This is one of the truths I learned late in life, after disappointments and the quiet ache of feeling wrong each time someone misunderstood or diminished my words, my feelings. I often asked myself how it was possible that, even after years of friendship, someone still failed to notice the smallest fragments of who I am. The answer is simple and cruel: time changes us, even when we are unaware of it.

I recently spoke to my best friend about how I spiraled into questioning myself after losing friends from high school, and how that loss pushed me to reexamine who I was during that time of our lives.

Was I mean? Was I annoying? Why don’t I talk to them anymore? How can it be so easy to lose people you once believed would walk beside you into adulthood, growing alongside you as life unfolded?

These are only a fraction of the questions that surfaced. It wasn’t that I didn’t know who I was—rather, I didn’t know how I was perceived by others. I wondered whether the person I believed myself to be aligned with the version of me they had known. I questioned whether my self-image matched the person they were interacting with back then.

He reassured me almost immediately and asked what I was truly afraid of. “It happens,” he said. “We outgrow people, and sometimes we are outgrown too. That doesn’t mean we were never appreciated in the first place.” And he was right.

I grew up watching movies where childhood friends remained side by side—as brides, as mothers, as grandmothers. But that kind of permanence doesn’t come without cost. Some friendships are undeniably stronger than others, yet more often than not, it is the people themselves who grow and change within the space of a relationship.

When we first meet someone, we offer them a version of ourselves that settles into their memory. With time, they begin to tie our gestures to our emotions, our silences to meaning, and to anticipate our reactions before they even happen. Yet the truth remains—we are not fixed, and we are not transparent.

Humans thrive on categorization. It is how our minds work: information is stored in small, separate boxes. And that means that everyone around you—if they care enough—carries a little cardboard box with your name written on it. Sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes it isn’t. That box can be big or small, depending on how much care they have poured into knowing you.

That’s why some friends are better at comforting you than others. They pay attention to how you react to certain things; they quietly study the way you hurt, the way you heal, and they scramble to figure out how to bring your smile back. The same happens with the things that excite you, that make you happy, sad, or angry.

The human mind is made to gather everything it touches and shape it into certainty, but in doing so it often abandons what seems too small to matter. We may believe we are giving voice to everything inside us, pouring out a full one hundred percent, but language betrays us. And so that hundred quietly fades into seventy.

Change, if you allow it to take you, is inevitable. We try to resist it, to “fix” it, but everything around us leaves a mark—directly or indirectly. And that means everyone around us is going through the same process. What makes it harder is that the most intricate and intimate changes are also the hardest to express. More often than not, it is the people around us who notice the shifts happening within us before we do.

Yes, we may watch the person beside us live their life every day, and they may watch us do the same, but that does not mean they truly understand the tangled storm of emotions we carry in silence.

We all walk through life wearing a filter—one stained with our interests, passions, loves, dislikes, and fears. A filter made of emotions, values, and morals that guides us toward what we believe is good or bad, and beneficial or dangerous for us. This allows us to recognize fragments of ourselves in others, echoes of familiar experiences—but it also blinds us to what our heart and mind have never encountered before. No one’s perspective is ever truly objective, and that is precisely what makes us unique. It is what makes us react, feel, and act in completely different ways.

To truly know a person is to allow them to be endlessly new. It means holding space for all the strange, fragile, and contradictory things they are made of, without expecting them to fit the outdated version you once held in your mind. It means letting them be open, letting them be themselves—even when you don’t understand, even when you don’t agree—choosing to lead the relationship without judgment. Only then will you learn how much space they are willing to hold for you.

A relationship is built by two people. And that also means accepting that you will never receive one hundred percent from someone if, deep down, you know you could never offer the same without limits.

And in the end, all the words left unsaid gather themselves into chapters, until—over time—between two people, an entire book is written of everything that was never spoken.

How you choose to read the book is up to you. You can read it as an enriching experience—trusting that the person you love will stay beside you through both highs and lows. But above all, choose the person who looks at you without judgment, who makes room for you in their mind.

And if there are moments when being held feels harder, remember this: being misunderstood does not mean never having been known. It means the boxes need adjusting. It means realigning, reassessing what is difficult to communicate. And it also means accepting that we must be the ones to make space for ourselves, too.

We are the only ones capable of expanding our own box. Some parts of us will always remain a secret to others—and that is what makes us rare. There is power in how we think, power in how we feel. The difficult part is expressing all these fragments, knowing they may still emerge incomplete. But understanding that they will come out rare, beautiful, and precious anyway—that is the quiet joy of being misunderstood.

Why do we only validate our success when it’s been painfully difficult to earn? And why do we still look at others’ lives and assume the grass is greener - ignoring their struggles and focusing only on the surface of their joy? A single happy moment in someone else’s life can convince us that everyone else has it together but us. We admire beauty in a stranger’s smile, yet struggle to recognize it when it turns out in ours.

I’ve come to see that very little is ever truly impersonal. The notion of emotional distance—or being “nonchalant”—doesn’t quite hold up. Even something as simple as witnessing another person’s joy can feel intimate, shaped by a culture that encourages constant comparison across every part of our lives. In that context, someone else’s happiness can quietly turn into a mirror, making us question our own—whether we measure up, or fall short.

Life isn’t something that asks to be measured side by side; it simply asks to be experienced. I once found myself drawn to people who seemed effortlessly happy, quietly wondering where that left me. That feeling still surfaces at times—small moments, like noticing a couple’s hands resting together across a table, can bring it back.

As I sit with the weight of not feeling like the brightest presence in the room, I notice how instinctively my attention turns outward, toward easing things for others. It makes me pause and consider why extending care comes so easily when it’s directed away from myself.

It feels like a zero-sum game: either you’re happy, or they’re happier. But supporting yourself doesn’t require wishing misery on others. We sometimes act as though if we aren’t doing as well, no one else should be allowed to feel joy. That’s when things become too personal.

We move through the world in comparison. Everyone who enters our lives—whether they linger or pass through—is filtered through our own perception, and with it, our quiet judgments. From there, it’s easy to decide who feels happier or heavier, calmer or more fulfilled, and to place ourselves somewhere in relation to them. Us vs them. We put us even when we’re not involved.

We often center everything around ourselves because we’re shaped by a mindset of scarcity—the quiet belief that there’s only so much to go around. In that frame, even emotions feel finite, as if experiencing joy, love, or fulfillment are resources to compete for.

From there, it’s easy to slip into the feeling that we must be lacking, simply because what we want hasn’t arrived yet. And when someone else seems to “have it,” it can feel as though they’ve taken what was meant for us, or diminished our own worth in the process.

But that isn’t how it has to be. It doesn’t have to be us or them. There’s room for both—room for their happiness to deepen ours, and for ours to exist without apology.

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We spend so much time looking around us that we forget to notice what already exists close to us - the people, moments, and small constants that quietly hold us together, without requiring us to reach for what belongs to someone else.

When everything is taken personally, it can narrow our view, making growth harder and blurring our awareness of what we still need to learn. But if we shift our perspective, other people’s success can become something else entirely: evidence that what we hope for is possible. Each step someone else takes toward what we desire can serve as a reminder that the path exists—and that there’s still space for us on it.

In the end, nothing is truly being taken away. Everything is personal until we stop mistaking another life’s brightness for the absence of our own.

It’s not physical, but it’s more of a void, something that once had form and that now doesn’t, that makes us feel lost in confusion. Where do we put all the emotions that overwhelm us now? I don’t have an answer, sadly, I wish I knew how I could actually replace all those negative feelings with some positive and joyful ones, but it’s there that it becomes tricky. We fall into the belief that the emptiness must be filled, that if we don’t act fast, the ache will only grow. Yet reaching for anything to seal the gap is often the very thing that pulls us further from healing. Sometimes, trying to fill the void is the most harmful thing we can do. Because the emptiness isn’t a problem to fix—it’s a space meant for truth to rise up, for clarity to take shape, and for us to finally hear the parts of ourselves we once ignored.

And if you’re reading this with that heaviness in your chest, know that you’re not “dramatic” or “too much.” You’re grieving a version of life you thought you’d get to keep. That pain is real.

Imagine your heart as something delicate and shattered — a glass, a plate, a window left cracked by impact. You wouldn’t try to use them right away. Even brushing a fingertip across their uneven edges could draw blood. And if, in that fragile moment, you tried to place something else there — another tender emotion, another hopeful beginning — it would break along with it. A heart with unfinished fractures, with ridges still sharp and unsteady, can’t help but wound what it touches. And opening it too soon, before the pieces have settled back into themselves, only deepens the hurt — both yours and anyone who tries to hold it.

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This is why rushing into new emotions or new people often amplifies our wounds: we aren’t ready to hold them gently, and they aren’t built to withstand our sharp edges. Healing requires honesty about how breakable we still are. And there is nothing weak about being breakable — it simply means you cared deeply. Healing is not about filling the void; it’s the slow, patient tending of the cracks that make your heart feel so heavy. It’s the gentle smoothing of the fractured layers, the quiet care given to each wound until it softens beneath your touch again. Real healing yearns for time, presence, and the courage to sit with discomfort. It’s less about replacing what’s broken and more about learning the language of your own pain, so you can eventually move without flinching.

But that’s not what happens most of the times. We’re drawn to people who carry a hurt that looks a little like our own, to those whose fractures resemble ours. Yet no two breaks are ever the same. The spark we feel is often just the meeting of sharp edges — the places that scrape against each other and create the illusion of connection. And so we try to make it work, try to fill those ledges and coves, and in your infinite attempts to adjust to one another scars, we end up deepening them instead. This is why trauma bonds feel magnetic—they mirror what’s wounded in us. But mirrors don’t heal; they only reflect. And sometimes, they reflect back more than we’re ready to see.

And the hardest part about that friction is how changeable it is—how it shifts with every moment, depending on the way those cracks collide. It’s unpredictable, unstable; it can make you feel invincible one second and leave you in tears the next. That volatility isn’t proof of passion or fate. It’s simply two unhealed hearts knocking against each other, searching for balance where none exists, wearing themselves thin in the process.

Healing doesn’t come from forcing pieces together that were never meant to fit. Healing is allowing the emotions that remain to rise—anger, fear, sorrow—all the ones we’d rather hide. Because feelings that are given space will eventually soften and move, while the ones we bury become part of our foundation, quiet frameworks for future pain.

It’s true that you’ll never feel the same way for someone else. No new person will ever be a replica of the one who left, and they aren’t meant to be. Holding on to that hope only keeps you anchored to a moment that has already passed. If this is what remains after them, why direct your longing toward a return that can’t recreate what once was? Clinging to the past binds you to an old version of yourself, one you’ve already begun to outgrow. Missing someone is human, but shaping your identity around that absence keeps you suspended in place, unable to step into the person you are becoming.

Only time and patience can reveal what you truly need. But to reach that clarity, you must first pause and look closely at what is missing right now. It isn’t a person, it isn’t someone to fill the void, it isn’t joy, or a body, or things you can hold. What your heart truly longs for is a new way of breathing love into yourself—meeting your own needs with tenderness.

Neglecting those gaps only leads you to attract someone who carries the same emptiness, and mixing confusion with unavailability solves nothing. So be patient with yourself. Feel the sadness fully—in your hands, in the sleepless nights, in the quiet cries before sleep, and even in the mornings. Feel it in the meals you cannot eat, in the racing heartbeat, in the hollow spaces that ache.

Your body knows how to heal. It knows how to ground itself in ways more miraculous than you imagine. But to let it, you must not shy away from your own emotions. Let yourself feel them openly, as a child would, unguarded and unashamed. Let the pain move through you, and trust: it will pass.

And in the space that follows, something new—something quiet, steady, and real—will begin to form.

The deep comfort growing from hope that your secrets are not contained in your bare heands only. That hope doesn't stop right at the door of your home, that can in fact grow as reality.

There is a profound sense of ease that blossoms from the assurance that your deepestsecrets are not yours to bear alone. This hope is not confined to the shelter of your home; it has the capacity to evolve into a comforting reality.

There is relief in the mere knowledge that someone else perceives the internal chaos that governs your nights—the looping thoughts you can’t arrest, the difficult emotions you struggle to truly process. They say emotions reside in the body, but my attempts to locate them only surface the ought of feeling, not the sensation itself. I fail to recognize that the outward signs—the sleepless nights, the biting of lips, the plucking of hair, the anxious tapping—are not evidence of a healthy, regulating system.

Yet, someone knows.

Perhaps the simple act of writing (these) letters to strangers is the answer. To commit to paper what we experience, what we fear to feel, and what we mourn. In doing so, we externalize the weight and become fractionally lighter. Even if noone will show up at our door with a hug or a solution. Maybe we just need to not be so scared of our thoughts from the inside.

Giving our terrifying inner thoughts and emotions a name and a face might make them less monstrous. We might finally meet them and find not a giant terror, but a gentle child, looking up at us, more scared than we are. In that moment of recognition, we may realize how much unnecessary suffering we’ve inflicted on ourselves.

I will write these letters to give my emotions a voice, a physical presence. By calling them by their names, they will become familiar. And when the time comes for space and rest, I will simply tell them I am too exhausted to take them in right now. I will let them know they have been here for way too long, and perhaps, for now, it is time for them to go.

How do you like it? Cold, hot, sweet, bitter. There’s an infinite amount of possibilities, but personally, it’s not really about what you drink, but what you do while drinking it. I’m normally a coffee lover, give me an espresso and add a whole cup of nice milk froth - also called a cappuccino - and I’ll be good typing on my computer for whatever my daily tasks ask me to. But if on my desk, my white pages are stained with a clear glare, then my mind is far from being limpid.

On a usual wednesday evening, I would be looking at the structural calculous on my booknote, the greek alphabet playing against numbers on my computer screen, and my mind completely blank. What am I even reading? I re write the same sentence over and over again, till i get frustrated and claim my brains need a break.

I stretch my legs, clutch my hair in a soft dark scrunch, and put my glasses to the side. I slowly walk downstairs, where the kitchen smells like almons and apples - my mum’s cake still warm on the stoves. But even making a tea gets difficult.

It’s not only the sky that’s grey and cold; my head is cloudy too. And when the clock’s ticking 5:35pm, my shoulders clunch in. I pour water in the pan, choose my tea - mint, of course - wisely from the wood box above the microwave, and get my comfort mug from the shelf. And that’s when my fingers trace its surface. There’s nothing particularly special about it. it’s not perfect - the bottom is carved by all the times i put it in my sink and forgot about it. it’s not the prettiest - it has a blend blue logo from a coffee shop i used to go to - but it’s sentimental, and there goes my head; from making a tea to making trips to the past.

When three minutes have passed, i add some milk, the liquid turning to a soft white green tint. I sit down at my desk, my hands heated up by my mug’s warmth; It’s time to open the notebook and get my best pen to write about my worst feelings.

It comes in waves. The urge to use ink to free my thoughts from entangling. I promised myself to do it regularly, but fell short by processing my emotions by doing excercise or by picking up a new creative hobby. But writing? Spelling out words with my hands will always give me a different kind of comfort. It’s that type of clarity needed when things are getting cloudy and fuzzy, and i’ll never give it up.

If I step back and view the larger picture, the answer is probably yes. I know there are paths that would be far harder, so I recognize my good fortune. But was I, in a deep sense, happy? Even with this perspective, the answer wasn’t simple.

I’ve always linked my happiness directly to achieving my goals. I find satisfaction in the targets I’ve accomplished, yet I feel the weight of the ones that remain unfinished.

But how can I find fulfilment along the way? I can’t rely happiness only when big things are involved. We can’t spend out lives relentlessly chasing a future prize while hating the journey to get here. That outlook breeds misery, emptiness and dissatisfaction. On the other hand, expecting to be always happy is just unrealistic. There has to be a middle ground. Life is about balance, but it’s also a skill that requires daily practice. What if we stop the constant “zoom-out” and start focusing on the small moments that actually fill our days?

We often get lost in the overall narrative, believing the simple mantra, “work hard, results will come.” Meanwhile, rest is viewed as laziness. People glamorize “the grind” while rushing through life, not noticing simple pleasures like enjoying a coffee sat at a table, instead, is “cool” to be running to work and multitasking on the way.

We fixate so much on the major goals—working tirelessly, pushing through pain and obstacles—that we neglect the little, tiny things that are part of our daily routine. These are the moments we should truly honor and protect.

It takes patience to stop and listen; stop and look around. Joy is not that difficult to find; Joy appears in simple observations: children hugging their parents tightly; people cheering and smiling at a birthday; a stranger holding the door; a waiter remembering your regular order; a couple sharing a kiss on the street.

What truly shifted for me was realizing how easily I could see happiness all around me. The new question became: How do I cultivate that same feeling for myself? How do I focus on the parts of my own life that will spark a light within me?

I began to reflect: What actually brings me joy? What fills my spirit? What calms me down?

Transcribed as:

• Making a steaming cup of tea on a Sunday afternoon as the sun sets slowly.

• Noticing the postcard my friend sent from Scotland, displayed on my wall.

• Reading a book with quiet piano music playing in the background.

• Eating a pastry that’s still warm while sipping a matcha.

• Having a little bit of time to paint.

• Seeing people offering genuine help to one another.

• Giving compliments to random people (when I overcome my shyness).

• Coming home after a long day of work with a pizza box in my hands.

• The warmth of being hugged by a friend.

• Receiving an unprompted handwritten note.

• Making playlists based on my mood.

And I’d add:

• Cooking my favourite dish after a long stressfull day: pasta all’arrabbiata.

• Going grocery shopping when I don’t crave anything specific.

• Entering stationary shops and find a nice journal (like I don’t have unfinished ones at home yet).

• Receiving a call from my favourite people.

• Taking flights knowing I have staked google map lists to inspire my days.

I finally see it. These things aren’t monumental, yet they make a real difference in how I feel throughout the day. And these are the same things I smile at when I observe the world around me: the way partners at a coffee shop remember each other’s drink orders; seeing someone hand over a bouquet of flowers; a man helping a woman with a stroller get off a train.

Whenever I witness these gestures of pureness and kindness, I’m reminded that love is everywhere. It doesn’t require major accomplishments or “I did it” victory cries. Love is found in the way we talk to and care for one another, in remembering the small parts of our lives that make us happy, and in taking our mental, emotional, and physical health seriously, instead of postponing it for the sake of “achieving.”

We don’t have to appreciate every difficult experience we’ve had, and we won’t love every single minute of our days. But if we focus on the genuinely good parts, the comfort we’ve felt, and the feelings we’ve shared, then maybe life is good, after all.

So yes, I can say everything can be seen as romantic. I love my life. The good, the bad, the unexpected. But most importantly, I love it when I am the one actively taking care of it, because I am the only person who truly knows how to make myself happy, and I need to prioritize that, too.

I’ve always been the person with vivid dreams to share. These visions often served as some form of insight: a new understanding of past events, a quiet direction for the future, or simply captivating, wildly unrealistic stories begged to be discussed. Most often, though, my brain used these moments to give me closure for situations that had weighed on me emotionally - a more gentle goodbye, a light ending to an old chapter, or the sweet resurfing of memories i hadn’t conciously recalled.

We humans dream between three and six times every night, even if we barely remember doing so. In fact, 95 percent of our dreams are forgotten by the time we fully wake up. Still, they are essential; they help develop long-term memory and process both the conscious and unconscious thoughts and experiences we encounter in the (real) world.

The specific night of sleep I want to reflect on fell between October 30th and 31st. I remember the date because for the entire preceding year, my sleep had been terrible. Stress and frustration deeply disrupted my evening schedule, my sleep cycle ‘s rhythm and its effectivness, leaving me tired and depleted throughout the day.

But, as I mentioned, my sleep is thankfully improving. This particular night was definitely one where I had no trouble falling - or staying- asleep. My eyes didn’t open until 8:07am, eight minutes before my alarm was set to go off.

Our brain actively rewires and refines itself during sleep. Dreaming is a powerful way to process the sheer volume of information absorbed during day-to-day life. It brings hidden desires and wishes to the surface, interprets signals from the brain and body, and helps consolidate learning and memory tasks. In essence, the brain continues to work for us even when our body is at rest, continuously developing functions that help us navigate and survive the big, real world.

Waking up from that deep dream state, I checked in with how my body felt. I sat up knowing I couldn’t remember every single detail, but I immediately recognized the emotions it left me as I was slowly drifted back to reality: a complex mix of hope, self-awarness, uncertainty and a slight edge of anxiety.

A lot must have happened in the dream for me to feel so strange. I closed my eyes again, trying to hold onto those fading sesations, hoping to slip back. I began to focus on what I could picture, and a very specific, odd image returned.

I was instantly back in the scene: I was on a journey, escaping from an island shadowed by large grey clouds. I was with a group of people I can’t recognize now, out on the open sea, moving fast. This is where the anxiety came in, along with a sense of hopeful liberation—though from what, I still didn’t know. And then, I saw something in the water.

It appeared suddently, like it had always been there but was only now visible. A wave of relief washed over me, knowing the driver saw it too, meaning we wouldn’t crash. But that wasn’t the whole event. We passed it, hoping to reach our destination quickly. However, in a matter of seconds, my eyes were drawn to it again. I turned to look, and the object seemed to look back. At first, it looked like a giant, wet rock, but I was lucky—or perhaps just insightful enough—to realize it was a tortoise disguised as a massive reef in the middle of the ocean.

I remember turning to the people around me, searching for someone who had also noticed what I had just witnessed, but none of them seemed impressed. They genuinely weren’t seeing what I was.

Naturally, my next step was simple: I searched for the meaning of dreaming about such a strange thing. Google offered its insights:

I didn’t dwell on it much. I was just curious why I would dream of something so large, so out of place, that only I could see. I smiled reading about themes concerning my future, and how I had, in fact, been working on my patience and taking small, deliberate steps toward my goals. It felt like a little sign from my brain that I was heading in the right direction. I closed the tab and moved on to my planned tasks.

And then, something else happened. I received a call from an old boss, asking if I was willing to come back to work for them starting Monday—a three-day notice. I was in shock. I had waited for an answer about that job for two whole months, and nothing happened. At the time, I simply concluded that work wasn’t meant to be, and I could focus more on my studies and my portfolio. A true silver lining, I thought.

I responded that I wasn’t interested, explaining that the time when I was available had already passed. I needed to move on, and my new schedule didn’t allow for a job. I thanked them, and we said our goodbyes.

And that’s when it hit me.

Was I being too impulsive? Money is still important, and experience on my CV is always a plus. I liked the people there. Did I make a mistake? Should I call back?

No, yes, yes, yes, no, no. I went back and forth with myself.

I sat there for a few minutes, thinking about how strange it was to suddenly receive the call I had been waiting for months, and now feel completely different about it. I went from being anxious, hopeful, and sad (constantly checking for a message) to feeling cold, uninterested, and relieved. “A bit reckless,” my mother commented later. “You’re missing a good opportunity.”

Opportunities.

I had heard that word already today. No, I didn’t hear it, I dreamed about it.

I dreamt of “possibilities, opportunities i should take advantage of”.

Was my dream speaking to me before I even faced the situation? Was the tortoise about taking the job? Going back to a 1.5 hour train ride each way to sit at a desk doing something unfulfilling for four hours, only to get home exhausted?

Should I have taken the job? Was that the path I was supposed to follow? Or did the fact that I passed right by the job (the tortoise) and was still safe mean that while it was a possibility, it wasn’t the one I was meant to embrace?

Ultimately, all this leads to the realization that our conscious and unconscious minds are so deeply connected that sometimes we simply see the things we are truly prepared to see. If I were a negative, pessimistic, or fearful person, I would have taken that job immediately, scared of losing a chance or failing my CV. Instead, the optimistic part of me acknowledged the long silence, the sudden, demanding notice, and how unsuitable the job was for my current path.

When I make choices, I inevitably involve my emotions in the decision process. It’s fundamentally human—it’s instinct, it’s a form of survival. It’s fascinating that even people who call themselves “realistic” fall into the trap of their own thoughts, fears, and feelings. It’s an inevitable, primal process. Dreams are a universal experience that push us into a space where we have no real control over the content, the visuals, or the memory. There is a narrative unfolding in which we have no conscious say, and sometimes, that is exactly what helps us make more conscious decisions in the real world.

When I was younger, I found comfort in sleeping in the afternoon to escape my reality, trying to push difficult situations aside. As an adult, that no longer works. While a tortoise disguised as a rock isn’t real, the experience is so much more than that. It’s my brain preparing me for the eventuality that the unexpected will always happen. It shows that what we wish for may take time to arrive, but that doesn’t mean it will still fit our lives. More than anything, it confirms that our intuition holds the answer, and that answer is rooted in noticing patterns from reality and ordering them unconsciously while we sleep.

I may not have taken that specific job, but I now see how the tortoise reflects everything else happening in my life.

The core message aligns perfectly with my current focus: pursuing my studies requires patience and is built upon small, consistent steps. The reward will come from endurance, not haste. Just as the tortoise’s shell hardens as it grows, I am strengthening the boundaries I set for myself. This shell represents protecting my personal space and prioritizing what is best for me, actively avoiding anything that would unnecessarily drain my energy and time. Furthermore, the tortoise, disguised as a rock, truly was a metaphor for something I didn’t actually need—an opportunity that, despite its initial appearance of being stable or solid, was ultimately meant to be passed by.

I am convinced that something larger is coming, something better. And I know this because I was the only one who truly saw the tortoise in the middle of the water, and it was looking at me. My decision was deeply personal, rooted entirely in my intuition and self-awareness. It wasn’t a static rock, as others perceived; it was a creature moving slowly, but steadily, in its own direction, just like me.

I always tell myself to write down my dreams, but I rarely do. This one felt significant. Perhaps it will reveal even more about the future than I can currently imagine.

I had a trip to Paris last week, I had a crush on a boy, and we parted ways on the day I left. I’ve been replaying moments spent together from a different angle; trying to figure what the problem was - wondering if my mind was creating a different imagine then the one my eyes were seeing. But that may never make sense, cause I can’t be in his.

What I do know, however, is that real deep-raw-open communication was missing. If we’ve stayed up until 3am, words still flowing from our lips, was simply because I opened a door to my heart that I felt comfortable with. It wasn’t the trust in him, it was simply my way of being myself.

“I would have never guessed you didn’t feel comfortable talking about your feelings, you seem so open to me” he said.

And I replyed that maybe “it is easier to speak in english; Sometimes, it does seem less difficult; less constructed; more freeing in a language that’s not my own, cause I won’t judge myself for not being able to speak properly.” As a native italian, learning english from tv shows, movies and songs - all I can talk with, is my own - limited - vocabulary.

But i liked it. I liked that he noticed - how openly and vulnerably I was expressing myself. And that feeling stuck with me. Maybe that’s why I liked him so much? Our conversations were flowing, laughters felt genuinely warm, and smiles shaped both of our faces. But what exactly did I enjoy so much that I’m now spending time reminiscing about him?

It’s simple: I had a crush, but what I was seeing were not his true, whole parts, but the ones i was willing to see. They were the qualities I was reaching for within my own head. People may call this potential, but what is it, truly?

It’s our power to envision a better path we could take if we only persued the things we desired. It’s seeing ourselves with the skills of someone else and using that image to motivate our own actions.

I wish I could say I didn’t know, but I did. Somehow, deep down, I knew we wouldn’t work out, and I knew it because I was still aiming for that potential rather than the reality. Why is it so hard to set that hope aside and instead use the strenght we’ve hidden inside, purely out of fear of not being good enough?

Maybe what this boy ultimately did was show me what I don’t want: I don’t want someone living miles and miles away from me who is attached to their job that they constantly overwork themselves. I don’t need them at the gym five days a week, and I definitely don’t want someone incapable of discussing their feelings.

What I’ve been focused on for the past eight months spent talking to this person, is the work I want to put into myself if I wasn’t scared enough to take the leap. I love Paris, and I can’t wait to walk in its streets again. I care about finding a job i’d genuinely love waking up for. I want to make the effort to incorporate more activity into my daily life. And I absolutely reject silence over embracing each other’s fears and hopes about the future.

So, what if this wasn’t really a crush on him, but merely a mirror showing me the parts of myself I need to find the courage to embrace?

Why is it that the more I feel caged, the more I want to create, and the more I'm fulfilled the more my spark of creativity fades?

When I was just a kid, it was the moon, and the sun, and the sea and the mountains speaking the most to me. Nature was the only world I knew, and so the ink or the paint in my hand tried to recreate the physical world around me. When I got older, and the more I got in touch with what the world reflected in me, the more emotions got an impact on what and how I was feeling about my surroundings.

The sea gave me tranquility, but when the wind grew and the clouds got darker, it also gave me a weird sense of strength, that type you can't control, which is irrational and overwhelming. I learnt that two things could be true at the same time, and so I could feel amazed and scared by both simultaneously.

That's how I discovered that my creativity sparked whenever I was feeling two sides of the same thing. Sadness and joy could coexist, and so did fear, love, stress and excitement.

The stronger the feelings, the more ideas got to my head.

But that also taught me that feeling on the edge was kinda the only way that I could let my mind stay in the flow.

Be loved, be rejected; be close and distanced right after.

The thrill of creativity growing from sadness, confusion, distress made me reinvent my thoughts, made me plant new ideas where there was a blank space before.

Sometimes I get scared of it.

The fact that calmness was no longer comforting nor reassuring, that learning to accept emptiness is also difficult and important to be happy. That I won't ever have happiness without tears, and a heartbreak with no smile at the end.

Despite my desire to create and feeling inspired, I have to learn to let go to the constant need to put out something valuable and meaningful at any hour of the day.

We live in a world that demands performance before passion, applause before process. From the moment we begin to create, we are told it must serve a purpose—must be polished, palatable, profitable. Creation no longer springs from instinct but is shaped, filtered, branded. It must be seen, shared, sold. The "how," the "when," the "where"—all must be packaged for consumption.

We are asked not to feel, but to market. Not to explore, but to optimize.

And somewhere in the noise, the artist is lost—replaced by a seller, a strategist, a self-made product dressed in pixels and metrics.

But what joy is there in creating only to be consumed?

This is not creation. This is not inspiration. It is an endless study of trends and timing, a race toward virality. And I’m tired. Tired of chasing the crowd when all I want is to sit with my feelings and let them speak.

Pressure doesn’t make diamonds—it frays the mind. And the more I let stress dictate my rhythm, the more the ideas come, yes, but so does the silence after—the kind that chokes, not calms.

Overworking is not the answer. Authenticity is. It's letting emotion guide the hand that holds the pen. It's allowing stillness to fill the gaps, to give breath to what’s been buried beneath performance. It's giving myself permission to pause, to listen, to feel—and in doing so, to truly create again.

I wanna grow something that will stick with me through tick and thin, capable to be conceived in peace of mind, and I want it to be truth to both myself and my fears, so that once I'm fulfilled, I won't feel the need to dive into my sadness to find myself all over again.

Because maybe creativity isn't just born from pressure or pain—maybe it's a practice of listening.

Of learning to be with myself, whether I'm overflowing or completely still. And if I can create from that stillness, from fulfillment, from peace—then maybe that's where the real transformation begins. Not just surviving the storm, but painting with the calm after it.

Today is a new dawn, where the sun burns brighter than before, as though reclaiming its strength from days gone by. There’s a spark inside me, rekindled after months of slumber. Perhaps it’s the breath of spring, the air tinged with the sweet perfume of jasmine that swirls just outside my door. Perhaps it’s the canvas of spring, its colors painting the green around me, filling me with life. It’s the sight of people strolling with their dogs, scarves fluttering, caught in the playful March breeze.

These days are bathed in sunlight, even when the sky wears its cloak of clouds. The birds fly boldly, carving their path through the gray, but the sun is not only above. It has found its way within me. I feel it in the warmth of smiles, in the glint of eyes, in friends asking, “How have you been?”

How have I been?

And for the first time in so long, I don’t find myself struggling to answer.

As if the feeling of pressure on my shoulders has been released, and i just noticed that. As if I forgot to think about how difficult is to navigate relationships when people are so lost within themselves already.
As if work didn’t give me any stress since i quit.
As if the future isn’t a big question mark pending right above my head, all the time, constantly.

But how come I don’t hesitate? How come I’m not afraid?

“I’ve not been sleeping well, but I’m great!” I answer, my voice light, filled with the joy of knowing it is, in fact, true that I’m ok. Both realizing that I don’t hate where I’m standing, and knowing they are well, too.

It’s a sudden realization, of how much I haven’t been overthinking every single step and overanalised my feelings for the past months. I’m just being; breathing and living. It’s in my will to change, to never settle, to keep reaching forward. It’s in the courage I summon, in the whispers of the unknown, beckoning me to travel, to read, to discover.

Today is a new day, and I feel whole again. I can hardly wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

I once believed that creating art and writing were the only moments I truly escaped the life I was living. From a tender age, I picked up a pencil, and from that moment onward, I never stopped. No joy surpassed the feeling of those first strokes. And so, I sought mastery, forever chasing a perfection that always seemed just out of reach.

I still remember the day my mother spoke a harsh truth: "Painters don’t make enough to survive." She told me that my survival as an artist depended on one of two paths: either become the best, or choose another life.

Naturally, I chose the former. For when you're young, dreams are vast, and every opportunity seems like growth. But as the years pass, the world narrows. You set boundaries around your potential, judging your worth by standards that others impose—colleagues, peers, famous artists you’ve never met, even strangers on the internet with lives you’ll never know.

What I’ve learned is that comparison stifles creativity. But so too does the crushing weight of expectation, the belief that each attempt must outdo the last. Life is not linear. Creativity ebbs and flows with the tides of mood, of weather, of people around us, of stress and joy, of the complex world we inhabit.

How, then, can we expect to surpass ourselves each time? It’s impossible for all forces to align perfectly, for everything to fall into place to make our next creation more magnificent than the last. The process of creation is a winding path, full of missteps. But what I urge you to do is this: try, and fail. Mistakes are not our failures, they are our teachers. Every misstep brings us closer to understanding who we are, what we desire, and what we are truly capable of. Without failure, we cannot move forward.

And so, I failed.

Countless times. I sketched dreadful drawings, distorted portraits, and often tore them apart in frustration. I erased and crumpled, only to begin again. Each time, I promised myself I would do better. Yet, more often than not, my self-esteem buckled under the weight of my own relentless expectations.

Years passed, and when I entered university, I saw it clearly—there were others far more skilled than I. I realized; I had to stop seeking in others what I wanted to find in myself. My journey was my own. I had to hone my craft, to discover the extent of my abilities, to see what I could bring to life that no one else could.

I reframed my perspective, transforming failure into a tool. I told myself that if I could create even one drawing that I could deem decent, that would prove I was capable of doing it again. That I had within me the ability to recreate what had once felt impossible.

I learned to be content with decency. To accept that I didn’t need to be perfect, only authentic. As long as my imagination took shape on the paper, I had created something remarkable. How wondrous it was that I, with my own hands, could bring to life something that had never existed before.

And that was when I truly began to see progress. My lines, imperfect and uniquely mine, told a story no one else could tell. I focused on the details others overlooked. My perspective, raw and unfiltered, became my strength. I understood then that being my own, imperfect self was not a flaw to overcome, but the power I’d been seeking all along.

I will keep creating.

I’ll hate some of what I make, but I’ll love others. And I will revel in the process, knowing that even on my worst days, I have done something worth celebrating. I have created something that will keep the spark of this passion alive.

So yes… be bad at things.

Until you’re decent.

Taking the first step out of the comfort zone, is scary.

When I first had the idea to open my youtube channel, I didn't know where I would end up. When this newsletter is going to launch, it’s going to be the 3rd of December, I’ll be holding a glass of wine celebrating my 26th birthday in a cute bar in London, and I’ll ask myself where this is going to lead me, with a smile on my face, realizing how much I've grown since I blew my candles exactly one year back from today.

The power of expectations

We, as humans, place significant projections on beginnings and endings, often anticipating a specific outcome from our actions. Most of the time, however, reality falls short of our ideals, leading to disappointment. The future remains uncertain, and it's easy to become fixated on desired aftereffects.

When embarking on something new, we often set our expectations so high that we overlook our own skills and abilities to meet those standards. This applies to various aspects of life, whether it's achieving physical or future goals, finding the right partner, securing the perfect house, or pursuing a dream job.

We complain about the lack of time and how fast it passes but still postpone and procrastinate; we set boundaries with those around us and then be the last ones to follow; we’re the first to offer help and then never ask for it.

But why are we really so focused on outcomes? Why is our mind always analyzing, collecting datas, creating schemes when almost everything in our lives is out of our control?

You'll never grasp how profoundly people may view you when they've been shaped by a world entirely different from your own. You'll never uncover that career-changing opportunity awaiting you if you don't submit that application. You'll never experience the love someone is ready to share with you if you don't courageously open your heart. You'll never discover how happy you can be in a new country if you don't take the leap and buy that flight ticket. You'll never unleash your hidden talent for portraits if you don't pick up those pencils and start drawing.

What is it really holding you back?

Aren't you the first one telling your friends to go after something they don't know yet?

Because that's where you need to see yourself: standing in the space between your overthinking and taking action. Not just being present, but seizing the moment with both hands. Perhaps you haven't arrived there yet. Perhaps what you desire is still being crafted, waiting for you on the other side of fear, on the other side of now. Maybe it's not yours yet because you haven't held yourself accountable enough. Maybe you haven't believed in yourself enough to transform it into reality.

Upload that video, send that letter, gift those flowers, send that email—never tell yourself you can't do something. Life is in constantly in motion; the present will soon become the past, and the future will transform into the present. Take that step. Believe that you're not there yet, but you're on your way. You're on the brink of achieving it.

Just begin;

And you'll discover if it's what you're truly seeking. Don't wait and wonder. You possess the power to act, and you should never trade it for the false comfort of avoiding rejection. Rejection is not an end; it's a redirection and a builder of confidence. You may not be there yet, but you will be.

Just start and see!

love,
- s