louminous-ly

[louminous-ly]

what is rotten apple to someone who has already decided you are worth every bite?

“I want you to love me, bruises and all” When Adam bit the apple, it was not rebellion; it was trust. He trusted Eve, loved her enough to ignore what God said. I think about that sometimes. What it means to love someone so much that you would risk everything, even paradise, just because they asked you to. What is heaven to a love like that, anyway? And what is a rotten apple to someone who has already decided you are worth every bite? You? You’re the kind of soul someone would gladly bite into—even with the bruises. Especially with the bruises.

[louminous-ly]

finding inspiration on ordinary days.

Because not every spark comes from fireworks—sometimes, it flickers gently from folded laundry and clean sheets. Have you ever felt that quiet, almost ridiculous sense of joy from something as small as making your bed in the morning? Like, you rise from its tangled chaos of blankets and half-forgotten dreams, only to pull the sheets back into place, fluff the pillows just right—and there it is: a made bed. Not much to anyone else, maybe. But to you? It’s a win. A little monument to the fact that you showed up for the day. That you began. We talk a lot about finding inspiration in the big things—sunsets on mountaintops, love that feels like poetry, sudden breakthroughs, and picture-perfect goals. But I’ve learned to stop waiting for the extraordinary. Instead, I’ve started noticing the way ordinary quietly glows when I pay attention. Like that moment when I catch myself in the mirror and my messy bun—previously resembling a bird’s nest—suddenly looks cute. Or even effortlessly cool. And for a second, my smile. Not because I’m perfectly put together, but because I caught a glimpse of myself being human, alive, moving through the day in my own small, scrappy grace. There’s something deeply grounding about those tiny victories. A peaceful morning, writing in my digital journal. Washing my coffee cup instead of letting it sit all day. Sitting down for five minutes of peace before diving into the chaos. I find inspiration in the smell of warm rice cooking in the afternoon. In the way sunlight slants through my window at 3 p.m., catching the dust midair like magic. In the way my friend texts “made it home safe,” it feels like something sacred. These aren’t just tasks—they’re love letters to myself, scribbled in acts of presence. And these ordinary things—they hum with my life. So maybe we don’t need grand awakenings every day. Maybe we just need to start romanticizing our own little efforts. Maybe inspiration lives in moments we usually scroll past or clean up without noticing. You woke up today. You made your bed. You tied your hair and smiled at the mirror. You are here. You are trying. And that, my friend, is already something beautiful. The magic you’re searching for? It’s probably already in your hands. Or in your blanket. Or your bun. Or your cup of tea. You just have to look again.

[louminous-ly]

love lives here, in me.

(In times when people around me constantly ask if I even have a boyfriend) It’s funny to think that I’ve reached an age where it’s completely normal for people to ask if I have a boyfriend or wonders if do I even have one. Time flies so fast, doesn’t it? One moment, I wasn’t even allowed to have a boyfriend—or even a purely platonic friendship with the opposite sex. Then suddenly, I wake up, and everyone is rushing me to find one so I have someone to bring to gatherings. It’s amusing, ironic, confusing, and sometimes frustrating—but still funny. (lol) It happens almost like clockwork—at family gatherings, during casual conversations, even in passing remarks from people I barely know. “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Why are you still single?” “Aren’t you worried?” As if love is a milestone I forgot to check off. As if my life is somehow incomplete without someone else's last name attached to mine. As if love—real, deep, consuming love—can be rushed, or worse, forced into existence just to satisfy the curiosity of others. But here’s what they don’t ask. They don’t ask if I’m happy waking up to a life I’m building for myself. They don’t ask about the books I’ve read, the places I dream of visiting, the quiet moments that bring me peace. They don’t ask if I’ve loved before and learned, or if I am, in my own way, loving every version of myself as I grow. Because I know love isn’t just about romance. It’s in the way I laugh with my friends until my stomach hurts. It’s in the warm hugs from family, the comfort of knowing I am cherished even without a grand love story to display. It’s in the kindness I extend to strangers, the late-night talks, the small joys, the art of simply being. So the next time someone asks, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I might just smile and say, “I have love in me. And that’s enough.” Because I do. I have love in the way I water my plants like they’re breathing. In the way I laugh too loudly at my own jokes. In the way I remember birthdays. In the way I check on my friends, even if they never ask. I have love in the silence I offer someone who needs to cry. In the warmth I give to strangers I’ll never see again. In the boundaries I now know how to build. And in the soft forgiveness I whisper to the mirror. I’ve stopped treating love like a finish line I need to cross with someone else. Because truth is, I’m already running with it—within me, beside me, through me. And if one day, someone comes along, someone who meets me where I am and adds to the love I’ve already grown, then beautiful. But if not, I will still be full. Because this heart beats with a love that doesn’t need a label or a lover to be real. So when they ask again—curious, insistent— “Do you have a boyfriend?” I’ll simply answer: “I have love in me. And that’s enough.” And it will be the truest thing I’ve ever said.

[louminous-ly]

dad’s 1st death anniversary

For the people who never got the chance to meet my father, and for those who still remember him—this is for you. It has been a year. A full cycle of seasons, a calendar of days that kept turning, even when it felt like time should have stopped. Grief is strange like that; the world keeps moving while I’m still standing in the same spot, trying to make sense of an absence that once was a presence so strong. My dad? He stands tall, with a deep, familiar presence. Handsome? Of course. Though, as far back as I can remember, his face carried the stories of time—pimple marks scattered like constellations across his skin. I never got to see the version of him untouched by them, the teenage boy he once was. But somehow, I know he must have carried the same quiet charm, the same unwavering spirit. To me, he was the best father, though not without his imperfections. He smoked—a habit I never liked. He was a man of extremes—sometimes too quiet, lost in his thoughts, and other times too loud, his voice filling the room like a force of nature. Stubborn in his ways, he carried the weight of tradition, his presence demanding respect, his words etched with authority. But I loved him for it all. He earned that respect—not just as a father, but as a man who stood firm in who he was. His laughter had a way of filling every corner of a room, his silly jokes effortlessly breaking even the heaviest of silences. His stories didn’t just entertain—they built entire worlds, ones I could step into and get lost in. And his presence? It made me feel untouchable, as if nothing in the world could harm me as long as he was near. He was, without a doubt, the best father I could have ever asked for. If life grants second chances, I’d choose to be his daughter all over again. Grief is a peculiar thing—it doesn’t move in a straight line, nor does it obey the passing of time. Some days, it’s gentle, allowing me to remember him with warmth rather than sorrow. I think of his laughter, how it would roll through the house like a familiar melody, or the quiet ways he showed love—the steady presence, the small, unnoticed gestures that meant everything. But then, there are the other days. The ones where grief is not a soft whisper but a crashing wave, pulling me under without warning. It arrives uninvited, in the middle of a conversation, in the hush of a lonely afternoon, or in the spaces where his presence used to be. That’s the cruel irony of loss—it doesn’t ask permission, nor does it care for the world’s expectations. It lingers, unpredictable and relentless, reminding me that love, even in its absence, still holds immense weight. And for those who never met my father, I wish you had. He was the kind of person whose warmth lingered long after he left the room. To those who remember him, thank you. Your memories keep a part of him alive in ways I can’t even explain. I might wear grief like a second skin from then on and moving forward. This is just the way it is. Not a burden, but a testament. A reminder that where there is deep sorrow, there was once even deeper love. And if grief is the price of love, then I will wear it with quiet reverence, moving forward but never forgetting. I love my dad so much it hurts.

[louminous-ly]

it’s 2025, and you still can’t own up to your mistakes?

New year, same old habits. It’s 2025, yet somehow, accountability remains an endangered concept. People change their calendars but not their ways, and somehow, taking responsibility for one’s actions still feels like a rare phenomenon. I am baffled by the fact that we really cannot correct someone who refuses to see anything wrong in what they’ve done. The moment we point it out, they twist the narrative, paint themselves as the victim, or worse—act like it never happened at all. It’s almost like accountability has become optional, an inconvenient truth people would rather ignore. People can craft the most elaborate excuses, weave stories so intricate they could win awards, and point fingers in every direction except the mirror. The art of deflection? Still thriving. The courage to simply say, "I’m sorry, I messed up, and I take responsibility for it"? Practically extinct. Instead, it has turned into a default setting—a shield of indifference wrapped in the words, “This is who I am. Accept it or walk away.” Accountability will only feel like an attack when we are not ready to acknowledge how our behavior harms others. It feels like an attack when we’ve built walls around our mistakes, convincing ourselves that we are always justified and always right. But the truth is, accountability isn’t an enemy—it’s an invitation. An invitation to grow, to reflect, to be better than the version of ourselves that hurts someone else. I always wonder—maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe it’s just easier to point fingers than to stand in front of the mirror and acknowledge the cracks. Owning up to mistakes requires a level of self-awareness that not everyone is willing to face. Denial is comfortable. It wraps around us like a familiar blanket, shielding us from the sting of responsibility. Because, let’s be honest—admitting fault isn’t fun. It means sitting in discomfort, untangling the threads of our own shortcomings, and making peace with the fact that we were somehow wrong. Yet, so many resist it. Instead of listening, they deflect. Instead of owning up, they blame. But here’s the thing: refusing to acknowledge mistakes doesn’t make them disappear. It just buries them under layers of denial, making them even harder to unearth. To be held accountable is not to be shamed, but to be given a chance. A chance to right our wrongs, to mend what we’ve broken, to learn from the moments we wish we could undo. Owning up doesn’t make us weak—it makes us human. It is hard, but it doesn’t have to be cruel. Growth and accountability don’t require self-destruction; they require honesty, humility, and yes—kindness. To ourselves and to the process of becoming better. Because at the end of the day, we are all learning, unlearning, and trying to be a little less of who we were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, the world would be a little less frustrating if more people understood that. A little kindness definitely goes a long way. And maybe, just maybe, if we all led with a little more grace, the world wouldn’t feel so exhausting. So, when someone tells you that your actions hurt them, I hope you listen with a kind heart. Sit with it, no matter how uneasy it makes you feel. Because accountability is not an attack—it’s a mirror. And what we choose to do with our reflection is entirely up to us.

[louminous-ly]

a letter with no address

Dearest stranger I’ll never meet, I don't know your name. I don’t know where you’re reading this from—whether it’s a quiet room where the only sound is the hum of your thoughts or a noisy café where life spills over in conversations and clinking cups. Maybe you stumbled upon these words by accident; maybe you were searching for something—anything—to make sense of how you feel right now. Either way, you’re here. And I want you to know, I see you. Although I am not you and you are not me. We have not lived the same life. Nor will we continue to live the same life. We are simply two perpendicular lines that have intersected in this letter and will continue on their path like the letter X. You and I? We may never cross paths. I don’t know your story, but I know you have one. I will never know about your marriages and children and sorrows and losses; the stories of your wins and wounds; the traces of your existence on Earth. Maybe you’re in the middle of a plot twist you never saw coming, or maybe you’re stuck on a page that feels impossible to turn. I get it. Life has a way of being both beautifully unpredictable and painfully uncertain. However, when your world collapses around you, it will not shake mine. You will die without me knowing, and I will die without knowing you. I won’t mourn for you. Not because I’m petty, my dearest stranger, but because I simply don’t know you. We are strangers connected only by these words, by the silent understanding that, even in our separate lives, we are not as alone as we sometimes feel. Maybe you’re here because you needed to be reminded of that. I may never know your name at all. But, wherever you are, whoever you’ve become—I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re at peace. I hope you find the happiness you deserve. I hope you chase the dreams that scare you. And I hope that, somewhere out there, you know that at least one stranger in this vast, chaotic world is rooting for you. And if, by some strange twist of fate, these words ever find you, I hope they feel like a gentle reminder that at one point, you were seen. You were remembered. You were worth writing about. With all my unwritten words, Someone You’ll Never Meet

[louminous-ly]

dry january: a quite kind of full

I didn’t expect January to unfold the way it did. If there’s one word that perfectly captures it, it’s dry—and not just because I’ve sworn off alcohol (though that too, lol). Kidding aside, January arrived with no grand entrance, just a quiet knock at my door. It's only been a month, yet it feels like so much has happened— and at the same time, so little. January tends to be that way, I suppose—feeling both like a fresh start and an uphill climb. A strange mix of slow days and fast changes, of waiting for things to pick up while also wondering how the first month of the year flew by. Maybe I didn’t expect it to turn out this way. Maybe I expected more—something grand, something monumental. But life doesn’t always work like that, does it? It moves in its own unpredictable rhythm, rarely giving us what we anticipate. Or maybe I never expected anything at all, and the real surprise is that nothing actually happened. Funny, isn’t it? How we sometimes brace ourselves for impact only to be met with silence. How we expect fireworks but get a quiet sky instead. And I think that’s the beauty of it—learning to sit with the stillness, finding meaning in the moments that don’t scream for attention. My January is full of slow mornings and deep exhales. Full of small victories that only my mom and I hold close, like quiet secrets between kindred souls. Whispered reflections that my journal cradles in ink-stained silence, understanding me in ways spoken words never could. Full of learning that not every month needs to be groundbreaking to matter. Maybe dry isn’t just about the absence of something. Maybe it’s about clearing space, about detoxing not just the body but the mind. Maybe it’s about stepping back, taking things in, and allowing myself to just be—without the usual distractions. So here’s to a January that was, in every sense, dry yet full. A month that reminded me that sometimes, less is more. January was not loud, not extravagant, not overflowing with grand gestures. But it was real. It was felt. And that’s the kind of fullness that truly matters to me.

[louminous-ly]

24: suddenly you're older now

“I know more than I ever have And yet I know nothing at all.” -Niki For the second time, I find myself referencing Niki's soulful song and one of my all-time favorites, "24." Because just like that—suddenly, I’m 24 and I can't help but feel a wave of emotion washing over me. One moment, I’m blowing out candles on my 18th birthday cake, feeling invincible. Then I blink, and suddenly, I’m here. Maybe it’s just our generation, but there’s something about this stage of life that feels distinctly different. I feel like 24 is a kind of awakening. I’ve seen some things, felt some things, and lost some things. I am no longer the person who moved through life with reckless abandon, but I am still figuring out what it means to live intentionally. Dreams feel closer yet more complicated. I’m old enough to see the path ahead but wise enough to know it’s not a straight line. I’m old enough to recognize the effort it takes to move forward and wise enough to know there are no guarantees—not even for those who try their hardest. Ambition hums steadily in my chest, urging me to reach for something greater, to pursue the life I’ve envisioned for myself. It’s a thrilling kind of yearning, one that fills me with purpose. But alongside it lingers apprehension, a quiet fear of the unknown. What will “more” demand of me? What will it cost? Will I lose parts of myself along the way—parts I’ve fought so hard to protect? And then there’s the mirror—both the one hanging on the wall and the one hidden in my thoughts. It catches me off guard sometimes, the way mirrors do, offering up a glimpse of the person I’ve grown into. “Is this who I thought I’d be by now?"Sometimes, the reflection matches my dreams and achievements, and I feel a small swell of pride, a quiet yes. Other times, it doesn’t—leaving me in the company of what-ifs and not-yets. Either way, I’m learning to make peace with the reflection. I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I’m older now—not old, but undeniably older. It’s a peculiar kind of awareness, one that feels heavier and lighter all at once. For the first time, I truly feel like an adult. Not just in the technical sense of age or responsibility, but in the quiet realization that life is no longer just about dreaming—it’s also about doing, and sometimes, undoing. Still, there’s a part of me that clings to the remnants of youthful audacity. The part that believes in spontaneous adventures, in chasing the impossible, and in daring to exist unapologetically. It’s not something I’m ready to let go of—and maybe I never should. That spark, I’ve learned, is not something to outgrow but to integrate into this new chapter. Growing older isn’t just about adding years; it’s about adding layers to who I am—layers of wisdom, of lessons learned, of memories cherished. It’s about realizing that even as I evolve, parts of me will remain constant. It will be a year of duality: equal parts of curiosity and caution, excitement and reflection. It’s not about having everything figured out, but about embracing both the certainties and uncertainties, holding space for growth and gratitude, and remaining open to the endless possibilities of who I can still become. Cheers to 24! I still want my dog, my friends, my mom, and my dad. Constants remain untouched by time's hand. (Ifykyk :>)

[louminous-ly]

page break

This year, I’m committing to something I’ve eagerly wanted to pursue: writing shorter than longer ones, intentional pieces. Whether it’s book or movie reviews, creative blogs, or reflections on life, you can expect more from me this 2025. My goal is to post twice or even three times a month—or at least once a week. Schedule? Every Sunday night! Writing and reading have always been my refuge from the noise of the world. They ground me, inspire me, and help me reconnect with myself. I’m thrilled to be starting the year with clarity and focus. Moreover, it'll be the year I’ve chosen to be deliberate about my passions. No more chasing distractions or wasting precious time. No more aimless scrolling on social media apps and dating apps; no more impulsive decisions—financially or emotionally; or giving energy to those who fail to respect themselves or others. This year, every choice will carry intention and kindness. Live, laugh, and love! Ps. This wasn’t written with an audience in mind, but if you’ve found your way here, welcome! Thank you for stopping by. I’d love for you to stick around; maybe even create an account and share your thoughts on my posts.

[louminous-ly]

the first man I love and the first man who broke my heart.

There’s a universal truth tucked away in all of us: the first man we ever love is often the one who shapes the way we see the world. For me, that man was him—my dad.

As my father’s only daughter, I was raised to love and live in extremes. My childhood felt like a paradox—equal parts sunshine and storm. As far back as I can remember, I feared him, the embodiment of the stern, traditional father whose presence commanded respect and whose words carried the weight of authority. But as I grew into a woman, my perspective shifted. The fear gave way to understanding, and the walls he built to protect me began to make sense.

"I don’t want a daughter." This statement shaped the foundation of my childhood—a phrase that existed even before I did. My dad explained it, not out of disdain, but out of fear. “I don’t know what I’d do if something bad happened to you,” he would say, his voice heavy with protective resolve. “I could kill for you,” he’d add, as if his love and fear were two sides of the same coin. These words cast a long shadow over my teenage years, turning them into a battleground of curfews and permissions. I remember kneeling in front of him, pleading to attend a simple sleepover, only for him to firmly say no. His reasoning? “If something bad happens, I will kill them.” His unwavering belief that harm was always lurking confused me. At the back of my mind, I couldn’t understand why he always assumed the worst. Looking back, it wasn’t just control; it was his love—an intense, flawed, and overwhelming kind of love. One that struggled to let go of the fears that came with raising a daughter in a world he couldn’t completely shield me from. To live in a world that’s cruel, one he desperately tried to shield me from, hoping to keep me safe from harm. But little did he know, he would become the very source of the pain I would carry. His absence, his departure too soon, left me with a wound deeper than any man in this world could have inflicted. The man who vowed to protect me became the one who would break me. My dad’s presence felt like the sun—warm, steady, and unwavering. I admired everything about him. His silly jokes and laughter could fill a room, his stories painted entire worlds, and his mere presence made me feel invincible. My love for him ran deeper than words could express, woven into every memory and moment. What once felt intimidating became a cornerstone of strength, and I embraced him—not just as my father but as the beautifully imperfect man who shaped my world. He’s my everything, and my benchmark for what love should look like. But love, I’ve learned, isn’t always without cracks. Sometimes, the same hands that taught you to be brave unintentionally teach you to hurt. To be honest, this feeling is entirely new to me. It’s the first time I’ve lost someone so deeply cherished. I never truly understood the weight of mourning until it came crashing down on me with my dad’s passing. The longing, the yearning, and everything in between—it’s a relentless ache. There was a moment that hit me like a cold slap of reality, a stark reminder that he’s truly gone. I was watching a military movie—my dad’s favorite genre, and naturally, mine too. The film was *Sisu*, a solid 10/10 in my book. As the credits rolled, I instinctively said out loud, “I’ll tell my dad to watch this movie.” And then it struck me like a tidal wave—he’s no longer here to share this with.

I wear grief like a second skin now. It clings to me, tighter than love ever could. It is invisible, stitched into my skin, but it is always there. It presses against every joyful moment, every time I try to feel something good, reminding me of the void underneath. No matter how much love or joy finds its way into my life, there’s always a quiet void lingering just beneath the surface—a gentle ache that never truly fades, whispering of what’s missing. I’ve tried to release it, to set it free, but the truth is, I don’t know how. It feels like the last fragile thread tying me to certain memories, the only way to stay connected to the one who is no longer here. Letting go feels like losing him all over again.

And in these delicate moments, I came to understand that perhaps there is no hope for complete healing, only the quiet acceptance of what lingers. Legacy of love and loss—what remains when someone you cherish is gone. Yet, amidst the ache, I am reminded of the gift he left behind: the most wonderful mom I could ever have.

Ps. I needed to put this into words before the year comes to a close. And if you’re reading this, I want to thank you. You are among the few who will understand that the first man I ever loved, the first love of my life, is no longer here.

[louminous-ly]

if love finds me, i want love that mirrors mine

Just the thought of unbalanced love cuts deep—a love where the depth of your emotions is met with shallows, where the energy you give dissipates into a void. It’s like pouring your soul into a vessel with no bottom, never feeling the fullness of reciprocation. And I’ve come to a quiet resolution: I will not embrace a love that doesn’t meet me where I am. If it doesn’t reflect the depth of what I offer, I simply don’t want it. For so long, I believed love was about giving without limits, that love was purely a feeling—a spontaneous, magical force that swept away all doubts. I thought respect, understanding, and harmony would naturally follow because that’s what love does, right? Then, my friend shared a different perspective with me, claiming love isn’t just a feeling but a decision. She explained how love often requires compromise, accepting flaws, and choosing to stay despite imperfections. “Even if he ignores my boundaries, raises his voice instead of speaking calmly, or repeatedly hurts me in ways I’ve already addressed, I will stay because I love him,” she said confidently. I couldn’t agree. “So you endure disrespect, disregard, and pain because you choose to love him?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “That’s my decision—to love him even when I already see his worst sides.” In that moment, I realized our definitions of love were worlds apart. And her version of love was not mine. Self-sacrifice disguised as romance is not love for me at all. To me, love is not a transaction where I endlessly negotiate for kindness or plead to be treated right. It’s not a battle to convince you to see my worth or meet my needs. Love is a dance—a mutual rhythm, an unspoken harmony our hearts create together. It’s not about settling for pain disguised as commitment. It’s about moving as one, you and me stepping in sync, cherishing and uplifting each other. Love, in its truest form, feels safe. It’s respectful, nurturing, and balanced—a place where flaws are acknowledged but never weaponized, where communication heals instead of harms. True love doesn’t wound; it doesn’t bring sorrow. Love is never a source of suffering—it’s a sanctuary where our soul feels safe. This isn’t about pride or setting unrealistic expectations; it’s about understanding the way my heart loves. My love isn’t a fleeting emotion; it’s a force of nature. It’s the kind of love that nurtures, that sees the beauty in flaws, that stays steady in storms. It’s a love that doesn’t demand perfection but values effort, that doesn’t shy away from vulnerability but embraces it fully. And if you cannot meet me there, in the depths where love is raw and real, then I will not ask you to wade in waters you cannot swim. Because to accept a love that doesn’t meet me halfway would mean dimming my own light and silencing the voice that tells me I deserve more. It would be settling for a connection that leaves me yearning rather than fulfilled. And so, I choose differently. I choose to honor the love I offer, and to cherish the way I give myself wholly. I won’t ask for someone to meet me in the depths—he must already be there, unafraid of the vastness and willing to explore its wonders with me. Until then, I’ll continue to pour this love into the spaces that deserve it: into myself, into the things that inspire me, and into the people who truly value it. Because love should elevate and empower, not diminish or deplete. The love I accept must reflect the depth, the passion, and the sincerity of what I give. Anything less simply isn’t love at all. A love that mirrors mine—that’s the love I seek, the love I’ll wait for, the love I’ll never compromise on.

[louminous-ly]

i'll do anything for peace

In the hustle and bustle of our lives, peace often seems like an elusive dream, a distant shore we yearn to reach. We strive for success, chase dreams, and juggle countless responsibilities, all while longing for that serene sense of calm. But what if I told you that peace isn't a destination, but a journey? From an early age, I realized that the calmness within my spirit was my most cherished feeling. The very first time I felt it, I knew I would do anything and give up everything to maintain that serenity. I vividly recall that moment in 2018—one of my busiest years as a student. My family attended an event without me because I didn't want to miss class. For a few hours, until evening, I was left alone. Little did I know that in those solitary moments, I would encounter a profound experience I never knew I truly needed. The quiet of our home allowed me to look inward. At the time, I didn't have a word for it, but the experience was life-changing. During those three late-night hours, reading, journaling, and blasting music, I discovered that peace was the single most important thing to me. I feel as though, after that moment, the foundation for me was laid, and my fantasy of peace ran rampant without limits all throughout my head. Though I lacked an understanding of how life's experiences shape us, I often found myself in situations where my peace was deliberately shaken or stripped away for various reasons. Yet, in the depths of my mind, I knew peace would always remain my ultimate goal. But peace isn't just found in quiet moments; it's also in the choices we make. I've learned to let go of things that disrupt my inner harmony—negative relationships, toxic environments, and the relentless pursuit of perfection. It hasn't been easy and was never easy, but in choosing to prioritize my well-being, I've discovered a new strength, a resilience that empowers me to face life's challenges with grace. The most profound lesson I've learned on this journey is the importance of self-compassion. I’ve made peace with my imperfections, forgiving myself for past mistakes and embracing my flaws. It's a continuous process, but in treating myself with kindness, I've found a deeper sense of peace that no external validation could ever provide. I do not sit and rest in pits surrounded by tension and unnecessary drama. I do not lay my head down beside people who mistreat me or fail to value my presence in their lives. I move until I find a safe place to sit. I walk away until I find a moment of solace. I move away until I find a place that has a positive foundation, one that amplifies whatever joy I've cultivated on my own. Time and time again, I lean on the understanding that a beautiful life can only be acquired when you make beautiful choices and decisions rooted in a desire for peace, which are the most beautiful of all. This is our era to choose peace over everything so that we can be everything to ourselves and to those who rely on us. Seek peace in the quiet moments, in the choices you make, and in the way you treat yourself and others. Remember, peace isn't a distant shore—it's a journey, and every step you take brings you closer to the tranquility you seek. It's not about escaping the world, but about finding harmony within it. It's about creating a life that aligns with your values, that nurtures your soul, and that allows you to live fully and authentically.

[louminous-ly]

the art of accepting and letting go

"I clung to denial, but truth’s whisper grew louder until I could no longer ignore its call." Gazing back, I realize I was constantly juggling multiple responsibilities—studying, working, and embracing each duty that arose. For a time, I thrived, buoyed by passion and the joy of doing it all. I felt a deep sense of purpose, weaving meaning into the world and those around me, fulfilling the sacred need to be needed. But then, the music eventually faded. The sense of purpose waned, my efforts seemed to vanish into the void. I was burnt out, a flame flickering on the edge of darkness. I clung to denial, but truth’s whisper grew louder until I could no longer ignore its call. For years, I was "that" girl—consistently striving, adeptly multitasking, balancing life with grace and precision. I’ve been clinging to my existence with all my strength. Imagine holding onto a rope with all your might, your hands burning with the effort— haunted by past regrets, unfulfilled expectations, lingering resentments. The more I hold on, the more it hurts. But now, at last, I've taken my rest. Two weeks—I was granted two precious weeks. In those two weeks, I learned to accept and let go, unburdening myself from the weight of what I could not change. I have finally released my grip, and a wave of relief washes over me. I opened up space for new experiences, new joys, and new growth. It’s like clearing out a cluttered room, making space for light and air to flow in. The room, once stifling and chaotic, becomes a sanctuary of peace and clarity. The pain subsides, and my hands are free to embrace new possibilities. I now grasp that life is an unending odyssey, a tapestry of moments woven from the threads of our experiences, emotions, and choices. Among these threads, one gleams with quiet significance: the art of letting go and accepting. It’s a lesson that life teaches us in the most unexpected ways, and with it comes an unparalleled sense of relief and acceptance. Letting go is not an end; it’s a beginning. It’s the start of a journey towards a lighter, more mindful existence, where we can breathe deeply and live fully. Allow yourself to be fully present. Engage with life as it unfolds, savoring each moment without the burden of the past or the anxiety of the future. A dance of balance, where you learn to move gracefully with the rhythm of life, rather than struggling against it. Slow down, take a deep breath, and in time, may we all find the true essence of peace and the unspoken relief of simply being.

[louminous-ly]

an ode to my mother, on mother’s day

While growing up, I believed strongly that an individual could lead a fulfilling life independently. I held the perspective that one could survive on their own without needing anyone else. This belief was influenced by my mother, who demonstrated self-sufficiency. However, as I matured, I realized that, contrary to my initial stance, I deeply depended on my mother, and accepting this reality proved challenging. This realization prompted me to reassess my notions of weakness and vulnerability. Despite previously thinking that independence was achievable for everyone, I found myself grappling with an unshakeable need for my mother's presence in my life. Reflecting on it, I can't believe I ever imagined I could navigate life without my mom's presence. Without her, I am but a hollow vessel, my endeavors rendered devoid of purpose and significance. "Mommy" was the first word I uttered in this world. She was the first person with whom I shared my heart, the first to know who broke it, and the first to cherish it. It's strange to realize that my mom has known me my entire life, yet I only met her when she was already forty. Growing up, I often found myself curious about her childhood, teenage dreams, and even her first kiss. I have been asking her more questions about her life before she had me because the older I get, the more I want to know about my mom as a person rather than as my mom. Things she loves, things she loved, dreams she has, dreams she had. I often tell people that, despite any misfortune in my life, I hit the jackpot by being born to my parents, especially my mother. The longest, strongest, and most vital relationship and friendship in my life belong to the woman who gave me life. I sometimes tell my mom that perhaps my true purpose in life is to know and love her. I may never understand what it means to be a mother, but I do know the depth of being loved by mine. She embodies selflessness, kindness, and unparalleled wisdom. I journey through life with the confidence that even if everything crumbles, I have someone steadfastly behind me, ready to catch me no matter what. She has cradled my broken pieces, dried my tears, and mended me countless times. Her forgiveness knows no bounds, and her heart spans oceans, always reaching out to me, the anchor to which I will forever return. She understands my deepest desires and knows what truly makes me happy. Every change in my life has been shared with her, and I wish to share my entire life with her, so she can experience the life she never had the chance to live. The life she vowed I would never endure, filled with sorrow and despair. And if I were ever granted the opportunity to proclaim my boundless love for my mother to the cosmos, I would shout it with unbridled fervor.

[louminous-ly]

procrastination, aspiration, and a person.

Within the depths of my aspirations lies the yearning for success and accomplishment. At the heart of procrastination lies fear—fear of failure, and fear of success. I have been questioning myself: do I opt for the smoothest route or confront the agony I so desperately wish to swiftly vanish? Procrastination—a craft I've seemingly perfected—won't inch me any closer to securing my license; I know all too well. It's a route devoid of productivity and success. The past few days have been so challenging, prompting me to entertain the idea of stepping away because it's really taking a toll on my mental well-being. The truth is, I've been feeling incredibly demotivated lately, to the point where I've been unable to concentrate on my studies. I've been going through the motions, but deep down, I know I'm not fully engaged. Despite my earnest attempts, progress feels elusive. Last Saturday, I finally caught up with Life, after a long time apart after college. She kindly lent me her board exam materials, and I was deeply touched. I even felt the urge to shed tears of gratitude, yet I resisted; after all, why risk smudging my makeup with mascara that wasn't waterproof? Putting jest aside, her guidance kindles a spark within me to maintain consistent review. She succeeded in lifting me back onto my feet. Like a stone cast into a tranquil pond, the support of one person has the power to create ripples of positive change in our lives. Their words of affirmation, a melody of belief, echo our worth, spurring us on to achieve the greatness of our dreams. I’m grateful enough to have someone who gracefully reminds me of the silver linings found in life's struggles. Gratitude is indeed a powerful antidote to despair. Good news is, I've established a steady routine now. Just in the span of a single day, reuniting with a friend breathed new life into my spirit, procrastination fled from sight and igniting a fiercer aspiration within me.

PS. Hi, Life, my dearest. Should you cast your eyes upon these words, understand that my love spans every stage of my existence.

[louminous-ly]

suddenly, you're older now.

I randomly asked a stranger for a song recommendation from their favorite artist, and they suggested "24" by Niki. It turned out to be a great song, especially the first two lines, making it one of my favorites. Its timeliness struck a chord, resonating when you've lost track of time, only to realize you've grown older, reflecting on the experiences with your loved ones, friends, and family. “I know more than I ever have. And yet, I know nothing at all”. This particular line has become my favorite because, even amidst the vast landscape of adulthood and our growing familiarity with the world around us, there remains a haunting sensation of uncertainty. It speaks to the enduring paradox of our journey through life, where despite accumulating years of wisdom and insight, we are perpetually humbled by the realization that there is always more to learn, more to understand, and more to explore. "24" echoes my experiences at 23. Funny, isn’t it? Just when you feel like you have everything figured out, life throws you a curveball, leaving you feeling adrift. You thought you had a clear path ahead, but suddenly, you find yourself questioning everything. Whether it's the career you once pursued with fervor or the passion you were eager to share with the world, even the dreams of the future, like the boy you thought you would marry at the age of 28, suddenly feel uncertain. All at once, my desires have shifted from what they were at 22. And that’s fine. I still want my dog, my friends, my mom, and my dad. Constants remain untouched by time's hand.