. They do not offer the same answer, and I don’t think they need to. What fascinates me is that each one invites us to question something we might otherwise take for granted about the way we live.

Because we live in a world that constantly tells us to become more.

More successful. More productive. More knowledgeable. More attractive. More accomplished.

And I am not exempt from this. I have my own ambitions, my own plans, and a long list of things I hope to experience and accomplish. I want to learn, travel, create, build a life I am proud of, and see just how much of the world there is to discover.

Sometimes I wonder whether, in our eagerness to make the most of our lives we forget to enjoy the life we already have.

I don’t know if there is one correct way to spend a life. But I think it is worth asking ourselves whose definition of a good life we are trying to live, and whether it is one that genuinely reflects what matters to us.

So, if you take anything away from these different philosophies, let it be this question:

What would a life well spent look like if you stopped measuring it by everything you have yet to achieve, and started looking at everything that already makes it meaningful?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. What does a life well spent mean to you? Is it freedom, connection, achievement, faith, contentment, or something else entirely?

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

Let me tell you what I don’t miss.

I don’t miss waking up early for a lecture I had convinced myself I could watch later. I don’t miss group projects or deadlines or the strange anxiety of realizing you have an exam in three days and have somehow convinced yourself that three days is enough time to learn an entire semester.

I don’t even think I miss being a student.

What I miss is that my mind used to have somewhere to go.

There was always something I was reading, something I had to understand, something I disagreed with, something someone had said that I wanted to argue with. I could walk into a lecture thinking I understood something and walk out realizing I had been looking at it completely wrong.

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Someone would mention an idea over coffee and I would go home and look it up. One question would lead to another and suddenly I had spent an hour reading about something I had never even heard of before. I didn’t have to plan to be curious. My life was structured around it. That is what I think I miss.

Because after university, you start working. You have responsibilities. Your days begin to repeat themselves in ways that are comforting but also, scary. You know what your Monday looks like. You know what you are doing after work. You know which friends you are seeing this weekend.

And there is nothing wrong with any of that. But I have noticed how easy it is to become intellectually comfortable. You can go through an entire week without seriously questioning anything.

You can talk to people who think like you, consume content that confirms what you already believe, read books from the same five genres, listen to podcasts about things you already care about and mistake being informed for being curious.

I think I have done this too. There are periods where I read a lot but somehow feel like I am not thinking very much. I know what is happening in the world. I have saved twenty articles I want to read. I have a list of books I want to get to. I listen to people talk about ideas while walking to the gym. Still sometimes I finish the day feeling strangely unstimulated.

That was when I started wondering whether what I miss about university is not education at all. I think I miss having an intellectual life and I think those are two very different things.

An intellectual life is not necessarily having a degree, reading difficult books, knowing the names of philosophers, or being the person who always has something intelligent to say. It is not about becoming the most knowledgeable person in the room. If anything, I think it begins with being willing to be the person who knows the least. To be genuinely interested in something you don’t understand. To follow a question further than you need to. To let yourself become obsessed with a subject for no practical reason.

That last one feels especially important to me. Because adulthood has a strange way of making curiosity justify itself. What are you going to do with Mandarin? Why are you reading about ancient Rome? How is that going to help your career? Why would you spend two hours watching a documentary about a person who died four hundred years ago?

I don’t know. I just wanted to know.

There is something so valuable about having interests that do not need to become useful. Maybe you become interested in art history and spend a month learning about Renaissance painters. You become fascinated by the history of a country you have never visited.

You read about existentialism because you are going through an existential phase, which if you’re anything like me, is not particularly difficult to arrange. Or you start learning a language because you like the way it sounds.

That counts. In fact, I think those moments are the point. An intellectual life is partly about collecting these little obsessions. Not necessarily finishing them. Not turning every interest into a project.

Just allowing your mind to wander somewhere new. I think we underestimate how much this requires us to leave the algorithm. Because the internet is very good at giving us more of what we already like. You watch one video about literature and suddenly your entire feed is people talking about books. You watch one video about philosophy and suddenly you are being served twenty versions of the same three ideas.

You can spend hours learning without ever being surprised. And being surprised is important. Sometimes I think the best thing you can do for your mind is deliberately put something in front of it that it did not ask for.

Go into a bookstore and pick up a book from a section you never visit. Read the newspaper from a country you know almost nothing about. Go to a museum without looking up the “best” paintings beforehand. Listen to someone whose opinion you usually find irritating and try for once, to understand why they think the way they do.

Read the book everyone keeps telling you is boring. Read the book you are convinced you will hate.

Ask someone older than you what they believe now that they didn’t believe at twenty. Ask someone younger than you what they think your generation gets wrong.

Have dinner with someone who grew up completely differently from you. And then, importantly, let yourself change your mind.

That might be the most uncomfortable part of having an intellectual life. You cannot only collect ideas that make you feel intelligent. You have to allow some of them to make you feel stupid.

You have to encounter an argument that is better than yours. You have to discover that something you thought was obvious is actually complicated. You have to read something and think: I have never looked at it that way before.

That sentence is probably one of the best signs that you are still intellectually alive. Because the goal is not to have an opinion about everything. it is to remain capable of curiosity before certainty. And maybe this is why conversations matter so much.

Most of my intellectually stimulating moments in life have not happened in classrooms.

They have happened sitting across from someone I love, when we somehow end up talking about whether people can really change, whether love is a choice, whether morality exists without religion, why we are so afraid of being ordinary, or what makes a life meaningful.

Those conversations rarely have conclusions. That is what makes them good. You leave them carrying a question instead of an answer. I think we need more of that.

More conversations where nobody is trying to win. Friendships where you can say, “I don’t know what I think about this yet.” Spaces where being curious is not the same thing as being pretentious. More learning that doesn’t end in a certificate. And afternoons where you follow one completely unnecessary question until it leads you somewhere you didn’t expect.

Because an intellectual life is not something reserved for academics.

It can happen in a café, on a train, in a library, while travelling, during a conversation with your grandmother or at two in the morning when you suddenly need to know why something in history happened the way it did.

It is less about what you know and more about how you move through the world.

Do you notice things?

Do you question them?

Do you wonder where they came from?

Do you still have the ability to say, I have never thought about that before without immediately reaching for an answer?

I think I am beginning to understand why I sometimes miss university.

It gave me an environment where curiosity was normal.

Nobody thought it was strange that I had spent three hours reading about something completely irrelevant. Nobody asked me what the point was. There was always another book or another lecture.

I don’t actually think I need university to have that again.

I think that what I miss can be rebuilt somewhere else, although I don’t think it starts with forcing myself to become more “productive” with my mind. I don’t want another list of things I should be reading or learning. I think it starts with allowing myself to remain interested in things that have no obvious purpose.

I find it increasingly beautiful: knowing something simply because you wanted to know it. Reading about a period in history you suddenly became fascinated by, learning the background of a painting you happened to notice, picking up a book because the title stayed in your head. Not because it will make you smarter or help your career or give you something to talk about, but because for a moment there was a question you couldn’t really leave alone.

I think that is the part of learning I don’t want to lose. The freedom to follow a thought simply because it interests you.

And perhaps that also means becoming more comfortable with not knowing. I have noticed how quickly we reach for an answer now. We search for it, look it up, listen to someone explain it and move on. But I think there is a lot of value in staying with a question for a little longer. Letting it sit somewhere in the back of your mind. Allowing yourself to wonder about something without immediately turning that wondering into a conclusion.

An intellectual life is not really about filling your head with more information. For me it is about keeping enough space in it for something unexpected to enter.

That becomes harder as you get older because nobody is going to organize your curiosity for you anymore. There will be no reading list waiting on your desk, no professor introducing you to a subject you would never have found yourself, no seminar where you are forced to spend an hour thinking about a question you would otherwise have ignored.

You have to notice when your mind is becoming too comfortable. You have to decide that you still want to be surprised.

I think I want to take that part of university with me.

The part that made the world feel bigger than my own experience. The feeling that there was always something I hadn’t heard of yet, something I didn’t understand yet, some idea waiting around the corner that might change the way I looked at something I thought I already knew.

Maybe that is what having an intellectual life really means.

Not knowing everything.

Just refusing to stop wandering.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

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It has never been enough for me. I want to know where an idea came from, what made it meaningful, and why it survived long enough to become unquestionable. This instinct has followed me into everything that shapes me: my faith, my culture, my family, and my understanding of who I am.

Growing up between a North African home and a Western world made that instinct impossible to ignore. I learned early that something can feel completely natural to one person and completely foreign to another. The same expectation can mean respect in one room and restriction in another, the same choice can look like freedom to one person and recklessness to someone else.

I think that was where my questioning began.

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When you grow up entirely within one cultural framework, you can move through it without ever having to see its edges. The rules are already there. They are woven into the way people speak to you, the things they praise, the things they worry about, the silences at the dinner table. You learn what is respectable long before you understand what respect is. You learn what is expected of you long before anyone explains who decided that those expectations should exist.

Growing up between worlds makes those edges visible.

I could see that what felt like common sense in one room could look completely strange in another. I could understand the logic behind both, which somehow made it harder to surrender completely to either. At one point, I became less interested in whether something was simply accepted and more interested in the story underneath it. How did we arrive here? What made this particular idea so powerful? Was it faith, or culture, or history or fear? And when those things had become tangled together over generations, how was I supposed to know which part I was actually choosing?

That habit of looking underneath things has followed me into my relationship with religion.

I am a believer, but my faith has never been free from questions. My mind does not become still simply because something has been given a religious explanation. If anything, faith has made me more conscious of the difference between what is divine and what is human, between a belief and the way people interpret it, between something sacred and the customs that accumulate around it over time.

That distinction can be difficult to make when you grow up in a North African family.

Culture rarely announces itself as culture. It is woven into the things you grow up seeing and doing: the customs your grandmother never questioned, the things your mother knows without having to explain them. By the time you are old enough to ask where they came from, they can already feel less like choices and more like truths. There is history in those things. There is memory. There is belonging. Sometimes there is religion woven through it, sometimes family, sometimes simply the authority of generations.

Because so much of it is carried through people I love, questioning it can feel much more intimate than questioning an abstract idea. I have always found that really difficult.

It is not because I feel detached from my culture. Quite the opposite. There are parts of it that live in me so instinctively that I don’t remember learning them. There is the warmth of a house full of people, the familiarity of the Arabic dialect spoken around me, the food that tastes like memory, the importance of family, the way affection and responsibility can become intertwined. There are things about my roots that I carry with a tenderness because they feel less like ideas and more like home.

That is precisely why the questions matter to me.

I don’t want to reduce something I love into something I either defend completely or reject completely. I want to understand it well enough to know which parts are truly meaningful to me, which parts belong to another time, and which parts I have simply absorbed because they were always there.

That is what happens when you grow up between worlds. You become aware of the invisible assumptions that people living entirely within one of them may never have to examine.

You begin to understand that people are shaped by the places that raised them, often without realizing it. A person can spend their entire life believing they arrived at their worldview independently when in reality, they were handed its foundations before they were old enough to question them.

And once you notice that, you inevitably begin looking at yourself differently.

How much of what I believe is actually mine?

How much of it would have changed if I had been born somewhere else?

That question unsettles me because there is no way to answer it without admitting how accidental parts of identity can be. I did not choose the country I was born in or the family I was born into. I did not choose the first language that touched my tongue and which I learned to understand the world with, the religion I was introduced to, or the cultural assumptions that surrounded my childhood.

And yet these things became me. Or at least, they became the material from which I had to make myself.

That is where cognitive complexity becomes lonely. Once you become aware of the layers underneath your own beliefs, it becomes difficult to accept simple explanations. You start noticing the difference between what you believe and what you were taught to believe, between what you value and what you have been taught to value, between something being meaningful and something merely being familiar.

And there is no graceful way to live inside that awareness.

You can feel too Western in one room and too North African in another. You can be told that you are overthinking something when to you, the question feels too important not to think about. You can love your faith while feeling uncomfortable with the certainty of people who speak as though their interpretation of it is the only possible one. You can defend parts of your culture fiercely and still find yourself questioning other parts.

The biggest difficulty I find is that people often understand questioning as rejection. But for me, questioning has rarely meant that I want to leave something behind. Mostly it has meant that I care enough to find out whether it is worth keeping.

I really don’t want to inherit an identity intact. I want to understand it.

And that proces is so deeply personal. I think growing up stops being about discovering who you are at some point and becomes more about examining the things that have already been placed inside you. You start taking apart the inheritance. You look at the beliefs, expectations, fears and traditions you have been carrying since childhood, and you realize that you are allowed to decide what they mean to you now.

Some things become more meaningful when you understand them. Some become less. Some remain complicated. Some return to you after years of questioning, but they return differently. They are no longer simply things you do because you were raised to do them. They have passed through your own mind and survived it.

That is what I want from my faith.

I don’t want a faith that depends on me being afraid to ask questions. I don’t want to confuse God with culture, or tradition with truth, or certainty with conviction. At the same time, I don’t want to make the opposite mistake and believe that everything meaningful must be capable of being neatly explained.

Reason has its limits. So does tradition. So does individualism. So does certainty.

I am beginning to find peace in that.

Maybe this is why belonging has never come easily to me. I have spent too much time noticing the seams between worlds to completely disappear into one of them. I know too well that every culture has things it takes for granted, every community has its own version of normal, and every person carries a history they did not choose. But I no longer think belonging requires me to stop noticing.

I can be shaped by where I come from without being imprisoned by it. I can have faith and still have questions. I can love something deeply enough to examine it honestly.

Maybe that is the closest I have come to understanding identity: it is not the collection of things you inherited, but what remains after you have had the courage to examine them. The things I believe now are not untouched.

They have been questioned. They have been challenged by other ways of living and thinking. They have had to survive the distance between cultures, between reason and faith, between the person I was expected to become and the person I actually am.

And what remains feels more mine because of that.

I used to think that the inability to belong easily was a flaw in me, some inability to accept a place and settle into it. I think the fear was even more ordinary: that if I kept questioning, I would eventually become too complicated for other people to love without qualification. It is one thing to accept your own contradictions. It is another to wonder whether other people will.

Will they understand that questioning my culture does not mean I am ashamed of it? That asking difficult questions about religion does not mean I have stopped believing? That I can be deeply attached to where I come from and still refuse to let every expectation attached to it define me?

I think for a long time, I wanted to make myself easier to understand.

A little less questioning here. A little more certain there. Enough of one world to make me familiar to them, enough of another to make me familiar to someone else.

But I don’t think I want to do that anymore.

I want the people I love to know that all of these things can exist in me at once. I want to be able to speak about my faith without having to hide the questions that live alongside it. I want to talk about my culture with love without pretending that love means agreement with everything. I want to be able to change my mind, to sit with uncertainty, to hold two ideas in tension.

I was always going to notice the things other people could leave unquestioned. I was always going to look at the invisible rules and wonder who wrote them.

But I am learning that belonging does not mean becoming simple enough for other people to understand. It means being known in your complexity and still being met with tenderness.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

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I’ve always found it interesting how much of our lives are shaped by the idea of being judged. We grow up learning that there will be a day when everything is revealed, when our actions are weighed, when we will have to answer for the way we lived. For many people, the thought of that day is frightening. We are taught to be mindful of our choices because one day we will stand before God and be asked what we did with the life we were given.

And yet, I wonder if we spend so much time fearing the judgement that comes at the end of life, that we forget there is another kind of judgement waiting for us there. Not from someone else, but from the person who has been there for every choice, every mistake, every moment: ourselves.

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The judgement that might happen when we are lying in a hospital bed, when there is no career left to build, no image left to maintain, no stranger left to impress. When the future becomes smaller and the past becomes clearer and suddenly the things that seemed so important begin to look strangely insignificant.

I wonder what we would think of our lives then.

Not what God would think.

Not what our parents would think.

Not what our friends would think.

What would we think?

For most of my life, I’ve been surrounded by questions about whether I am doing enough. Am I successful enough? Am I making the right choices? Am I where I’m supposed to be? Should I be further ahead by now? Should I have accomplished more? Should I be doing something bigger with my time?

It is so easy to measure a life while you are living it.

We measure it in achievements, relationships, money, photographs, milestones and the little boxes we get to tick along the way. We look around at other people and use their lives as a ruler for our own. Someone moves abroad and suddenly our own city feels too small. Someone gets married and we wonder when it will be our turn. Someone gets promoted and our job feels less impressive. Someone seems to have figured themselves out and we begin questioning why we haven’t.

We become so occupied with whether our lives look good that we rarely stop to ask whether they feel good to live.

That is one of the strangest things about being human. We are constantly preparing for a future we have never seen while barely noticing the present we are actually in.

I think about that sometimes when I imagine being old.

Not old in the abstract way we usually think about it, but truly old. Sitting somewhere quietly, looking back at the person I used to be. Looking at photographs of a younger woman who worried about things that no longer matter. A woman who spent entire days wondering whether she was enough. Whether people liked her. Whether she was falling behind. Whether she was making the right decision.

I wonder what I would tell her. I wonder if I would be proud of the things she spent so much time worrying about. Or if I would wish she had worried less.

Maybe I would tell her that the job she was so afraid of losing was never going to define her. That the person who didn’t choose her was never going to be the measure of her worth. That the number on her bank account was never going to tell the full story of whether she had a rich life.

Maybe I would ask her why she spent so much time trying to be impressive when what she really wanted was to be happy. Because I think those are two very different things. To live an impressive life and to live a meaningful one are not necessarily the same.

We rarely talk about that distinction because impressive is easier to measure. Meaning is not.

You can count promotions. You can count followers. You can count countries visited, degrees earned, houses bought and money saved.

But how do you count the afternoons you spent with someone you loved? How do you measure the courage it took to leave something that was hurting you? How do you quantify the years you spent becoming kinder to yourself? How do you put a number on a childhood memory that still makes you laugh?

Some of the most important parts of a life leave no evidence behind. And that is why I find the idea of our final judgement so interesting. Because if one day everything superficial falls away, what is left?

How successful were you? or Were you present?

How many people admired you? or How many people did you love?

Did everyone think you were enough? or Did you believe that you were?

There is something heartbreaking about realizing how much of our lives can be spent performing for an audience that may not even be watching.

We dress for people who aren’t thinking about us.

We succeed for people whose approval we may never receive.

We stay in places because leaving would make other people disappointed.

We say yes because we are afraid of what someone will think when we say no.

And all the while, there is a voice asking whether this is actually the life we wanted.

I don’t think this means we should stop caring what anyone thinks. We are human beings. Of course we care. We need each other, and other people’s love, opinions and expectations will always touch our lives in some way.

But perhaps there is a difference between being loved by other people and living for their approval.

One gives us connection.

The other can make us disappear.

And that is what I am most afraid of when I think about the end of life. Not death itself, but the possibility of arriving there and realizing I had spent too much of my life trying to become someone I thought I was supposed to be.

That I had been so busy becoming that I forgot to be.

That I had waited for the right time to travel, to write, to love, to create, to say the thing I was afraid to say.

That I had mistaken preparation for living. That I had treated life like something I could start properly once everything else was in order.

But life doesn’t really work that way. There will probably always be something unfinished. Another goal. Another fear. Another version of ourselves we think we need to become before we can finally relax into being alive.

For me the point isn’t to arrive at the end with a perfectly completed life. It is to arrive knowing that the life was yours.

That you made choices that belonged to you. That you loved people deeply. That you changed your mind when you needed to. That you left when you had to. That you stayed when it mattered. That you allowed yourself to be young when you were young and old when you were old. That you didn’t spend every chapter worrying about what the next one was supposed to look like.

Because one day, whether we are ready or not, there will be a last page. And I don’t think I want my greatest fear to be that someone else will judge the story. I think I want to be able to read it myself and recognize the person who wrote it.

Not a perfect person and not a person who never wasted time or experienced regret.

Just someone who was here.

Someone who loved, tried, who made mistakes and kept going. Someone who, despite everything, was awake for her own life.

Isn’t that the judgement we should be thinking about more often? Not because we should live in fear of it, but because sometimes remembering that our lives will end is the only thing that reminds us that they are happening now.

And when the time comes, I won’t need to ask whether I lived a life that everyone else approved of. Maybe I’ll only need to ask myself one question.

Did I live a life I would want to have lived again?

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

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Something you have wanted for months, perhaps even years, finally happens. You imagined the moment so many times that you almost knew how it would feel before it arrived. Maybe you pictured yourself opening the email, stepping off the plane, receiving the keys, getting the job, seeing the person you had been waiting for, looking in the mirror and finally liking what you saw. The anticipation becomes its own little world, and at some point, the thing you want stops being simply a thing you want and starts becoming an answer.

Once I have this, I’ll feel different.

Then you get it.

And for a while, you do. There is excitement, relief, pride, even a sense of disbelief. You look around and think, I actually made it here. The thing that existed only in the future has entered the present.

But then the days continue.

The excitement softens. The new thing becomes familiar. What once required conscious attention becomes part of the background of your life. Eventually, you stop thinking about it altogether.

And then your mind finds something else.

Something else to improve, to achieve, to buy, to go, to become.

It can be unsettling to realize that the thing you thought would make you happy has not disappeared or failed you at all. It is still exactly what you wanted. The problem is that you have simply become accustomed to having it.

This is the hedonic treadmill.

And the strangest thing about it is that it can make an objectively better life feel surprisingly ordinary.

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The hedonic treadmill is a psychological concept describing our tendency to adapt to changes in our circumstances. When something positive happens, our level of happiness often rises, but over time we become accustomed to the new circumstances and our emotional state tends to move back towards its previous baseline.

The treadmill is an unusually good metaphor because it captures the contradiction perfectly: there is movement but not necessarily arrival.

We run because we believe the next point will be different.

Then we reach it. For a moment it is different.

Then we adjust. So we start running again.

And because the next destination is always somewhere ahead it is easy to spend an entire life believing that happiness is just one more step away.

I recognize this pattern in the way I sometimes think about my own future.

There have been so many moments in my life that I treated as a kind of invisible finish line. I would imagine how much better everything would feel once I reached a particular milestone, as though the achievement itself would create a permanent shift in the way I experienced my life.

Finishing something difficult would make me feel accomplished.

Getting the right opportunity would make me feel secure.

Having more freedom would make me feel free.

Travelling somewhere I had dreamed about would make me feel alive.

Becoming more disciplined would finally make me feel proud of myself.

Even personal growth can become part of the treadmill. There is always another version of myself somewhere ahead: more confident, more knowledgeable, more successful, more well travelled, more creative, more put together.

And the thing is that I have actually reached some of the places I once imagined from far away. I have experienced things that an earlier version of me would have been incredibly excited about.

But the person experiencing them is no longer the person who wanted them.

The girl who dreamed about a particular life does not get to remain permanently amazed by it. She eventually becomes the woman who lives it. And living something is very different from longing for it.

The mind does not ask, Is this still wonderful?

It asks, Is this normal yet?

And eventually it becomes normal.

That is the treadmill.

It is cruel that the mechanism that the anticipation of a goal can sometimes be more emotionally intense than the possession of it.

When something is still ahead of us, the imagination is free to make it perfect. The future has no inconveniences yet. The dream job has no boring Monday mornings. The dream apartment has no cleaning to do. The dream relationship has no misunderstandings. The dream body has no bad days. The dream city has no rain, loneliness or bureaucracy.

The future is an idea and ideas are remarkably easy to idealize.

Reality, on the other hand, has laundry.

Reality gets tired.

Reality gets sick.

Reality has awkward conversations and disappointing days.

Reality turns extraordinary things into ordinary ones simply because we cannot spend every day being astonished by our own lives.

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I realised that adaptation is not the enemy.

Imagine if it weren’t possible to adapt. Imagine if every wonderful thing that happened remained just as emotionally overwhelming as it was on the first day. The brain could never move on. We would remain permanently absorbed by every new pleasure, unable to return our attention to everything else that makes up a life.

Adaptation is necessary.

The problem begins when we misunderstand it. We interpret the fading of excitement as evidence that something is wrong.

We think, If this were really what I wanted, wouldn’t I still feel happier?

So we replace it.

Then we replace the replacement.

And eventually we may spend more time pursuing happiness than actually experiencing it.

Long before psychologists gave this pattern a name, philosophers were already asking questions about the relationship between desire and a good life.

Epicurus is particularly interesting here because he is often reduced to the idea of pleasure, when his philosophy was in many ways an argument against allowing endless desire to control our lives.

He distinguished between desires that are natural and necessary, such as food, shelter and companionship, and desires that have no natural limit, such as the pursuit of wealth, status or admiration.

The distinction matters because some desires can actually be satisfied.

Others simply create new desires.

There is a point at which hunger ends.

There is no obvious point at which more ends.

More money can become more money.

More recognition can become more recognition.

More beauty can become more beauty.

More success can always become greater success.

And this is where Epicurus offers something almost opposite to the hedonic treadmill.

The treadmill says:

Run faster. There is something ahead.

Epicurus asks:

What if the problem is that you have never decided what enough looks like?

I think “enough” has become an unusually difficult concept to live with. Maybe that is why “waiting for your life to start” can be so dangerous. Because the treadmill makes waiting feel productive.

It doesn’t look like doing nothing. You are studying, working, saving, exercising, planning, applying, travelling, improving yourself. There is constant movement, which makes it easy to believe that you are progressing towards a moment when life will finally feel like yours.

But if happiness is always attached to the next milestone, the milestones can become an endless sequence of postponed lives.

First this.

Then that.

Then the next thing.

And the next.

Until you look back and realize that there was never actually a moment when you gave yourself permission to inhabit the life you had. You were always preparing for a better one.

I don’t think the answer is to stop wanting things. That would be both unrealistic and honestly, undesirable.

I want things.

I want to travel to places I’ve never seen. I want to learn things I don’t know. I want to build a career I’m proud of. I want to create. I want to experience the world while I am young enough to feel its possibilities. I want to keep becoming.

The problem was never the existence of the next destination. It is believing that I have to arrive there before I am allowed to enjoy the road.

There is a difference between ambition and dissatisfaction. The first can give a life direction. The second can consume it.

There will always be something we want. Human beings are not designed to remain perfectly satisfied forever, and perhaps we shouldn’t be. Desire gives us curiosity, movement and imagination. It makes us leave familiar places, attempt difficult things and create futures that do not yet exist.

But we can learn to notice when we are running simply because we have forgotten how to stand still.

We can reach a goal and allow ourselves to actually experience it before immediately turning it into the starting point for another goal. We can want more without making what we already have feel like less. We can let something become ordinary without deciding that ordinary means meaningless.

Because there is something beautiful about the fact that the extraordinary eventually becomes ordinary.

It means a dream has entered your real life.

The place you once only imagined is now somewhere you can buy groceries.

The person you once hoped to meet is now someone whose presence can feel so familiar that you forget how improbable it once seemed.

The freedom you once wanted can become a boring Wednesday afternoon.

And that boredom isn’t proof that the dream failed. It is proof that you arrived.

The treadmill will keep moving.

I just don’t want to spend my entire life running so quickly towards the future that I never realize when I have already arrived.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

There is a question I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

If everything about you changed, would you still be you?

It sounds like the kind of question that belongs in an existential crisis at two in the morning, but it is actually much older than that. Long before we had the language of psychology or neuroscience to talk about identity, philosophers were already asking what it means for something to remain the same while everything about it changes.

One of the most famous versions of this question begins with a ship.

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The story goes that the Athenians preserved the ship of Theseus for generations. Whenever a wooden plank became damaged, they replaced it with a new one. Nothing dramatic happened. There was no particular moment when the ship ceased to exist. One plank was removed and another took its place. Then another. And another.

Imagine watching this happen over decades.

At any given moment, you would probably look at the ship and think: Yes. That’s the same ship.

But eventually, something strange has happened. Every single original plank has been replaced.

So you have to ask yourself: is it still the ship of Theseus?

At first, I thought the answer was obviously yes. Of course it is. The ship never stopped being the ship. It was repaired, maintained, and preserved. Its history remained intact. The fact that some of its material had been replaced didn’t seem important enough to give it a new identity.

Then comes the part that makes the whole thing considerably more difficult.

Imagine that someone had been collecting every original plank as it was removed. Years later, they take those planks and reconstruct another ship. Now there are two ships. One has been continuously preserved but contains none of the original material. The other is made entirely from the original material but has never been the ship that sailed through all those years.

Which one is the real ship of Theseus?

This is where the question stops being about ships. Because what exactly do we mean when we say that something is the same?

We tend to treat identity as if it were an invisible label attached to things. This is the same house. This is the same car. This is the same person. But the longer you think about it, the stranger that becomes. Houses are renovated. Cars have parts replaced. People grow older.

We don’t usually notice the contradiction because change happens gradually.

That might be what makes the Ship of Theseus so unsettling. It forces us to imagine the gradual changes all at once. And once I started thinking about it that way, I couldn’t help but think about people.

Consider the person you were ten years ago. You probably don’t look the same. You almost certainly don’t think exactly the same way. Maybe the things you cared about then seem completely unimportant now. Maybe you had ambitions you no longer recognise. Maybe you believed things that you would strongly disagree with today.

And yet, if someone showed you a photograph of that person, you would point at it and say, That’s me.

But what exactly are you recognising?

Your face?

Your memories?

The continuity between that person and the person you are now?

There is something fascinating about the fact that we allow ourselves so much change without ever questioning whether we have crossed some invisible boundary.

You can become kinder. More cynical. More ambitious. More cautious. You can completely change your worldview. You can lose relationships and build new ones. You can move somewhere else, speak differently, dress differently, want completely different things.

And still, somewhere in your mind, there is this persistent sense that all of those versions belong to the same person.

Me.

That’s because identity doesn’t require us to remain unchanged. Maybe it only requires some kind of continuity. The child you were and the person you are now are obviously not identical in every respect. But there is a chain connecting them. You remember some of what happened. Other people remember you. Your experiences led to other experiences, which eventually led to the person reading this now.

You didn’t become a different person in one moment. You changed one plank at a time.

And perhaps that is why change can be so difficult to notice while it is happening. We are remarkably good at adapting to our own transformation. We wake up every morning still feeling like ourselves, even though the person waking up today may have different fears, different desires and different beliefs from the person who woke up five years ago.

There is no morning where you open your eyes and receive a notification saying:

Congratulations. You are now a fundamentally different person.

Instead, the changes are almost invisible while they are happening. Until one day you look back and realize you no longer recognize the person you used to be. And maybe that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We often talk about personal growth as if becoming a different person is something to celebrate. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’m not who I used to be. But there is an interesting tension hiding inside those sentences.

If you’re not who you used to be, why do you still call that person you?

Maybe we need the idea of a continuous self because otherwise our lives would become a collection of disconnected people. The child, the teenager, the person you were last year, the person you are now: all strangers who happen to occupy the same body at different points in time.

The idea of identity stitches those versions together. It tells us that although we have changed, there is still a story connecting everything. But stories can change too.

And this is where I think the Ship of Theseus becomes much more interesting than simply asking which ship is the original.

The real question for me, is whether there was ever a single, permanent thing underneath all the change in the first place.

We like to imagine that somewhere inside ourselves there is a core that remains untouched. Something essential that makes us us. But perhaps identity isn’t a physical object that can be found and held onto.

Perhaps it is something we construct as we go.

Perhaps being the same person doesn’t mean remaining unchanged. Perhaps it means being able to look backwards and recognize a relationship between all the people you’ve been. And if that’s true, then there is something strangely beautiful about the Ship of Theseus.

The ship doesn’t remain the same because none of its parts change. It remains the same because we choose to see continuity in the change.

We give the transformation a name.

We call it one ship.

We call it one life.

We call it one person.

And I think that’s why the question has stayed with me.

I started with a boat, but I ended up somewhere much more uncomfortable. Because if you can replace every plank of a ship without knowing exactly when it stopped being the original, maybe the same is true of us.

There is no precise moment when you become someone else.

Maybe you simply keep changing, gradually, until one day you look back and realize that almost every plank has been replaced.

And yet you still say:

I’m me.

I’m not sure whether that’s a comforting thought or a terrifying one.

Maybe I’ll let you decide.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

September has always carried the feeling of a beginning. Maybe because so many of my beginnings have happened around this time of year. New school years, new notebooks, new routines, that strange feeling of coming back from summer and wondering whether you could come back as a slightly different person too.

I still get that feeling now, even though I don’t have a first day of school to look forward to anymore. There is something about September that makes me want to rearrange my life a little. Read the books I’ve been putting off. Go somewhere I’ve never been. Start writing again. Make plans.

And maybe that’s why I love it. September gives me permission to be curious about my own life again.

But with that said, I don’t think we need a reset. I think we need a return. Sometimes we confuse reinvention with renewal.

Reinvention says: Who I was before wasn’t good enough. Renewal says: I still like who I am. I just want to take better care of her. That distinction changed the way I approach new beginnings. So this September instead of asking yourself “What should I completely change?”, ask:

“What do I want more of?” More books? More movement? More time alone? More conversations that actually mean something? More courage? A fresh start becomes much easier when you stop trying to build a new personality and start paying attention to what your current one has been asking for.

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We are going to start somewhere small enough that we can’t romanticize it away

There is a kind of fantasy I love: imagining my future self.

She reads every night. She works out consistently. She writes beautifully. She speaks another language. She goes to museums alone. She has a clean room, a full bookshelf and somehow never spends forty minutes scrolling in bed.

I love her. The problem is that she doesn’t exist. At least not yet. And sometimes imagining her is so satisfying that I mistake the fantasy for progress. The less glamorous truth is that becoming her probably looks like opening a book when I’d rather scroll. Going to the gym when I don’t feel particularly motivated. Writing one paragraph instead of waiting for the perfect afternoon to write five pages. Practicing a language for fifteen minutes instead of making a five year plan to become fluent.

The beginning of a new season doesn’t need to be impressive. It needs to be repeatable. So pick one thing you want to bring into September and make the first version almost embarrassingly easy.

If you want to read more, read ten pages.

If you want to write, write 100 words.

If you want to exercise, put your gym clothes on and go.

If you want to spend less time on your phone, leave it in another room for the first thirty minutes of your morning.

Don’t build the entire staircase. Just make the first step impossible to misunderstand.

Let’s give our lives something to look forward to

I think we underestimate how much anticipation can change a month.

A few years ago, I used to think that the exciting parts of life were supposed to happen spontaneously. A trip. A party. A big achievement. Something worth photographing.

But most of life isn’t made of those moments. It’s made of Tuesdays.

So I’ve started deliberately putting little things on the calendar that give ordinary days some texture. A trip to a bookstore I’ve never been to. A film at the cinema. A walk with a playlist I’ve been saving. A dinner with someone I haven’t seen in a while.

None of these things are life-changing. That’s precisely why they work. You don’t need to have an exciting life every day. You need to occasionally give your ordinary life a reason to feel exciting.

This September, choose three things you genuinely want to do, not things that sound productive or impressive. Then put them in your calendar. Don’t wait until you “have time.”

Anticipation is part of the experience.

Making our environment believe we are starting over

There is a reason I love changing my room at the beginning of a new season. If your desk is buried under things you don’t use, your wardrobe is full of clothes you never wear and your phone is filled with apps you open without thinking, it’s surprisingly difficult to feel like you’re beginning anything.

You don’t need to buy anything. Actually, please don’t make your fresh start another excuse to spend €200 at IKEA.

Instead, remove things. Clear your desk. Change your bedsheets. Delete screenshots you don’t need. Organize the notes app you’ve been ignoring. Put your books somewhere you can actually see them. Make your room feel like a place you want to spend time in.

I like the idea of asking:

“If I met myself for the first time today, what would my environment tell me about her?”

Sometimes the easiest way to change your habits is to change what is within reach. Make the things you want to do easier to begin. Make the things you want to do less of slightly more inconvenient. Your environment is always participating in your habits, whether you notice it or not.

We are choosing a few things to consume on purpose

September is also the perfect month to become a little more intentional about what you let into your head. Not because everything you consume has to be educational. I actually think that’s another trap.

Sometimes I want to read Kafka. Sometimes I want to watch a three hour film that makes me question my entire existence. Sometimes I want to watch something completely stupid and laugh for two hours.

The point isn’t to turn every spare minute into self-improvement. The point is to choose.

Pick a book you genuinely want to read. Choose a film because you are curious about it, not because everyone on TikTok says it’s a masterpiece. Listen to a podcast because you want to know more about something. Learn something that has absolutely no practical purpose. Follow people who make you curious instead of people who make you feel inadequate.

Your attention is one of the most intimate things you give away. September is a good time to ask yourself:

“What kind of thoughts do I want to have more of?”

Then consume accordingly.

Let something go without turning it into a dramatic ending

A fresh start isn’t only about adding things. Sometimes it’s about admitting that something no longer fits. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s a friendship. Maybe it’s the version of yourself you’ve been trying very hard to maintain. Maybe it’s an expectation you had for your life by this point.

This part is uncomfortable because we tend to think that letting go requires a dramatic decision. Sometimes it does.

You don’t have to announce that you’ve entered your healing era. You can simply stop replying immediately. Stop going somewhere you always leave feeling worse. Stop forcing yourself to like something because you used to. Stop chasing a version of your life that looked good from the outside. A new season naturally creates a little distance from the previous one.

Ask yourself:

“What am I carrying into September simply because I’ve been carrying it for a long time?”

You don’t have to take everything with you.

Don’t make September another performance

There is one last thing I want to say because the internet has become very good at turning every season into an aesthetic.

You will see the autumn playlists. The perfect morning routines. The new journals. The reading challenges. The gym resets. The “becoming her” videos.

And I love all of it. I really do. But don’t let the aesthetic become more important than the actual life underneath it.

Your September doesn’t have to look like a movie. You don’t need to drink coffee in a beautiful café while reading a 500-page novel every morning. You can read six pages on the train. You can go to the cinema alone. You can have a messy desk. You can have an ordinary Tuesday.

A fresh start doesn’t mean suddenly having a perfect life. It means becoming more intentional about the life you already have.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

Throughout the years, I’ve scrolled through more feeds than I could ever count. And like most people, I’ve known the cycle: you open your phone in an idle moment, and within seconds you’ve seen someone your age buy a house, someone else start a business, someone else get engaged, someone else move to a city you’ve always dreamed of. You close the app and something in you has deflated. You tell yourself: I’m behind. Or worse: everyone else has figured out something I haven’t.

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For a long time, I treated that feeling as information about my life, when really it was just information about what I’d been fed. I convinced myself that if I could just move faster, achieve more, catch up somehow, the ache would go away. But you know, comparison never actually asks you to catch up. It just moves the finish line the moment you get close. I have watched myself hit a goal I once thought would make me feel enough, only to find a new feed, a new highlight reel, a new person my age doing the thing I hadn’t even thought to want yet.

There came a point though, after one too many nights of feeling small in front of a screen, where I had to admit the uncomfortable: I was grieving a life I never actually chose, based on timelines I never actually wrote. I was comparing my whole life to everyone else’s greatest hits and calling the gap between them a personal failure.

A note from my journal I find super relatable for this topic:

What is actually mine, and what did I just absorb from a screen?

I want a life that feels like mine when no one is watching it. I don’t actually know if I want the wedding or the house or the career pivot, or if I just want to stop feeling like I’m the only one without them. I notice the timeline in my head was written by strangers I’ve never met. I notice I never feel behind in the moments I’m actually living, only in the moments I’m watching someone else live. I want to build a life slow enough that I can tell the difference between my own wanting and my own scrolling.

You may be wondering why I’m including this here. It is because I want you to know that even those of us who talk often about self worth and slow living still open an app some mornings and feel, for a moment, like we missed something everyone else was told about. I am not above the feeling. I have just learned to notice it faster.

It is a false concept to think that everyone around you is simply further ahead. What you are seeing is not their life, it is the three seconds of it they chose to show you, stripped of the boring middle and the doubt and the version of the plan that fell apart last year. It is wrong to build your sense of timing around a feed engineered to make you stay. But to feel behind sometimes is human. It is not weakness, it is not evidence, it is only the nervous system reacting exactly the way it was designed to react to a constant stream of other people’s milestones.

Jealousy born from a screen does not mean your life is wrong, it means you are comparing a full, complicated, ongoing thing to a curated, finished looking fragment. It means you forgot for a second that you are only ever seeing one frame. The danger begins when you let that frame rewrite your timeline, when you start making decisions to catch up to a race that was never actually yours to run.

There is no age you are supposed to be at any particular point. There is no universal order to a house, a career, a love, a body, a life. The people who seem to have it all figured out are, more often than not, mid-scroll themselves, feeling behind someone else. Everyone is comparing their unfinished story to everyone else’s highlight reel, all at the same time, which means the whole race is running against a version of reality that doesn’t exist.

So put the phone down sometimes. Let your twenties or your thirties or whatever age has you spiraling tonight be exactly as unfinished as they are supposed to be. Let your life look nothing like anyone else’s feed. It was never a race, and there was never really a finish line, only a series of people trying to convincing each other that there was.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

There is a very particular kind of loneliness that comes from being around people while feeling slightly removed from them. It is not necessarily that you dislike anyone, or that you have suddenly become antisocial, or even that you want to be alone. Sometimes you simply got used to being by yourself. You spent enough time in your own company that going back into the world started to feel strangely unfamiliar, almost as if everyone else had continued living while you had been standing just slightly outside of it.

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There are periods in life where you retreat without consciously deciding to. You have a lot going on, or you are tired, or you are trying to figure something out, or you simply don’t feel particularly like yourself. You start saying no to things because staying home is easier. You take longer to answer messages. You tell yourself you’ll call someone back when you have more energy. You miss one dinner, then another, and eventually enough time passes that reconnecting begins to feel more intimidating than the original reason you withdrew.

And what makes it particularly strange is that you can actually miss people while simultaneously not wanting to see anyone.

You can want friendship and still feel overwhelmed by the thought of making plans. You can crave intimacy and still leave a message unanswered for three days because you don’t know what to say. You can genuinely love your friends and still feel strangely self-conscious sitting across from them, wondering whether you are being too quiet, whether you’ve become boring, whether they can tell you’ve been struggling, whether you have anything interesting enough to contribute to the conversation.

I think we often interpret this as a personality problem when really sometimes we are simply out of practice.

Social confidence is a little like a language. If you stop speaking it for a while, you don’t suddenly forget everything you know, but you become conscious of every sentence. You start listening to yourself speak. You notice the pauses. You wonder whether you’re saying the right thing. Something that used to happen naturally now feels strangely deliberate.

The instinct when this happens, is usually to wait until you feel confident again before putting yourself back into social situations. You probably tell yourself that once we are more interesting again, once we have something to talk about, once we have become the version of ourselves that we actually like, then we’ll start going out again.

But I don’t think confidence works that way.

You don’t become comfortable around people by thinking your way back into being comfortable around people. You become comfortable by being around them. Repeatedly. Uneventfully. In small enough doses that your brain eventually stops treating every interaction like an event.

It is incredibly reassuring when you’ve been withdrawn for a while. Sitting across from a friend with a coffee between you, talking about something completely insignificant. Walking around the neighbourhood with someone and realizing that you’ve spent the last twenty minutes discussing nothing of importance. Going to the gym with a friend and barely speaking. Sitting in a room while everyone is doing their own thing. These moments don’t feel particularly transformative while they are happening, but they slowly remind you that being around other people doesn’t require a performance.

I think this is where we make socialising much harder for ourselves than it needs to be. We think we need to come back perfectly.

If you’ve disappeared for a while, there can be this strange pressure to reappear with an explanation. You want to tell everyone what happened, why you were gone, what you’ve been working through, what you’ve learned, how you’ve changed. Or if you don’t want to explain yourself, you feel like you need to at least appear completely fine so nobody asks questions.

But you are allowed to return while you’re still rebuilding.

You can see your friends before you’ve figured everything out. You can go to dinner while you’re still uncertain about your career. You can answer the message while you’re still having a weird week. You can laugh with people even if there are parts of your life that you haven’t quite made sense of yet.

You don’t owe everyone a beautifully packaged explanation of your absence.

Sometimes “I’ve been a little off lately, but I’m getting back into things” is enough. Sometimes you don’t even need that.

It is kind of freeing realizing that people don’t need access to every chapter of your internal life in order for you to be close to them. You can let people meet you where you are instead of waiting until you have reached somewhere more presentable.

And that’s part of growing up too: realizing that friendship doesn’t always have to be built around the most entertaining version of yourself.

There are seasons where you are the person with all the stories, all the energy, the one suggesting where everyone should go next. There are also seasons where you mostly listen. Where you’re quieter. Where you leave earlier. Where you don’t feel particularly funny or interesting. The right people don’t suddenly become less interested in you because you are having a quieter season.

In fact, I think one of the most beautiful things about real connection is how little performance it requires.

You can sit next to someone you trust and not fill every silence. You can tell them you haven’t been doing particularly well without turning it into a dramatic confession. You can show up without having an update. You can be tired, distracted, slightly awkward, not particularly dressed up, and still be loved exactly as you are.

This is also why I think the answer to feeling disconnected is rarely to force yourself into environments where you have to perform the most.

If you haven’t been around people much lately, you probably don’t need to begin with the loudest party you can find. You don’t need to prove that you’ve “got your social life back” by suddenly being everywhere. Start with the people who make it easy to exist. The friend you can call after months and still feel like no time has passed. The person you can walk with for an hour without needing the conversation to be interesting. The people around whom you don’t feel like you’re constantly checking yourself from the outside.

Because there is a big difference between being around people and feeling connected to them. You can be surrounded by people and feel completely alone. And you can sit quietly beside one person and feel more understood than you have in weeks.

So if you’ve been spending a lot of time alone lately, I wouldn’t necessarily tell you to become more social. I’d tell you to become a little more connected to your own life again.

Go outside. Let yourself be seen. Accept the coffee. Answer the message. Sit at the dinner table. Call the friend you’ve been meaning to call. Go somewhere even if you don’t feel particularly charismatic that day. Let yourself have ordinary conversations that don’t lead anywhere. You don’t need every interaction to become a meaningful friendship or a memorable night. Sometimes the point is simply to be there.

Isolation has a way of making everything inside your head feel disproportionately important. When you spend enough time alone, your insecurities become louder because there are fewer external experiences to contradict them. You start believing that everyone is thinking about you, that you’ve somehow fallen behind, that you’ve changed in ways other people will notice immediately.

And then you step outside and realize that everyone is mostly thinking about themselves.

Someone is worrying about their job. Someone is wondering whether they sent the right text. Someone is trying to figure out what they’re doing with their life. Someone is wondering whether they look awkward standing alone at the party. Someone else hasn’t thought about you at all because they’re too busy wondering what you think of them.

It is strangely comforting to remember that we are all just people trying to move through our lives.

You don’t have to make a grand entrance back into yours.

Maybe you won’t immediately feel like the old version of yourself when you start going out again. Maybe you’ll be quieter than you used to be. Maybe you’ll need more alone time afterwards. Maybe some friendships will feel different. Maybe you’ll discover that you no longer want the social life you once had, and that what you actually want now is something smaller, slower and more genuine.

That’s okay.

Coming back doesn’t have to mean returning to who you were.

It can mean finding out who you are now, in the presence of other people.

And perhaps that is the part nobody tells you: you don’t have to become completely healed, confident or certain before you allow yourself to participate in life again. You don’t have to wait until you have something impressive to say, an exciting update to share, or a perfectly put-together version of yourself to present.

You are allowed to be a work in progress in public.

You are allowed to answer the text even though you’ve been distant.

You are allowed to show up to the plan while you’re still figuring things out.

You are allowed to let people love you in the middle of the rebuilding.

Sometimes we imagine that confidence is something we find alone, somewhere deep inside ourselves, and then bring back into the world with us. But I think a lot of confidence is actually created through being witnessed. Through having ordinary conversations. Through realizing that you can be quiet and still be liked, awkward and still be welcomed, uncertain and still belong.

You don’t need to become comfortable around people again all at once.

You just need to give yourself enough ordinary opportunities to remember that you already know how.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

For a long time, I thought I was simply being ambitious. I had goals, plans and a pretty clear picture in my head of the life I wanted. I wanted to graduate, find a good job, make more money, travel more and eventually live somewhere that felt more like home.

None of those things seemed unreasonable. If anything, they felt like the natural steps towards becoming the person I wanted to be.

But there was always a when attached to them.

When I graduate, I’ll finally have more freedom.

When I get a good job, I’ll have more money.

When I have more money, I’ll travel more.

When I move somewhere new, I’ll finally feel like I’m living the life I imagined.

I don’t remember ever consciously deciding to put my life on hold. I just kept placing the things I really wanted slightly further ahead of me, convinced that the next chapter would somehow feel more real than the one I was currently living.

And I think a lot of us do this. We treat the present like a waiting room.

Maybe you’re still living with your parents. Maybe you’re in a job you don’t see yourself doing forever. Maybe you’re saving for the trip you’ve been dreaming about or waiting until you have enough money to move somewhere new. Maybe you’re still trying to figure out what you actually want to do with your life.

So you wait.

And because you know the situation you’re in isn’t permanent, you don’t fully allow yourself to settle into it either.

You tell yourself you’ll start writing when you have more time. You’ll travel when you have more money. You’ll make more friends when you’re more confident. You’ll take better care of yourself when work becomes less stressful.

You keep saving little pieces of your life for later. And I think that’s where we get ourselves into trouble. Because there is always going to be a later.

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There is always another thing

I used to think there would eventually be a point where I would feel like I had figured things out.

Not everything, obviously, but enough.

Enough money. Enough confidence. Enough experience. Enough clarity about what I wanted.

I imagined that one day I’d look around and think, Okay. This is my life.

But every time I reached something I had been waiting for, my brain immediately found something else.

You graduate and suddenly you’re thinking about your career.

You get the career and start thinking about your salary.

You earn more and start thinking about where you want to live.

There is nothing wrong with wanting more. I don’t think ambition is the problem. The problem is when more becomes a condition for allowing yourself to be happy with now.

Because if you keep telling yourself that the next thing will finally make you feel like you’ve arrived, you’ll spend your entire life arriving somewhere and immediately looking for the next destination.

And I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to look back at my twenties and realize I spent them preparing for my thirties. I don’t want to spend my thirties preparing for my forties. At some point, we have to realize that the life we’re waiting for isn’t going to arrive at our front door fully assembled.

We have to start living it while we’re still figuring it out.

You are already becoming yourself

I think about this whenever I look back at older versions of myself.

There are things I used to believe I needed before I could really become myself. I thought I needed to know what career I wanted. I thought I needed to live somewhere exciting. I thought I needed more money, more confidence, more experience.

But when I look back, I can see that I was already becoming myself during those years.

It just didn’t look the way I expected it to. It looked like picking up books because I was curious about something. It looked like re-discovering that I loved writing. It looked like traveling somewhere alone and realizing I was capable of more than I thought. It looked like meeting people who completely changed the way I saw the world.

It even looked like making decisions that didn’t work out.

At the time, I thought I was figuring things out. Looking back, I realize I was becoming someone.

We have become so obsessed with becoming that we forget that becoming yourself isn’t a destination. There isn’t going to be a morning where you wake up and suddenly think, Finally. I’ve arrived. You are going to change your mind. You are going to outgrow things. You’re going to discover new interests you never knew you had. You’re going to meet people who change your perspective. You’re going to have periods where you feel completely lost and periods where everything suddenly makes sense. That’s not a failure to figure yourself out. That’s what figuring yourself out actually looks like.

So how do you actually stop waiting?

I don’t think the answer is to suddenly quit your job, book a one-way ticket and reinvent yourself.

Sometimes the life you want genuinely requires time. You might need to save money. You might need to finish your degree. You might need experience before you can get the job you want.

There is a difference between waiting for something you are actively working towards and using that future thing as an excuse not to live now.

That’s the distinction I try to make for myself.

If I say, “I want to move abroad,” then instead of spending two years thinking about moving abroad, I can start learning the language. I can research cities. I can apply for jobs. I can save money. I can take a longer trip there. The move can be a future goal without becoming a reason to dislike my present. And I think that applies to almost everything.

If you’re waiting for more money, ask yourself what part of the life you want can already exist within your current budget.

If you’re waiting to travel, start exploring the places around you. Take yourself somewhere you’ve never been. Spend a Saturday in a city you’ve never properly visited.

If you’re waiting to become a writer, write. Not when you have a book deal. Not when you have thousands of followers. Just write.

If you’re waiting to feel confident enough to meet people, start with one conversation. Go somewhere alone and talk to someone. You don’t have to become the most outgoing person in the room overnight.

If you’re waiting for your dream career, start becoming interested in the things that career requires. Take the course. Build the portfolio. Talk to someone who already does it. Apply for the position even if you don’t meet every requirement.

The point isn’t to pretend that circumstances don’t matter.

They do.

The point is to stop treating your current circumstances as proof that your life hasn’t started yet.

Make your future less imaginary

I also think we sometimes romanticize our future lives without actually doing anything to move towards them.

We have this beautiful picture in our heads of who we’ll be one day, but we rarely ask ourselves what that person actually does on an ordinary Tuesday.

If you imagine yourself as someone who writes, what does she do today?

If you imagine yourself living abroad, what could you do this month to make that more realistic?

If you imagine yourself being healthier, what would that look like on a random Wednesday when you don’t feel motivated?

If you imagine yourself having an interesting life, what are you actually doing that gives you interesting experiences?

This is something I’ve started thinking about a lot:

Don’t just romanticize your future self. Give her something to work with.

You don’t need to become her overnight.

You just need to start making decisions that are consistent with the person you’re trying to become.

Stop saving your life for special occasions

I think this might be the most practical thing you can do.

Notice what you’re saving.

The dress you never wear.

The restaurant you’ve been wanting to try.

The book you’ve been saving for the “right” time.

The trip you’re waiting for someone to join.

The hobby you’ve been meaning to start.

The photos you keep because you’re waiting until you look different.

Why are you waiting?

Sometimes there is a perfectly reasonable answer.

And sometimes there isn’t.

Sometimes we’re just uncomfortable being the person who does something alone. Sometimes we’re scared we’ll look stupid. Sometimes we’re waiting for someone else to validate that something is worth doing. But your life doesn’t become more valuable because someone else is there to witness it.

Take yourself somewhere.

Wear the dress.

Go to the restaurant.

Buy the flowers.

Read the book.

Start the hobby.

These things are not going to transform your life, but you’re allowed to enjoy your life before it becomes the version you’ve imagined.

Pay attention to what makes you feel alive

Another thing that has helped me is paying attention to the moments when I lose track of time.

What do you naturally become curious about?

What conversations do you keep thinking about afterwards?

What do you read about when nobody is telling you to?

What kind of people make you feel more like yourself?

What places make you feel awake?

I don’t think we always need to know exactly what these things mean. Sometimes curiosity can just be curiosity. But if you pay attention for long enough, patterns start to appear. And those patterns can tell you much more about the person you’re becoming than a five-year plan ever could.

You don’t have to know where it’s going

I know most of us want everything to have a purpose. If we start something, we want to know where it will lead. If we take a course, we want to know whether it will help our career. If we meet someone, we wonder whether they’ll become an important part of our lives. If we travel somewhere, we want the trip to change us.

But sometimes you can do something simply because you’re curious. You can follow a feeling without knowing where it will take you. Some of the things that have become the most important parts of my life started as things I had no idea would matter.

A book I picked up randomly, a conversation with a stranger, a place I almost didn’t visit, a hobby I thought I’d only try for a few weeks or a decision that didn’t make sense to anyone else at the time.

You can’t always see the significance of something while you’re living it. Sometimes you only understand it years later.

Maybe you’re not behind

If you’ve been feeling behind lately, I hope you know that you’re probably not.

I know how easy it is to look around and feel like everyone else has started their lives while you’re still preparing for yours. But we’re all starting from completely different places, with different circumstances, different opportunities and different definitions of what a good life even looks like. And more importantly, you are only seeing a fraction of someone else’s life. You don’t know how uncertain they feel. You don’t know what they’re struggling with. You don’t know whether the life they built is actually the life they wanted. You only know what it looks like from where you’re standing.

So instead of asking yourself, “Why am I not there yet?”

Ask yourself, “What can I do with where I am?”

What can you learn?

Who can you meet?

What can you try?

What can you make?

Where can you go?

What part of the life you want can you bring into your life today?

I think that’s the difference between waiting and living.

You can still have dreams about the future.

You can still want more money, a different career, another country, a bigger apartment, a different life. You don’t have to stop wanting those things. You just have to stop making your happiness dependent on getting them. Your current life is not the rough draft of your real life.

It is your life.

And maybe the version of you you’re waiting for isn’t somewhere in the future either. Maybe she’s being built in all of these ordinary moments. In the choices you make when nobody is watching. In the things you’re brave enough to try. In the questions you keep asking. In the things you decide to leave behind.

You are already becoming yourself. You don’t have to wait until you’ve figured out who that is to start living. Start with the life you have. Start where you are. And let the rest reveal itself along the way.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

It’s no secret I recently went on my first big solo trip at 24 years old. I did some weekends alone before, but never did I sit on a 11-hour flight alone. Needless to say, I was feeling quite nervous. Excited? Ofcourse. But also very overwhelmed.

I can talk forever about the many spontaneous moments I experienced, the adventures I went on, the people I met and the moments that made me fall in love with traveling alone. But that is not why I’m writing this.

I'm writing this because I genuinely believe every woman (or man) should experience being alone in a place where nobody knows her name, where nothing feels familiar and where she's forced to rely on no one but herself.

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You realize your job is the least interesting thing about you

If you’re traveling alone for a longer period of time, you will be introducing yourself over and over and over and over again…

I was sitting alone in a small bookshop in Hanoi when an older Vietnamese man approached me. He glanced at the book in my hands and asked what I was reading.

I told him about a tradition I’ve created for myself: whenever I visit a new country, I buy a book about its history, written from that country’s own perspective. It feels like the closest thing to letting a place tell its own story.

We kept talking for a while before he asked the inevitable question. “So, what do you do?”

I told him I work in marketing. He looked at me for a second and gently shook his head. “No,” he said. “That’s what you do. But you sound like a writer. Maybe even an actress.”

I laughed. “A writer, I can understand (little did he know). But an actress?”

“There is so much emotion in your face,” he replied. People who carry that much feeling are usually storytellers. Believe me I know, I met plenty!’’

For a moment, I had nothing to say. His comment stayed with me long after we said goodbye. I wrote it down in my pocket journal and came back to it almost every day.

It made me realize that whenever we introduce ourselves, we almost always start with the least interesting thing about us: our job.

Yet this stranger hadn’t remembered me because of what I did for work. He remembered me because of how I spoke, what I was curious about and the way I looked at the world.

When was the last time you had to explain who you are to someone who knew absolutely nothing about you?

No one knows where you work. No one knows where you grew up. No one knows your friends, your family or the version of you that everyone back home expects.

Every conversation starts from scratch. “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “Why are you traveling alone?”

These questions will feel repetitive at first. Then at some point, they become reflective. You begin to notice which parts of yourself you mention first. Is it your career? Your studies? Your hobbies? The country you come from? Or do you talk about your dreams instead?

Traveling alone forces you to ask a surprisingly difficult question: Who am I when no one else can tell my story for me?

For the first time you get to decide how you want to be known. Not by your achievements or the labels you’ve collected over the years but by the person sitting across from you in that moment.

You learn that most people are kinder than you think

Before I left for my trip, almost every conversation I had with friends and family sounded the same. They told me to be careful, to not trust any strangers, to not walk alone at night and to watch my belongings. None of it came from a bad place. It came from people who loved me and wanted me to come home safely.

But after hearing those warnings enough times, you start to believe the world is waiting for something to go wrong.

Then you travel alone. And a stranger helps you lift your suitcase onto a train without asking for anything in return. A waitress notices you’re eating alone and recommends her favorite dish. Someone sees you looking confused in a street and points you in the right direction before you even have the chance to ask. An elderly man starts a conversation in a bookshop because he’s curious about the book you’re reading. In those moments the world doesn’t feel like a place full of threats. It feels like a place full of people.

Of course, solo travel doesn’t mean abandoning common sense. I still locked my hotel door. I still shared my location with my family. I still trusted my instincts whenever something didn’t feel right.

Being open to kindness doesn’t mean you should ignore your intuition. It simply means refusing to let fear become your default way of seeing the world.

The news teaches us about the one stranger who harms someone. Travel introduces us to the hundreds who quietly help. Like the couple who invite you to join them for dinner because they don’t want you to eat alone. You’ll probably never know their names. And they’ll probably never think twice about what they did but you’ll remember them long after you’ve forgotten the museums you visited or the photos you took.

After the trip I was not suddenly convinced that that the world is perfectly safe. But it did remind me that humanity is far more ordinary, and far kinder, than fear would have me believe.

Curiosity will take you further than confidence

I always thought that confidence was the most important thing you could have traveling alone. Let me assure you, it is the curious people that get rewarded the most.

One day after being on the motorcycle for hours in the north of Vietnam, we arrived at a waterfall we were all excited to see. It had become one of the area's most popular attractions. It was beautiful, but it was also very crowded. Tourists filled every corner and people patiently waited for their turn to take the same photograph.

So we asked our drivers if there was another waterfall nearby.

“There is,” they said. “But you’ll have to hike.” We looked at each other, shrugged, and said yes. We had no hiking boots. Just flipflops and shorts.

What we thought would be a short walk turned into almost an hour of climbing over rocks, crossing streams and trying not to slip every five minutes. At one point I lost my balance and fell straight into the water. My sunglasses disappeared somewhere downstream, my camera got soaked and by the end of the hike my legs were covered in bruises.

If you would have seen this, you probably would’ve called it a disaster. Instead, it became one of my favorite days of the trip.

When we finally arrived there was no one else around. Just the sound of the waterfall, endless greenery and the handful of us who had decided to keep walking.

We picked fruit straight from the trees, jumped into the water and stayed there for hours.

It made me realize that curiosity has a funny way of rewarding you. Some of the best conversations begin because you ask one extra question. Some of the best opportunities appear because you decide to take a small detour. Some of the best memories exist because, instead of accepting what was in front of you, you wondered if there was something more.

You realize the life you have been exposed to is only one version of what is possible

Growing up it’s easy to mistake familiarity for reality. You look around and assume that the lives of the people around you are simply how life works. You go to school, you get a degree, you find a job, maybe you buy a house one day, and somewhere in between you’re supposed to figure out who you are.

No one has ever told you this is the only path, but it’s the only one we have ever been exposed to.

Then you travel and suddenly your world becomes so much bigger.

You meet someone who left university to become a scuba diving instructor on a tropical island. Another person spends half the year working in Australia and the other half backpacking through Asia. You have dinner with someone who makes documentaries for a living. The girl sleeping in the room next to you has been learning languages while traveling for two years. Someone else tells you they’re writing a novel from cafés around the world.

At first, these conversations almost feel unreal. I caught myself thinking, People actually live like this?

The funny thing is that none of them think their lives are extraordinary. They’re simply telling you what they did that week, just like someone back home might tell you about their office job or weekend plans.

So many of the things I had quietly placed in the category of maybe one day were already someone else’s normal life.

The more people I met, the more I realized how dangerous it is to believe your environment represents the entire world.

If you grow up in a small town or even just stay within the same circles for most of your life, it’s easy to think certain careers, lifestyles or dreams are reserved for “other people.” The entrepreneur who works from anywhere. The photographer traveling across continents. The woman who decides to move abroad by herself. They start to feel like characters you watch online rather than real people.

Until one day you’re sharing a meal with them and suddenly they’re no longer an exception they’re just a person. Travel has a funny way of making extraordinary things feel ordinary. It reminds you that the world is filled with people who ignored the invisible rules they were given. People who built careers that didn’t exist twenty years ago. People who left countries where they never quite felt at home. People who took risks that everyone around them thought were unrealistic.

Because they simply decided to try!

I don’t think solo travel gives you opportunities that didn’t exist before. I think it introduces you to people who make you realize those opportunities were there all along.

Sometimes all it takes is one conversation to expand your imagination.

Because once you’ve met someone who’s already living the life you’ve been secretly dreaming about, it’s a lot harder to convince yourself it’s impossible.

You stop asking yourself, “Could someone really do that?”

And you start asking, “Why couldn’t I?”

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

Closed mouths don’t get fed.

It’s a simple sentence, but it carries something I’ve only recently begun to understand. Life does not hand out opportunities to those who wait silently. Recognition, respect, clarity, love and yes, money. They respond to those who speak, ask and make themselves seen.

This year, I’ve decided to make this my motto. A principle to live by. This year, I will ask. I will say. I will be louder. I will put my voice into the world, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because saying nothing guarantees nothing. Speaking up even imperfectly, gives life a chance to respond.

Closed mouths don’t get fed. And this year I refuse to stay hungry :)

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Silence is often misnamed as strength

Many of us were taught that staying quiet is virtuous.

Don’t complain. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t be difficult. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Especially if you are a woman. Especially if you are young. Especially if you are still “becoming.” We call it patience, humility or trust. But more often than not it is fear dressed up as maturity. Fear of rejection. Fear of being told no. Fear of being seen as greedy or ungrateful.

The philosopher Epictetus said that we suffer not from events, but from our judgments about them. I would add something else. We also suffer from the sentences we never say out loud.

Asking is a skill, not a character flaw

Somewhere along the way, asking became embarrassing. As if need is something to be ashamed of. But every system we admire is built on asking. Businesses exist because someone asked for a sale. Books are published because someone asked to be read. Movements begin because someone asked a forbidden question.

In the book Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World, David Epstein turns a lot of conventional wisdom on its head. Most of us have been told that success means narrowing down as quickly as possible. Pick one thing. Focus on it. Practice it until it becomes muscle memory. Get your 10 000 hours. This was the dominant story for decades. But Epstein shows that it is incomplete at best and misleading at worst.

Epstein divides the world into two kinds of learning environments. In kind environments, patterns repeat, rules are clear and feedback is immediate. Chess or classical music are examples. In those domains, specialization can indeed lead you to excellence very early. But most of life, the problems we face, the decisions we make, and the opportunities we chase are not neat or predictable. Epstein calls them wicked environments. In these domains the rules are blurred, feedback is delayed or misleading and outcomes are shaped by shifting contexts.

This matters to our motto. When you stay quiet, when you retreat into a comfort zone of routine and expectation, you act like a specialist in a world that demands something else entirely. Life is wicked. Career success is wicked. Relationships are wicked. They change. They surprise. They refuse to conform to one algorithm. And in those environments, the people who flourish are the ones with range. People who have sampled widely, who bring diverse experiences and perspectives to the table and who ask questions that specialists don’t even think to ask.

Asking is not weakness. It is curiosity with courage.

Real life rewards the brave, not the quiet

Think about salary negotiations. Multiple studies show that people who negotiate their pay earn significantly more over a lifetime than those who accept the first offer. Not because they are better workers. But because they asked.

Think about networking. Most opportunities do not come from talent alone. They come from being remembered. And you are remembered when you speak.

I once read about a junior employee who asked to attend a meeting she technically did not belong in. She did not demand. She asked. That meeting led to visibility. Visibility led to responsibility. Responsibility led to promotion.

Someone else stayed quiet and waited to be invited. They are probably still waiting.

Closed mouths create invisible lives

There is a tragedy in being capable and unseen. You can be smart and overlooked. Kind and underappreciated. Hardworking and underpaid. Not because the world is evil. But because the world is busy.

People respond to signals. Words are signals. If you do not state your boundaries, someone else will define them for you. If you do not state your goals, you will be used for someone else’s.

The Stoics believed in aligning inner virtue with outer action. Marcus Aurelius did not just think. He ruled. He wrote. He spoke. Silence would not have served him.

“What stands in the way becomes the way.”

Saying things changes the shape of your life

Try it.

Say what you want. Say what you will no longer accept. Say what you are working toward and notice how the world rearranges itself. People respond differently when you are clear. Opportunities find edges to cling to.

In The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho tells Santiago’s story. A shepherd chasing a treasure he can barely imagine. The lesson feels simple: when you commit to your true desire, the universe conspires in your favor. But there’s a subtle truth behind it. Desire that stays hidden in your mind is invisible. The universe can only respond when it is shown.

Santiago must leave the familiar, speak to strangers, follow omens. Every step makes his longing concrete. Opportunity doesn’t float in the air. It exists in the pathways we carve, in the signals we send, in the words we speak. Saying what you want, asking for what you need, claiming space for your dreams. These acts invite the world to move with you.

Desire kept secret stays unfulfilled. Saying it aloud is the first step toward making it real. The universe cannot conspire around a secret.

And yes, there are risks.

I might be told no. I might be misunderstood. I might outgrow rooms that once felt safe. But staying quiet feels riskier to me. I risk resentment. I risk living a life smaller than I know I’m capable of. And I risk reaching the end and realizing no one ever stopped me from speaking. I just never did.

I would rather speak and face rejection than stay silent and wonder what could have been. I would rather be disliked for being clear than loved for being invisible.

For a long time, I waited.

I waited to be chosen. To be noticed. To be offered.

I confused waiting with faith.

Now I see it differently. Faith does not mean silence. Faith means action without guarantees.

So in 2026, I will ask. I will ask for money. For space. For collaboration. For respect.I will say when something does not work for me. I will say when I want more.

Closed mouths don’t get fed but open mouths might be told no.

But at least they are alive. At least they are participating. At least they are choosing hunger with hope over silence with regret.

And to me, that feels like the beginning of a well lived life.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

"It's a dangerous desire to want to be someone. Identity makes us vulnerable to manipulation." - Alexander Douglas

Two thousand years ago, the Greek philosopher Socrates told his followers: ‘‘Ken uzelve’’ (know yourself).” Today we’ve turned that wisdom into an obsession. We’re constantly searching for who we really are. “Just be yourself,” we tell each other. “Stay true to who you are.” When someone’s having a rough day we say: “You’re not yourself today.” People travel halfway around the world trying to find themselves. Bookstores overflow with self help guides promising to unlock your best self.

But believing we have some inner essence waiting to be discovered, some core truth we can uncover and live in harmony with is dangerous. That’s what Alexander Douglas, a philosophy teacher at Scotland’s St. Andrews University, wants us to understand. This kind of thinking leaves us open to manipulation. It fuels division. It can even lead to violence.

In his book Against Identity: The Wisdom of Escaping the Self (2025), Douglas explores our hunger for a fixed identity through the eyes of three thinkers from vastly different times and places: the Chinese Taoist Zhuang Zi (369-286 BC), the Dutch Enlightenment philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677), and the French thinker René Girard (1923-2015). Despite living worlds apart they all arrived at the same conclusion: we need to stop searching for ourselves.

So what’s wrong with believing we have a unique identity?

“Ever since ancient times, we’ve believed there’s something essential deep inside us certain core qualities that make us who we are,” Douglas explains. But when you actually look within, what is it that you find? A massive variety of traits and characteristics. So many that it’s nearly impossible to pin down any clear identity.

Many of us define ourselves by a single quality: our height, our race, our gender or our education. But what feels defining to one person means nothing to another. Some people will tell you their height doesn’t define them at all. Others identify completely with being tall or short.

Why do we cling so tightly to this need for identity?

“Spinoza said that everything strives to persist in its own being,” Douglas explains. ‘‘I think he’s really talking about people here. This deep human need to be someone. We all feel it. And we’ve all fallen for the illusion that everyone else has it figured out. We look at others and think they know exactly who they are, while we look inside ourselves and feel uncertain. But that’s only because everyone hides their own doubts from the world.’’

We put enormous pressure on each other to define ourselves. There’s an evolutionary theory that fits perfectly with what Spinoza and Girard were saying. Back when we lived in small groups, we had to watch out for people who would cheat or hurt others. We needed to know who we could trust and who we couldn’t. But a killer or a thief isn’t going to announce what they are. So we became incredibly sensitive to the signals people give off about their character. When someone acts unusually we come down hard on them.

I think we’ve internalized this tendency and it feeds our hunger for identity. Because deep down we know we depend on the identity other people assign to us.

We’re not just searching for ourselves. We’re performing ourselves because we’ve learned that survival depends on it.

Paradoxically we always look to examples outside ourselves when we search for our ‘true self.’ We start imitating others and conforming to external norms. People think they’re pursuing their own unique identity, while in reality they’re competing with each other over who best meets the norm. Socially that can be very useful because it leads to stable and predictable behavior from the people you live with, but it can also become dangerous.

Where does the danger lie?

“When people hold onto a certain identity, it can lead to conflict and violence. If you hang your identity on a specific thing or characteristic, your survival becomes dependent on it. Dying ultimately comes down to changing into something you no longer recognize as yourself. There’s no point telling someone: ‘Don’t worry about death, you just turn into a corpse,’ because you don’t recognize yourself in a corpse. You identify with who you are now. Alive. Something similar happens with things you believe are essential to who you are. You’ll do everything to defend them, to prevent them from changing, even to the point of using violence. Because your continued existence depends on it.

Besides that, our desire for identity makes us vulnerable to manipulation and social control. There’s an entire advertising industry built around the idea that there’s a true self inside you that you need to find and bring out. If you look around an airport, you see billboards everywhere expressing exactly that. But how do those advertisers know so confidently that your true self is someone who buys Sony headphones or books vacations through a particular website? Advertisers are aware that people have an insatiable desire for something that brings out their true self. And that just proves that the true self is an illusion, because otherwise their strategy wouldn’t work. You wouldn’t keep buying their products once you’d found your identity.”

What can we do to break free from our obsession with identity?

According to the Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zi, identity and the desire to achieve something in the world are connected. When identity controls you, you become goal oriented: you want to achieve. Zhuang Zi believes that if you let go of one thing the drive to achieve the other identity no longer has such a grip on you. He calls that ideal state of being wuwei: ‘non-doing.’ Spinoza talks about a similar state when he speaks of ‘blessedness.’ That’s a condition where you’re no longer trying to reach concrete things, but you’re open to different possibilities. You’re willing to be surprised by things you hadn’t noticed before or to listen to voices you hadn’t heard before.

Maybe we should let go of the need to be anyone in particular. When we stop chasing a fixed identity, we make room for something better. The freedom to change, to grow, to become someone new with each passing day. We don’t need to know who we are to live fully. We just need to be willing to meet whatever comes next with open hands and an open heart.

The search ends not when we finally discover ourselves but when we realize there was never anything to find.

From my wandering mind to yours,

Souha

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

There are moments in life when I catch myself thinking about the version of me I expected to be by now. The dreams I held onto so tightly. The future I pictured so clearly. Sometimes it feels like I am standing in the middle of a story I don’t fully recognise. Like I somehow wandered off the path I thought I was meant to follow.

And it’s strange, because no one teaches you how to grieve a future that never happened. No one tells you that you can miss a version of your life that you never even lived. No one explains that you can feel sadness for a dream that only ever existed in your mind.

But I feel it. I feel that grief in small moments, in quiet moments, in moments when the world slows down and my thoughts get louder. I feel it when I look at my life and think, This isn’t what I imagined. Not in a hopeless way. Just in a deeply human way.

For a long time, I didn’t even know that this feeling had a name. I didn’t know that grieving the life I thought I’d have was something real, something normal, something other people feel too. I thought maybe I was just being ungrateful or too emotional. But now I see it differently. I see it as a kind of mourning. A invisible mourning for the plans that fell apart, the doors that closed and the versions of myself I never became.

And when I’m honest with myself I realize the grief comes from love. Love for the dreams I once carried. Love for the girl who believed things would go a certain way. She didn’t know better. She didn’t know life would twist and turn like this. She didn’t know she would grow, outgrow, fall, rise, change and be changed.

I’m still learning how to navigate this grief. It’s not loud. It’s not constant. But it’s there. And I’ve realized I need to talk about it rather than hide it because hiding it only makes it heavier.

What I’m learning is that grieving the other life doesn’t mean I’m giving up. It means I’m making peace with what didn’t happen. It means I’m closing chapters that were never meant to be written. It means I’m clearing space for a new story. One I couldn’t have imagined before.

There is a strange comfort in knowing that I’m not walking this path alone. Many people carry a silent grief for the life they thought they’d live. Many people look at their lives and feel a quiet ache in their chest. And yet, we all keep moving, learning, growing, healing.

I’m still in that process. Still letting go. Still opening up. Still discovering who I am without the weight of the life I once imagined.

Maybe this is what growth looks like:
Not just becoming something new but releasing the old story with grace.

My life may not look like the picture I once created in my mind, but it’s still my life. There are still so many possibilities left for me to explore. I’m learning to trust that the future can still be gentle, hopeful and full of meaning. Even if it looks nothing like the one I once dreamed of.

If you enjoyed this piece and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

Ever find yourself feeling like you’re stuck in a rut, going through the motions without any real sense of fulfillment? It’s like you’re trapped in an emptiness bubble, disconnected from the richness of life. If you can relate, you’re not alone. In this post we’ll explore six common reasons why you might be feeling stuck and offer some insights on how to break free from the emptiness bubble.

1. Ignoring Your Passions

One reason you might be feeling stuck is if you’re ignoring your passions and doing things that don’t align with your true desires. When you neglect the activities and pursuits that bring you joy and fulfillment, it’s easy to feel disconnected and unfulfilled.

When we ignore our passions we’re essentially sidelining a vital part of ourselves. Our passions are like the compass guiding us toward fulfillment and purpose.

Imagine waking up each day with a sense of purpose and excitement, eager to dive into activities that ignite your soul. Now contrast that with the feeling of trudging through each day, going through the motions without any real sense of enthusiasm or fulfillment. That stark difference illustrates the impact of neglecting our passions.

When we neglect our passions, we deprive ourselves of the very things that light us up from within. Whether it’s painting, writing, playing music or engaging in outdoor adventures. Our passions are like sparks of joy that infuse our lives with meaning and vitality. Our passions are deeply intertwined with our identities, reflecting our values, interests and unique talents. By disregarding them, we deny ourselves the opportunity to fully express who we are and what brings us joy.

So, how do we break free from the cycle of ignoring our passions? For me, it has always started with self reflection and introspection. Take some time to explore what truly brings you joy and fulfillment. What activities make you feel alive and inspired? What hobbies or interests have you neglected over time? Once you’ve identified your passions, make a conscious effort to incorporate them into your daily life. Schedule regular time for activities that bring you joy, it does not matter if it’s dedicating an hour each evening to pursue your artistic side or setting aside weekends for outdoor adventures.

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2. Living on Autopilot

Another reason for feeling stuck is if you’re living on autopilot, going through the motions without any real intention or purpose. When you’re not actively engaged in your life, it can feel like you’re just drifting along, disconnected from the present moment.

it’s like being a passenger in your own life rather than the driver. You’re simply going through the motions, moving from one task to the next without any real sense of intention or purpose. It’s as if you’re sleepwalking through life, disconnected from the richness and depth of the present moment.

Living on autopilot can be insidious because it robs us of the opportunity to fully experience life. We become numb to the beauty and wonder that surrounds us, lost in a haze of monotony and routine. It’s like watching a movie with the sound turned off – you see the images, but you’re missing out on the richness of the dialogue and soundtrack.

When we live on autopilot we’re more susceptible to stress, anxiety and burnout. Without the anchor of mindfulness and awareness, we’re at the mercy of our thoughts and emotions, reacting to life rather than responding with intention and clarity. It’s like being tossed around in a stormy sea without a compass or rudder to guide us.

So, how do we get out of the grip of autopilot living? It starts with mindfulness and awareness in our daily lives. Mindfulness is the practice of being fully present in the moment without judgment or distraction. It’s about bringing our attention to the here and now. Embracing each moment with openness and curiosity.

3. Comparison Trap

Comparing yourself to others can also contribute to feelings of emptiness and dissatisfaction. When you constantly measure your worth against someone else’s achievements or possessions it’s easy to feel like you’re falling short.

Imagine scrolling through social media and seeing someone’s picture perfect life. The glamorous vacations, the enviable possessions, the seemingly effortless success. In that moment, it’s natural to compare our own lives to theirs and feel like we’re falling short. We start to question our worth and wonder why we don’t measure up to the unrealistic standards set by others.

But like everyone always says: comparison is a thief of joy. When we constantly measure ourselves against others, we overlook our own unique strengths, talents and achievements. We fail to appreciate the beauty of our own journey and instead become consumed by feelings of inadequacy and self doubt.

The comparisons we make are often based on a skewed and incomplete picture of someone else’s life. We see only the highlights. The carefully picked moments that people choose to share and we compare them to our own unfiltered reality. It’s like comparing apples to oranges. Pointless and ultimately unfulfilling.

Start with learning to understand yourselves and treating yourselves with a bit more kindness. Instead of tearing ourselves down because we think we’re not good enough, we can simply notice those feelings and meet them with compassion. It helps to remember that having flaws is normal. It’s part of being human, not something to be ashamed of.

4. Fear of Change

Fear of change can also keep you stuck in an emptiness bubble, clinging to the familiar even when it no longer serves you. Embracing change can be scary, but it’s often necessary for personal growth and fulfillment.

Change is inevitable. It’s a natural part of life. Yet despite its inevitability, many of us find ourselves clinging to the familiar, even when it no longer serves us. We become trapped in our comfort zones, afraid to venture into the unknown and face the uncertainties that come with change.

My opinion: Change is not something to be feared, it’s something to be embraced. Change is what allows us to evolve, grow and become the best versions of ourselves. It opens up new opportunities, challenges and experiences that can enrich our lives in ways we never thought possible.

So why do we fear change? Often, it’s because change represents the unknown: a departure from the familiar routines and patterns that we’ve grown accustomed to. We worry about what the future holds, whether we’ll be able to handle the challenges that come our way and whether we’ll lose the things we hold dear.

But what if instead of viewing change as a threat we saw it as an opportunity? What if we approached change with an open mind and a willingness to embrace the possibilities it brings? By reframing our perspective on change, we can transform it from something to be feared into something to be welcomed. Embracing change requires courage and resilience. It means stepping outside of our comfort zones and confronting the uncertainties that lie ahead. It means letting go of the past and embracing the journey of growth that change affords us.

One way to overcome the fear of change is to focus on the potential benefits it can bring. Rather than dwelling on the risks and uncertainties, try to envision the positive outcomes that change could bring into your life. Whether it’s pursuing a new career path, ending a toxic relationship or moving to a new city, change opens up a world of possibilities for personal growth and fulfillment.

5. Lack of Connection

Finally, feeling disconnected from others can contribute to feelings of emptiness and loneliness. Meaningful connections with friends, family and community can help fill the void and provide a sense of belonging.

Human beings are inherently social creatures. We crave connection, belonging and intimacy with others. When we lack meaningful connections in our lives, we can feel isolated, misunderstood and disconnected from the world around us. There are many reasons why we may find ourselves lacking connection. Perhaps we’ve moved to a new city where we don’t know anyone or we’ve drifted apart from old friends and family members over time. Maybe we struggle with social anxiety or have experienced rejection and betrayal in past relationships leading us to build walls around our hearts to protect ourselves from further pain.

Whatever the reason, the absence of connection can have profound implications for our mental, emotional and even physical well being. Studies have shown that loneliness and social isolation can increase the risk of depression, anxiety and other mental health issues. It can also weaken our immune system, making us more susceptible to illness and disease.

So how do we bridge the gap of meaningful connections in our lives? It starts with reaching out and making an effort to connect with others. This may involve stepping out of our comfort zones, initiating conversations and seeking out opportunities to meet new people. It may also require vulnerability. The willingness to open up and share our thoughts, feelings and experiences with others.

Nurturing existing relationships is equally important. It’s about making time for loved ones, whether it’s through regular phone calls, coffee dates or shared activities. It’s about being present, actively listening and showing genuine interest and care in the lives of those around us.

Having a sense of community can provide a powerful antidote to loneliness and isolation. This may involve joining clubs, organizations or support groups where we can connect with like minded individuals who share our interests and values. It may also involve volunteering or getting involved in local events and activities that bring people together.

So, the next time you find yourself feeling disconnected from others, remember that you’re not alone. Reach out, make connections and nurture the relationships that bring meaning and fulfillment to your life. In doing so you’ll not only enrich your own life but also contribute to the well being and happiness of those around you.

If you enjoyed this guide and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

There are days (too many days) when my mind feels like a crowded room.

Every idea has a voice. Every goal demands attention. Every dream pushes to the front and wants to be chosen. And I stand there, frozen, not choosing anything because I want to do everything.

Career goals.
Business ideas.
Hobbies.
Content creation.
Showing up for my family.
Being present with friends.

I want to build, write, create, connect, learn, grow and all at the same time. I want to eat healthy, wake up at sunrise, journal, pray, go to the gym, have a social life, scale a business, build passive income, read the entire personal development section of the bookstore and somehow also maintain emotional stability.

It sounds delusional when I write it out but it feels so normal in my brain. I want my dream life in one season.

But because I want to do everything,
I do nothing.

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People think the problem is lack of discipline but for me it’s pressure.

It’s waking up with a list of 43 things you “should” do because you watched a productivity TikTok at 1 a.m. It’s the fear of choosing one path and losing the others. It’s feeling guilty for resting when the world glorifies hustle.

It’s hearing your own voice in your head:

If you can’t do all of it perfectly, why start at all?

So I wait for the perfect day to begin. The perfect mood. The perfect energy. The perfect alignment of ambition, time and inspiration. That day never comes.

Instead, guilt does. And anxiety. Guilt for not starting. Anxiety because I’m falling behind. Pressure because other people are already doing what I want to do (and doing it better).

I want to live multiple lives within the same lifetime. But when you try to live too many lives at once, you end up living none.

WHEN EVERYTHING IS A PRIORITY, NOTHING IS

Have you ever opened your laptop to work on one thing, but somehow ended up doing everything except that thing?

You start researching business ideas → which becomes watching a YouTube video → which becomes researching cameras → which becomes comparing social media strategies → which becomes looking at someone else’s success and feeling like you’re too late. You end the day exhausted.

It’s not that you have worked but you thought about working.

Thinking burns energy too. Planning burns energy too. Overthinking burns more energy than action. We love potential more than progress because potential is perfect. Progress is messy.

If you choose one thing you will lose the others

That belief has held me hostage for years. I used to think that committing to one thing meant killing all the others.

If I focus on my career, my business will collapse.
If I dedicate time to my business, my personal life will crumble.
If I spend time with family, I’m neglecting my goals.
If I work on my goals, I’m neglecting people.

I lived in a constant state of internal conflict. How do you choose when everything matters?

But not choosing is still a choice and it’s the worst one. Because doing nothing guarantees that nothing moves.

Sylvia Plath once wrote a passage in The Bell Jar that has carved itself into my memory, a metaphor that returns to me every time I feel torn between too many dreams. She described herself sitting at the fork of a fig tree and from each branch hung a different life, a different version of who she could become. One fig held the life of a successful writer, confident and admired, pouring her soul into pages that the world devoured. Another fig represented marriage and family, a home full of warmth and belonging. Another fig showed her as a world traveler, chasing the horizon with a suitcase and endless curiosity. There was a fig for the academic life, studying in libraries and losing herself in ideas. A fig for art. A fig for adventure. A fig for love. All of them ripe. All of them possible.

And she wanted them all.

She wanted every life, every version of herself, every future that shimmered with possibility. But the problem was that choosing one felt like abandoning all the others. The moment she stretched out her hand toward one fig, she felt grief for the lives she wasn’t choosing. So she froze. She waited for certainty, for clarity, for some divine sign that would tell her which life would guarantee happiness and eliminate regret.

But while she sat there paralyzed by indecision, something tragic happened.

The figs: the beautiful, promising futures began to wrinkle and darken. They loosened their hold on the branch and dropped to the ground, one after another, rotting beneath her feet. She starved not because there was no fruit, but because she couldn’t bring herself to reach out and pick one.

That metaphor is painful because it’s true.

I think about that image all the time. The tragedy of potential left untouched. Wanting every path so deeply that you never commit to walking any of them. Watching your dreams expire not from lack of opportunity, but from lack of action. And the saddest part is that the longer you stand still, the heavier every choice becomes, until the weight of possibility feels suffocating.

We tell ourselves that leaving all options open preserves the future, but really, it destroys it.

Because options are not eternal. Dreams have expiration dates. Momentum fades.

Not choosing doesn’t protect your potential. It kills it slowly.

The truth that I resisted for so long is that life isn’t asking us to choose the perfect fig forever. Life is only asking us to choose one for now. To taste something. To begin. To move in a direction that nourishes us instead of starving in front of a tree full of everything we ever wanted.

You can always climb back up the tree later. You can always reach for another fig in another season. You are not closing doors, you are simply stepping through one long enough to experience what’s on the other side.

The real loss is not choosing.

Because as long as you remain frozen, the figs will keep falling and the life you want will continue to slip quietly into the past.

You don’t have to do everything at once. You don’t build a whole life in a day.
You build one habit at a time. Instead of trying to reinvent myself overnight, I started focusing on one thing per season.

I layer my dreams because slow is sustainable.

One priority for 30 days, sometimes 6 months.
One habit until it feels natural. One project until I see progress. Because time passes either way. Two years from now will arrive whether I worked toward something or whether I sat in the same spot overthinking it. The future will come regardless. The only difference is whether I look back feeling proud that I started or disappointed that I let time slip through my fingers.

So I choose one thing because it’s possible. Because little steps compound. Because the future will come anyway. And I’d rather meet it having moved.

If you enjoyed this guide and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

There have been so many times where I thought my gut was warning me about something only to later realize it was just my anxiety speaking louder than reason.

The problem with anxiety: it wants to keep you safe, not free

Anxiety is your mind’s alarm system. It tries to predict danger before it happens.
The problem is it doesn’t always know when to stop. It doesn’t distinguish between real threats and imagined ones. It just wants to protect you. So it floods you with worry, doubt and physical sensations that feel urgent.

Your heart races. Your thoughts spiral. Your body tenses up.
And because it all feels so strong, you assume it must be your gut telling you something important. But intuition rarely shouts.

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What is intuition?

At its core, intuition is a form of understanding that doesn’t come from logic or concrete evidence, but from instinct. That subtle inner sense we often call a “gut feeling.” It’s a kind of knowing that happens automatically, without us consciously reasoning through it.

The reliability of intuition has been debated for decades. As Dr. Jean E. Pretz notes in the Handbook of Intuition Research, psychologists have long considered intuition to be largely irrational and unpredictable. However, more recent studies have found that under certain conditions, intuitive judgments can actually be quite accurate. Sometimes even more reliable than decisions based purely on analysis.

That said, intuition isn’t flawless or all knowing. It can guide us but it shouldn’t necessarily be the final word in every decision. Whether or not we choose to act on our intuition depends on the situation and on how well we can distinguish it from other internal signals, like fear or anxiety.

For those who experience anxiety regularly (like me) that distinction becomes even harder to make.

“When you have an anxiety disorder, ‘trust your gut’ isn’t always the best advice,” says therapist Kilduff. “Your gut may constantly tell you to escape or distract yourself, when in reality, what you need most is to stay and face what’s happening.”

What is anxiety?

Anxiety is a natural human emotion. A state of heightened alertness that can come with worry, fear, stress or anticipation. Everyone feels anxious sometimes and in small doses, it can even be helpful. It prepares us for challenges, sharpens our focus and alerts us to possible danger.

However when anxiety becomes persistent, overwhelming or interferes with daily life, it can develop into a chronic condition. Anxiety disorders include generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, panic disorder, phobias and selective mutism. Obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), though now classified separately, shares many overlapping features with anxiety disorders.

While each condition looks different, they tend to share common traits:

• Intense and excessive worry, fear or anticipation

• “What if?” thoughts that spiral into irrational scenarios

• Repetitive overthinking or rumination

• Physical symptoms such as a racing heart, sweating, dizziness, trembling, headaches or digestive discomfort

This is where confusion often begins: anxiety can feel instinctive, like a gut reaction. It can masquerade as intuition, making it difficult to tell which one you’re actually experiencing. So how can you tell whether to listen to that inner voice or question it?

Intuition is your inner compass. It’s the deep knowing that comes from experience, emotion and subconscious awareness. It doesn’t come with panic or chaos. Instead it feels grounded. A bit like a gentle nudge.

You’ll know it’s intuition when:

• The message feels clear but not fearful.

• Your body feels settled, even if the truth is uncomfortable.

• There’s a sense of “I just know” without the mental overthinking.

Anxiety on the other hand:

• Feels urgent and noisy.

• Comes with tension, overanalysis and self-doubt.

• Focuses on “what ifs” rather than “what is.”

How to tell the difference in the moment

The next time you’re unsure whether it’s fear or instinct, pause and notice what’s happening inside you. Ask yourself:

1. What does my body feel like right now?
   Anxiety lives in tightness. Your chest, throat, stomach. Intuition often feels like openness, even when it guides you away from something.

2. Is this thought loud and repetitive or calm and steady?
   Anxiety repeats itself. Intuition speaks once and trusts you to listen.

3. Am I trying to control the outcome?
   Anxiety craves control. Intuition allows things to unfold naturally.

4. Would I still feel this way if I weren’t afraid of being wrong?
   That one question alone can reveal whether it’s your gut or your fear talking.

Learning to rebuild trust with yourself

For many of us, anxiety has made us doubt our own judgment. We second guess every decision, every feeling, every step. But intuition doesn’t grow in noise, it grows in stillness.
So start small: take quiet moments for yourself. Sit with your thoughts before reacting.
Write down what your body feels, what your first instinct says and what your anxious thoughts add on top. Over time, you’ll start to see the difference between the two.

The more you learn to listen to your calm inner voice, the less power fear will have.
And that’s when you’ll begin to move from reacting to trusting.

Because deep down, your gut already knows. You just have to give it space to speak without letting anxiety shout over it.

If you enjoyed this guide and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

It never happens all at once.
One morning you wake up a little later than usual. It’s dark, it’s cold, your bed feels like the only warm place left in the world. Then the mornings start to pile up like that. You scroll a bit longer, move a bit slower and before you realize it, the season has pulled you into a rhythm that doesn’t quite feel like yours anymore.

For years, I thought winter meant I had to fight my way through it. Force motivation, keep my pace, refusing to slow down. But the harder I pushed, the heavier I felt. My body was asking for stillness while my mind was trying to sprint. That’s when I learned about gentle productivity. The idea that you can keep moving forward, even in softness.

Winter will always bring its shorter days and heavier mornings. But this time, I’ve learned how to move through it without losing myself.

The first step into gentle productivity for me was noticing the shadows without shame. I began to track the early signs: longer nights where my thoughts felt heavy, subtle resistance to my usual tasks, a sense of weight. I journaled to witness. I wrote one simple question every morning:

Where am I carrying resistance today?

The answer rarely came in full sentences. Sometimes it came as a single word, a feeling, a tension. And that small act began to shift my relationship to the dip itself.

It was during one of these mornings that I realized the psychological truth beneath the winter blues. Our culture teaches linearity: growth as constant ascent, life as an ever-expanding project. But humans are cyclical beings. We carry seasons inside us. Some parts of our lives, our minds and our energy are meant to slow, to descend, to retreat inward. Winter is not an obstacle. Winter is a mirror. It shows us where we are out of rhythm, where we have been rushing through life at the cost of presence.

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I stopped forcing my will and started shaping my environment. I created small rituals that allowed me to move gently without losing momentum. Rituals are different from routines. A routine demands action. A ritual asks attention. Lighting a candle before I start work, making a cup of tea and standing by the window, taking five minutes to breathe in the cold air before stepping out. These are tiny gestures. They do not create productivity in the conventional sense. They create alignment. They remind me that the day exists around me.

I also redefined rest. For years, I thought rest meant stopping completely. But in the heaviness of winter, complete stillness often magnified emptiness rather than alleviating it. I discovered active rest (small movements or engagements that restore presence without the pressure to perform). Cooking a slow meal, organizing a shelf, walking without purpose. The world is dim, yes, but movement, however gentle, becomes something that reconnects you to it.

Movement itself taught me well. I learned to honor the body’s changing rhythm, rather than pushing it to mimic summer energy. I dance to one song in the kitchen, stretch in soft arcs, walk at dusk when the light is fading. These are not exercise routines. They are gestures of presence, small declarations that my body and mind are still alive even when the season suggests stillness. Each gesture is an anchor, a quiet rebellion against the pull of inertia.

Gentle productivity is a philosophy about the inner life. I realized that the winter dip is often an echo of what we avoid in ourselves. When the external world slows, our inner world becomes louder. The unexamined thoughts, the subtle anxieties, the small regrets. They rise to the surface. Confronting them is uncomfortable. Sitting with the silence of a winter evening, I have sometimes felt raw, exposed and completely empty. But at some point I discovered clarity. I noticed patterns, desires and truths I had ignored in the busyness of warmer months. Winter doesn’t rob you of vitality. It invites you to inhabit it differently.

I remember one evening feeling a dull heaviness pressing against me. I wrote a single line in my journal: I want to be alive in small ways today. That simple sentence almost a whisper to myself became a touchstone for the entire season. I did not try to recreate summer energy. I did not force productivity in the conventional sense. I moved in small, meaningful ways, enough to keep the inner flame from extinguishing.

These experiences taught me that the winter dip is supposed to be navigated. It is not failure to slow down. it is a chance to examine, to reflect, to reconnect. Gentle productivity is the vessel that carries us through this navigation. It is measured by presence, by the continuity of the self even in diminished light.

I realized that the key to moving through winter is creating tiny rituals that shape your day without forcing it. For me, one of the most powerful practices is “priority windows”. I block just one or two hours in the morning for what matters most to me. writing, reflection or planning my day and I protect it fiercely. The rest of the day can be messy, but that small window ensures the season doesn’t erase my intentions.

Another tool I discovered is the ambient anchor. I choose one sensory element each day to ground me. It might be the smell of coffee brewing, the texture of a warm blanket, the sound of wind against the window. I use it as a cue to pause, breathe and check in with myself. Over time, these anchors create a mental rhythm that helps me ride low-energy days instead of collapsing into them.

I also started the “single momentum action”. On mornings when even getting out of bed feels heavy, I choose one small action that requires almost no energy but reconnects me with life. For example, filling the kettle, stretching just once or opening a window to breathe cold air. I don’t worry about doing more; I just do the one thing, and it often sparks a chain reaction. Writing a paragraph, stepping outside, replying to a message. One deliberate action can pull the rest of the day along gently.

Movement for me became playful, not performative. Instead of pushing through a full workout, I do something that delights my body. Last winter, I made a habit of walking a few blocks to a café I liked, not for caffeine or productivity, just because. Observing how light falls on buildings, noticing small acts of life in others. Or sometimes I put on one song and dance like nobody is watching, even if it’s just in my kitchen. The point is reactivating the body’s presence in a season that tends to numb it.

Another habit is “energy swapping”. When I feel drained by scrolling or passive tasks, I replace one low energy habit with a small restorative one. For instance, instead of scrolling Instagram first thing, I make my bed intentionally while noticing textures, fold clothes with attention or water a plant while observing its details. These micro-habits don’t take long but they shift the body and mind into awareness and productivity without forcing energy.

I’ve also tried micro-connection rituals. Winter can feel isolating, but deep connection doesn’t have to be grand. Sending one thoughtful message, reading a short letter from a friend, or even acknowledging a neighbor with a smile keeps me from falling. These tiny acts remind me I am still part of a living world even when the days feel short.

Finally, I use seasonal reflection prompts as a compass. Each week, I ask myself a focused question: What is fading this week, and what can I nurture instead? I jot a line or two in my notebook. Sometimes a thought, sometimes a feeling. It doesn’t have to be long. These reflections keep me aware of my inner seasonality, making sure I respond to the winter blues instead of reacting blindly to it.

Through these practices, I realized winter is a teacher demanding small, deliberate attention. Protecting energy has allowed me not only to survive the season but to move through it with purpose and awareness. Each act may seem insignificant alone, but together they form a rhythm that preserves presence, nurtures clarity, and keeps the inner light alive even in the dimmest months.

If you enjoyed this guide and want to support the hours (and cups of tea and coffee) it took to put it together, you can always buy me a coffee . It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference and helps me keep writing for you. ☕🍂

Everyone these days is obsessed with doing more. More goals, more productivity, more proof that we’re moving forward.
But “more” doesn’t always mean better. Sometimes “more” is exactly what pulls you away from yourself.

We’ve been taught to equate success with output as if the one who hustles hardest wins. But most people aren’t failing because they’re not doing enough. They’re failing because they’re doing from misalignment.

They’re chasing goals that don’t match their identity, saying yes to things beyond their capacity and pouring energy into what doesn’t feed them.
And then they wonder why they feel empty even when life looks full.

Real growth isn’t about adding more to your plate.
It’s about aligning what’s already there.

That’s where the I.C.E Framework comes in. A way of living that shifts your focus from hustle to harmony, from performance to alignment. It’s built on three pillars that shape everything you do:
identity, capacity and energy.

When these three are aligned, life flows. You move with clarity, you create without depletion and you grow without losing yourself.
But when they’re misaligned, when you act out of identity confusion, overstep your capacity or neglect your energy, you burn out. Because you’re running a life that isn’t yours.

The I.C.E Framework helps you return to yourself.
It teaches you how to build a life that matches who you are and not who you’re trying to prove yourself to be.

Disclaimer: I’ve mentioned a few studies and books throughout this article for anyone who wants to dig deeper. I don’t know everything, of course. These are simply ideas and insights that have helped me make sense of things and maybe they’ll do the same for you.

I. Identity: Who you believe you are shapes what you do

Every habit you build, every choice you make and every boundary you set stems from one silent question:
“Who do I believe I am?”

We often think change begins with action. Waking up earlier, eating better, working harder. But lasting transformation doesn’t start with behavior. It starts with identity.

You can’t outwork a self image that doesn’t believe in the version of you you’re trying to become. And you can’t build consistency around an identity you don’t fully accept.

Most people try to change their outcomes without changing their identity. They focus on results like “I want to lose weight,” “I want to be more disciplined,” “I want to start writing” without shifting the internal story that drives their behavior.

Your brain is loyal to your self concept. It will always act in alignment with who you believe you are, even when that belief is outdated or self sabotaging.

The psychology of identity

In psychology, this is known as self-concept theory: the idea that our behaviors, thoughts and emotions all reflect the mental image we hold of ourselves. Carl Rogers, one of the founding figures of humanistic psychology, described the self concept as the “organized, consistent set of perceptions and beliefs about oneself.”

When your actions align with your self concept, you experience harmony.
When they don’t, you experience cognitive dissonance: the mental discomfort that arises when your behavior contradicts your identity.

That’s why when someone who has always believed “I’m not athletic” starts working out, it feels like resistance because they’re doing something that contradicts who they believe themselves to be.

Your mind’s instinct is to return to what feels true, even when that truth is limiting.

If you want to dive deeper into this, read The Self Under Siege by Robert K. Firestone or Self-Theories: Their Role in Motivation, Personality, and Development by Carol Dweck. Both explore how deeply our self-image governs what we believe we’re capable of.

Neuroscience of identity and behavior

Neuroscience backs this up: our brains are prediction machines. They don’t just react, they constantly predict how we should behave based on past experiences.
The prefrontal cortex (responsible for decision-making and planning) and the basal ganglia (which stores habits) work together to keep our actions consistent with our self image.

So if your identity says “I’m undisciplined,” your brain doesn’t argue, it builds neural pathways that confirm it.
If your identity says “I’m the kind of person who follows through,” it does the same: reinforcing the belief through behavior.

Repeated thoughts literally sculpt the brain.
Neuroscientist Donald Hebb summarized this in one sentence:

“Neurons that fire together, wire together.”

Every time you act in alignment with a belief your brain strengthens that neural circuit.

So the only way to change your behavior long term is to upgrade your self-image. Affirmations alone will not help, but identity-based action is needed.

If you want to read more about how identity is wired in the brain, explore The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg or Atomic Habits by James Clear. both offer accessible explanations of how habits become extensions of identity.

How to rebuild identity in practice

Changing your identity isn’t about forcing a new label onto yourself but about gradually proving to your brain that you are someone new.
You don’t have to fully believe it at first. You just have to act like it.

Here’s how to begin:

1. Define who you want to be.
   Not what you want to achieve but who you want to become.
   Instead of “I want to be confident,” try “I am someone who keeps promises to myself.”

2. Collect evidence.
   Each small act of discipline is evidence for a new identity. Your brain rewires through proof, not intention.
   Every time you do something aligned with who you want to become, you’re teaching your subconscious that this new self is real.

3. Detach from old labels.
   “I’m bad at this,” “I always procrastinate,” “I’m not consistent” these are not facts but stories your brain tells to protect you from change.

4. Use environment as identity support.
   Surround yourself with cues that reinforce who you’re becoming. Books, music, spaces and people that reflect your higher self.

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C. Capacity Building: Expanding your ability to create, adapt and hold more

Most people measure progress by what they achieve.
But real progress is measured by what they can hold.

Not just in terms of tasks or responsibilities but in emotional weight, mental complexity, and uncertainty.

Capacity building is the process of developing your ability to produce value, manage complexity, and navigate uncertainty without losing your inner stability.
It’s what separates momentary success from sustainable growth.

Because life doesn’t get easier, you get wider.
You grow the space between stimulus and response. You develop the ability to stay grounded when everything around you shifts.

Psychologist Robert Kegan, in his book Immunity to Change, describes human development as the ability to “hold increasing complexity in mind.”
In other words, maturity isn’t about knowing more it’s about being able to see more without collapsing.

When we’re young (mentally or emotionally) we see life in simple binaries: success/failure, good/bad, right/wrong.
But as we grow we begin to tolerate ambiguity. We learn to hold paradox: to love and let go, to work and rest, to lead and listen.

That’s capacity building.
The expansion of your inner container so you can stay composed in the midst of contradiction.

Try reading Immunity to Change or In Over Our Heads by Robert Kegan: both explore how psychological growth is about increasing complexity tolerance, not collecting achievements.

Cognitive and emotional capacity

Your brain has two systems that govern how you manage complexity. System 1 and System 2, a framework developed by Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman (Thinking, Fast and Slow).

• System 1 is automatic, fast, emotional. It handles routine, intuition and reaction.

• System 2 is slow, deliberate, logical. It handles analysis, reflection and planning.

When life becomes complex or uncertain, most people overuse System 1. Reacting impulsively because System 2 requires more mental energy.

Capacity building means training yourself to pause.
To shift from reaction to reflection.
To stretch the space between emotion and response so you can choose consciously.

Practices like meditation, journaling and deliberate reflection strengthen the prefrontal cortex, improving emotional regulation and decision making (see Daniel Goleman’s Emotional Intelligence or Richard Davidson’s The Emotional Life of Your Brain).

The more you practice awareness, the greater your capacity becomes to think clearly under pressure.

If identity shapes who you are, capacity determines what you can handle.
In uncertain times: career changes, creative risk, relationships or global instability. Capacity building means learning to find stability within movement.

Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his work on Flow, explains that humans thrive when challenge and skill are in balance.
Too little challenge leads to boredom; too much leads to anxiety.
The art of building capacity is finding that middle ground where growth stretches you but doesn’t shatter you.

You train your system to tolerate discomfort without labeling it as danger.
To stay calm inside uncertainty instead of trying to escape it.

Capacity as value creation

At its highest form capacity is about producing value without self destruction.

In the workplace it’s the ability to manage complex systems, communicate across differences and innovate under pressure.
In life it’s the ability to stay grounded in chaos, to bring clarity where others bring panic.

Capacity is built through deliberate exposure to complexity followed by recovery.
You stretch, reflect and integrate.
That’s how leaders, creators and visionaries expand their bandwidth without burning out.

Jim Loehr and Tony Schwartz write in The Power of Full Engagement:

“The key to high performance is managing energy, not time.”

To build capacity intentionally:

1. Learn to hold tension without rushing to resolve it.
Most people try to escape tension. They want clarity now, closure now, comfort now.
But real capacity comes from staying in the in between. From learning to sit in uncertainty without numbing it away.
Psychologist Viktor Frankl wrote that between stimulus and response there is a space, and in that space lies our growth and freedom.
Every time you resist the urge to fix or flee, you widen that space and that’s where capacity grows.

2. Expand your emotional range, not just your productivity.
It’s easy to build skill and stamina; harder to build emotional agility.
To hold space for both frustration and curiosity, both fear and excitement.
This is what psychologist Susan David calls emotional complexity: the ability to feel multiple, even conflicting emotions, without letting them dictate your choices.
If you want to increase your capacity, stop trying to feel better. Start trying to feel more accurately.

3. Build systems.
Capacity isn’t about how strong you are in a single moment. But about how well you’ve designed your environment to support you on ordinary days.
Relying on motivation alone is like expecting a candle to burn without oxygen.
Instead build rituals, boundaries and structures that make the right choices easier.
As James Clear puts it in Atomic Habits: “You do not rise to the level of your goals; you fall to the level of your systems.”
Systems make capacity sustainable.

4. Practice strategic withdrawal.
Growth is cyclical. You expand, contract and expand again.
Every system (biological, creative, emotional) needs recovery.
When you step back intentionally, you integrate what you’ve learned and come back stronger.
As in strength training, your capacity increases not during the exertion, but during the recovery that follows.

You don’t grow by doing more.
You grow by becoming larger inside by developing the strength to stay calm in complexity, focused in distraction and clear in uncertainty.

Capacity building is self leadership.
It’s how you become a person who can not only achieve more, but hold more: love, purpose, responsibility and peace. Without collapsing under the weight of it all.

E. Energy: The architecture of your life

Everything alive runs on energy. Not time, not willpower.
Energy is the invisible current that fuels your thoughts, your choices, your capacity to create.
It’s not abstract. It’s biological, emotional and spiritual all at once.

Most people don’t lose energy because they work too hard. They lose it because they live in constant resistance to their emotions, their truth, their natural rhythm.
The body keeps score, as psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk wrote in his seminal book The Body Keeps the Score.

Energy is awareness

Your energy follows your awareness.
Whatever you keep returning to in thought, you are feeding.

Neuroscientists at Stanford University have shown that the brain’s default mode network (the part active when your mind wanders) consumes up to 60–80% of your body’s resting energy.
When your attention is scattered, your energy becomes thin. You start living in fragments, stretched across past regrets and future worries.

William James often called the father of modern psychology once wrote:

“The faculty of voluntarily bringing back a wandering attention, over and over again, is the very root of judgment, character and will.”

That’s what energy really is: the ability to bring yourself back again and again to this moment.
Every return strengthens presence. Every presence restores energy.

If you want to read more about this, explore Peak Mind by Amishi Jha, a neuroscientist who studies attention as the foundation of mental resilience. She found that even 12 minutes of mindfulness training a day can significantly improve focus and energy regulation.

The nervous system as the gatekeeper

Your nervous system decides how much life you can hold.
When it’s in constant alert it spends enormous energy on survival. Cortisol rises, your heart rate quickens, digestion slows. Your body prepares for danger that often never arrives.

Dr. Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory explains this beautifully: when your nervous system feels safe, the vagus nerve signals the body to relax. Your breath deepens, your heart rate synchronizes and your higher brain functions. Creativity, empathy, complex reasoning come back online.
That’s why peace and productivity are not opposites. One allows the other.

You can’t force the nervous system to calm down through logic. You train it through practice. Breathing slowly, spending time in nature, prayer, mindful movement.
Every time you tell your body, “you’re safe now,” your energy returns to you.

If you want a practical understanding of this, read Your Body Is Your Brain by Amanda Blake, which connects somatic awareness to leadership and sustained energy.

Energy leaks

Most energy seeps out quietly through self-doubt, overthinking, digital distraction or staying connected to what no longer aligns.

A 2017 study published in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience found that chronic social comparison (especially through social media) significantly increases cortisol levels and emotional fatigue.
Every scroll, every silent judgment is a small energy leak.

Energy also leaks through emotional dissonance: the gap between what you feel and what you express.
When you constantly perform well being while suppressing your truth the body pays the cost.

To preserve energy, live truthfully. Say no when your body tenses. Rest when you’re tired not when you’ve earned it.
Integrity is the most renewable form of energy there is.

The art of renewal

Renewal is re-connection.
To yourself. To meaning. To the spaces that remind you you’re human.

The University of Michigan’s Environmental Psychology Laboratory found that spending just 20 minutes in nature (even in an urban park) reduces stress hormones and restores directed attention.
That’s not spirituality; that’s biology. The body returns to its natural rhythm when surrounded by organic patterns.

Psychologist Herbert Freudenberger, who first identified burnout in the 1970s, observed that recovery doesn’t happen in the absence of work but in the presence of meaning.

You don’t refill your energy by stopping life. You refill it by reconnecting to what makes it worth living.

Renewal is when you stop reaching and start receiving.
When you let silence do the mending.

Energy is not something you manage it’s something you honor.
It’s a dialogue between mind and body, focus and rest, doing and being.
Everything (your creativity, your clarity, your capacity to love) grows from that inner current.

Protect it like something sacred.
Because it is.

So…..

When your identity feels steady, your capacity grows. When your energy is protected, your actions become clear.
And slowly life begins to feel less like a fight and more like a rhythm you can trust.

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