travelling

 I’ve always been naturally quiet. Not shy, just observant. The kind of person who feels deeply but doesn’t always say everything out loud.

Travelling the Philippines changed that.

There was something about being so far from home, surrounded by warmth, openness, and ease, that gently pushed me out of myself. I found myself talking more. Laughing louder. Connecting quicker. Not in a forced way, but in a way that felt natural and freeing.

I connected with people without overthinking it. With strangers who felt familiar. With moments that didn’t need explaining. My friends noticed it before I did. They kept saying I seemed different. More open.

But the truth is, nothing new appeared.

It was always in me.

The Philippines didn’t change who I was. It reminded me of who I could be when I stop holding myself back. When I let curiosity lead instead of caution. When I trust that connection doesn’t have to be earned, it can just happen.

Sometimes you don’t need to become someone else. You just need the right environment to bring out the parts of you that were quietly waiting.

a shift in perspective

September 13th. For many, it's just another date. For me, for a while, it held a particular weight. Years ago, on a September 13th, I received a diagnosis of a brain disease. It felt like a significant, perhaps even unlucky, turn of events. I remember thinking that if I even made it to the next "anniversary" of that diagnosis, which would also be a Friday the 13th, my luck would surely have run out.

Spoiler alert: I'm still here, and my luck seems to be doing just fine. (For those new here, I often use my brain disease as a bit of humour on this page, it just my coping mechanism!)

Fast forward to September 13th, 2019. Another Friday the 13th. This time, instead of dread, the day brought a different kind of surprise. My boyfriend chose that very day to ask me to be his girlfriend. It might seem like an odd choice for a day traditionally associated with misfortune, but for us, it became a memorable moment.

And here we are, five years later, still together. That "unlucky" Friday the 13th marked the start of a wonderful chapter in my life.

It just goes to show that dates, like days, are what we make of them. For me, Friday the 13th has transformed from a day of apprehension into a reminder that positive things can happen unexpectedly, even on days typically considered less fortunate. It's a quiet testament to how perspective can shift the meaning of everything. Friday the 13th might no longer be a day to dread, but simply another day full of possibilities.

As it happens, it’s Friday 13th today. For one girl who thought her luck would run out on a day like this, I can safely say, it’s just getting started.

“How’s work”

It’s the question that never fails to appear, often within the first few minutes of conversation. You bump into an old friend or meet a distant relative at a wedding, and there it is:

"How’s work?"

It’s not an inherently bad question. In fact, it makes sense. Work takes up a huge chunk of our lives, and in many cases, it shapes our identity. People ask it because it’s an easy icebreaker, a way to quickly gauge how someone is doing without prying too much. But the problem is, it often is prying too much.

What if your job is stressful? What if you’re in the middle of quitting? What if you just got fired? Or what if, quite simply, you don’t want to talk about work in your free time?

There’s also the assumption that work is the most important or interesting thing about you. When people default to asking about your job, it can feel like your worth is tied to your career. Did you get a promotion? Are you still at the same company? Have you done anything impressive lately? It’s a subtle pressure to have something “good” to report, because saying “it’s fine” or “it’s just a job” rarely satisfies the person asking.

And then there’s the hierarchy hidden in the question. If your job sounds exciting or prestigious, you’re met with admiration. If it’s something ordinary, you get a polite nod before the conversation moves on. It can feel like a test, a quiet evaluation of where you stand in life.

Of course, not everyone means it that way. Some people genuinely care. Some are just looking for a way to start a conversation. But wouldn’t it be nicer if we led with something more open ended? What’s been exciting for you lately? What’s something you’ve been enjoying outside of work? These questions give people the space to talk about whatever matters to them. Whether that’s work, a hobby, or the latest TV show they’re obsessed with.

I know we spend almost half the week at work, often spending more time with our colleagues than the people we love and care deeply for. It’s a huge part of our routine and sometimes even our sense of purpose. But does that mean it has to be the centerpiece of every conversation? Just because work takes up a lot of our time doesn’t mean it defines who we are or what’s most important to us. Some of the best moments in life happen outside of office hours, yet we rarely start conversations by asking about those.

Because the truth is, work is just one part of who we are. And that’s why I hate the question, how’s work?

private posts, just for me

 I love to write.

I think I’ve tricked my brain into believing that my words, or my opinions, aren’t good enough. In conversation, that doubt shows up as hesitation. I stutter, I pause, I lose my train of thought while trying to say things “the right way.”

Writing feels different.

On the page, I can express myself in ways I struggle to out loud. There’s no immediate reaction to read, no faces to interpret, no moment where I have to adjust myself mid-sentence. I get the space to think, to choose my words, to say what I actually mean without the fear of being misunderstood in real time.

Maybe that’s why I don’t publicly post my writing.

Not because it isn’t important to me, but because it feels safest when it’s just mine. Writing gives me clarity and confidence that I don’t always have when speaking, and for now, that quiet freedom feels more valuable than sharing it for approval.

And maybe that’s okay.

Sharing

Sharing my last post was one of the most cathartic experiences of my life. It was one of the few times I've allowed myself to be publicly vulnerable and share my post onto Instagram for a whole platform full of people I know. It felt both terrifying and liberating. The response, however, was incredible.

One friend, in particular, spoke to me after a gym class. She recalled how ill I was back in the day, but didn't realise that I had received a lifelong diagnosis. Perhaps, it was because back then I looked visibly ill and now, the only indication off my illness is if you see me whip out my fancy tablet crusher to crush 42 pills. The conversation reminded me how important it is for people, especially South Asians, to open up about taboo subjects. We never know who could be struggling with something similar.

This conversation struck a chord with me. When I was going through my diagnosis, I had never heard of a young person like me being sick. It was always older people, and even then, it rarely went beyond diabetes or high blood pressure.

I remember when I first started to get better, the hospital wanted to publish a case study due to the rarity of the illness. A distant family member advised against it, saying it wouldn't be recieved well. It felt as if my illness was something to be ashamed of. But why should I have been ashamed? At that time, I was 1 of 36 people diagnosed globally. I should have felt proud.

Having that conversation with my gym friend, made me realise how much we all need these honest conversations, especially within communities that might shy away from discussing health issues openly.

Sharing my story, it wasn't about me anymore, it was about everyone who might be going through something similar and feeling isolated. There is a power in vulnerability. It's a reminder that we all have our battles, and sharing them can bring us closer together, fostering a community of support and understanding.

So if you can and if you feel comfortable, let's keep the conversation going.

We were living through the dystopian ages

In 2024, it’s strange to look back at corona and realise how dystopian it all felt.

Not in a dramatic, movie like way, but in a quiet, unsettling one. Empty streets. Daily death counts. Rules changing overnight. Life reduced to press conferences and notifications. It still doesn’t feel that long ago.

I remember watching YouTube vlogs about an Irish teacher living in Wuhan, long before it supposedly hit the UK. At the time, it felt distant. Almost unreal. Like something happening on another planet. I remember thinking how surreal it looked, cities shut down, people masked, routines erased. None of us really believed it would reach us in the same way.

And then it did.

We all know we locked down far too late. By the time it became real, it was already everywhere. Suddenly the world felt paused, but also constantly on edge. Time moved strangely. Days blurred together, yet the fear felt sharp and constant.

What makes it feel especially dystopian looking back is how quickly we adapted. How normal the abnormal became. Standing two metres apart. Watching loved ones through screens. Accepting that weddings, funerals, birthdays, and goodbyes could be postponed indefinitely.

We were living through history without fully realising it.

In 2024, life looks busy again. Loud again. Full again. But there’s still a part of me that remembers how fragile everything felt. How quickly certainty disappeared. How the world we trusted could shut down overnight.

It wasn’t just a pandemic. It was a collective loss of innocence. A reminder that structure, routine, and safety are never guaranteed.

And even though it feels like yesterday, it already belongs to another version of us.

Reclaiming my power

Beyond the 'label' of a girl with a brain disease is a complex and vibrant individual, full of dreams and aspirations. While this rare condition undeniably plays a role in my narrative, I must remember that it doesn't define the entirety of my identity.

Most would not know I have a brian disease, and why would they? On surface level I look healthy, I guess it is a silver lining the intense fatigue, migraines and anxiety are invisible. Whipping out my fancy tablet crusher, that looks like a rather weird pepper grinder, is the only indication that this seemingly healthy looking person, is actually not so healthy.

Beyond the regimen of 42 tablets a day, is a girl with passions, talents, with an intricate story just waiting to unfold. Finding a balance between the daily challenges and the desire to be seen beyond those pills is a perpetual struggle. The isolation intensifies when despite the insane level (and always appreciated) of support from my incredible incredible circle of family and friends, the depth of this rare disease will be never fully be relatable.

Each tablet, whilst essential for managing the condition, serves as a regular reminder of an internal challenge. Yet, I do try to remember that strength and resilience coexist with vulnerability.

Being more than a girl with a brain condition means acknowledging all victories, large and small. It includes my ability to pursue dreams, develop my talents, and share a story that goes beyond my health condition. In a world that often categorises people, embracing the complexity of living with this condition affirms my individuality, resilience and the diverse aspects of human experience.

Being more than a girl with an illness is a celebration of victories achieved beyond medical intricacies. For me, it is a testament to the strength that has propelled women that came before me, fostering growth, and embracing life's twists and turns.

On this International Women's Day, asserting someone’s identity beyond a limitation is an act of empowerment. Embracing the mix between vulnerability and resilience, forms an integral part of someone's story.

On this International Women's Day, asserting your identity beyond any limitation is an act of empowerment. Embracing both vulnerability and resilience is a fundamental part of your personal narrative. Optimism isn't just about navigating the complexities of daily struggles; it's about leading a life rich with personal experiences, aspirations, and the strength that comes from facing challenges directly.

I guess the whole reason for posting this is to not only hold myself accountable by remembering the above, but to also let other women know that whether or not they feel pressured to fit into a singular box, this International Women's Day is an opportunity to stand tall not only as an individual, but as a collective force - dynamic, powerful women, shaping narratives filled with strength, resilience and undeniable courage.