Category: Observations

  • The Milk Moustache Dilemma

    Drinking a glass of cold, full-fat milk right after eating milk chocolate logically sounds pointless. But it feels like a necessity, like the milkier it is, the better. I never understood the reluctance adults seem to have toward milk, as if drinking it past the age of 12 is somehow an act of rebellion. Somewhere along the line, most adults traded in milk moustaches for coffee cups, lattes, and matcha. But who decided joy was supposed to come with a caffeine kick?

    At some point, some people bought into the idea that adulthood should taste bitter. Black coffee at 7 a.m., red wine at 7 p.m. as if seriousness could be sipped. Maybe milk feels embarrassing because it’s too pure, too playful, too “unserious.” Maybe it isn’t the milk itself most adults avoid, but the vulnerability of being seen enjoying something so simple.

    Or maybe milk is just a personality test: if you’re still happily drinking it at 40, chances are you’ve kept a childlike innocence intact. If you’ve sworn it off, maybe you’ve accidentally mistaken taking life seriously for being a grown-up and your playful side has already jumped out the nearest window. 

    So the question isn’t whether milk is childish. It’s whether we’ve mistaken self-denial for sophistication. Maybe adulthood isn’t giving things up at all. Maybe it’s letting yourself keep them, enjoying all the simple options life has to offer, even if it leaves you with a moustache.

  • Infinite Mirrors

    The universe is basically a very dramatic mirror. What you see depends entirely on the angle you’re holding your life at, the filter on your mood, and whether you’ve slept enough. History repeats itself – especially if you haven’t done your homework – and sometimes the echoes are so literal they feel like bad rewrites of a play you thought you’d left backstage.

    Case study: dogs.

    My grandparents had a husky. I named her Happy because, if you’re going to rescue something, you might as well give it optimism as a name. She arrived like an accident of fate, not a purchase. Later we had a tan hunting dog who refused to leave us that we had no other choice but to take him in. One Christmas, Happy nearly died. I was a teen, and in that small, ridiculous human way, I used my Christmas wish on her healing. Months of illness turned to recovery, and she got a third chance at life; rescued off the street, loved, and then loved again.

    Fast-forward years. Another husky rescue; Alex. He already had a name. Another tan hunting dog that successfully got himself adopted because he refused to leave. Alex got attacked. Untreated wounds became infection; he fell ill. It stopped being coincidence and started to look like a pattern; a repeating riff on a melody I recognized but had no sheet music for.

    At my parents’ place, another rescue who found us by herself, injured a leg during the same patch I was limping. This March, apparently, was Injury Season. Or perhaps it’s simply that the world hums in patterns, and sometimes the hum reaches everyone within earshot.

    Look at the weather. Stormy weeks mirror stormy moods. Clear nights feel like reconciliations with life. Stars pop on like tiny agreement notices, saying, Yes. You are still part of this. Nature mirrors our bodies, our feelings, our odd little crises. We borrow metaphors from it because evolution handed us the original instruction manual: watch a river and you’ll understand flow; watch a tree and you’ll learn rootedness.

    We are connected: not in a platitudey, inspirational-poster way, but in a slow, undeniable choreography of cause and echo. If you stop for even a minute, and you start noticing, you’ll find more mirrors than you have in your bathroom cabinet.

    Sometimes the reflections are gentle: a breeze on a balcony that makes you remember lying on your childhood roof naming cloud animals (fox! swan! very questionable whale). Sometimes they are cinematic: you feel like you’re watching your life from a balcony above it: a passive observer in a movie you wrote but forgot your lines for. Those dreamlike moments are not glitches. They’re the universe handing you a high-def still of the pattern: pause, study, understand.

    There are people who minimize mirrors in their life (metaphorically and literally, some of them hate selfies). I get it. Maybe mirrors are inconvenient if you’re not ready to adjust your hair or your narrative. But pretending mirrors aren’t there doesn’t stop the reflection. It just postpones the conversation.

    So what if we accepted that we come from invisible roots above and below that tie us to the soil, the stars, and everything in between? What if the planet is one enormous organism and we’re polite bacteria? (Philosophy aside: I like the imagery.) If we stop treating daily life like a to-do list and start reading it like a novel, there’s more meaning than we usually allow ourselves to see between the lines.

    The point isn’t mystical showboating. It’s noticing: the feather on your path; the way a dog’s eye holds you and remembers you months later; the way your limp matches other people’s (and your parents’ dog’s that lives 1’500km away) ; the way a chance conversation solves a problem you didn’t know you had. These are small miracles disguised as coincidences.

    So maybe the work is simple and impossible at the same time: observe more, judge less, and loosen your grip on the wheel. Float a little. Let life look back at you. If dreams have been whispering the script all along, perhaps reality is only waiting for you to show up and read it.

    And if you’re still unsure. Try the dog test. Rescue one, watch how history and heartbeat rearrange themselves, and then tell me the universe isn’t excellent at mirrors.

  • Labels and More Labels

    Twin flames. Soulmates. Lightworkers. Starseeds. DFs, DMs… The internet has turned into a spiritual alphabet soup. The deeper you dig, the more labels you find. It’s basically like googling a headache and suddenly discovering you’ve got a brain tumor.

    Humans have this relentless need to label everything. Introvert, extrovert, ambivert, and now ortrovert? Healers, psychics, mediums… At some point, it starts sounding less like self-discovery and more like an HR department from another galaxy.

    But here’s the kicker: some connections don’t need labels. They’re just it. I’m me, you’re you, we already have names. Do we really need to slap on a nametag too? At the end of the day, we’re all just particles colliding in the same human experiment.

    And then there’s the “one great love” theory. Some say you only get one. Some say two. Either way, it sounds suspiciously like the rules of a board game no one agreed to play. The truth? Great love isn’t always fireworks and epic ballads. Sometimes it’s subtle. A smile you didn’t expect. Healing you didn’t know you needed. Or finally knowing what you want in life after a five-year detour through chaos, heartbreak, and questionable decisions.

    So maybe the point isn’t the labels at all. We don’t call ourselves surfers after one wave, or hikers after one trail. Our hobbies don’t define us, so why should our labels? Especially when some people collect them like medieval kings collected titles “Duke of This, Lord of That, Keeper of the Gridlines, and Occasional Reiki Practitioner.”

    Maybe the real trick is to embody who we are, let it evolve, and not take any of it too seriously. To stop over-analyzing and start floating; like we’re drifting in a river, letting the current take us.

    Because at the end of the day, labels may try to tell us what we are. But only we get to decide who. And in the end, no label ever defined us better than this: human, just trying to figure it out. 

  • Intuition: Not for the Faint of Heart

    Some men are natural liars, manipulators, attention-seekers. And that’s fine… as long as they know which territory they’re entering.

    Intuitive women? We don’t miss much. We feel it. We see it. Sometimes we say nothing. Sometimes we’ll call it out. But most of the time, we keep our silence because we’ve seen how that story ends: gaslighting, accusations of being “crazy,” our own intuition turned against us.

    We’re learning to trust ourselves. We don’t need your chaos to doubt our clarity. We know when something is off. We feel it in our bones. And if you try to gaslight us… well, congratulations, you just picked a battlefield where the other side has radar.

    So here’s a tip for lying, manipulative men everywhere: if your superpower is deception, go find someone who can’t see through it. Because with us? We’ll be anxious, and the drama will always be on you. And honestly… we’ll still get on with our lives, lessons integrated, peace intact, while you scramble to explain yourself to the only person who actually matters: you.

    Intuition isn’t a weakness. It’s a shield. And if you don’t respect that, you’ll be watching from the sidelines while the women who feel everything from miles away thrive anyway, with the universe backing us.

  • Terms & Conditions of a Daydream

    on daring to dream when reality doesn’t match our expectations (yet).

    Every day we hit accept.

    Cookies on websites. That it’s raining when we wore a summer skirt. That our hair will frizz, no matter how much serum we convinced ourselves to buy. That the night we’re supposed to look our best, the universe hands us drizzle, bad lighting, and an unplanned walk to dinner without an umbrella.

    We accept reality as it is. That’s grown-up life.

    But here’s the paradox: while we’re practicing all this day-to-day acceptance, we’re also daring. Daring to dream of the sunny apartment with hanging house plants and the terrace with a view. Of turning thirty on a Friday with a rooftop day-dance in the city we want to live. Of “window-shopping” motorcycles we don’t own yet, secretly knowing one day we’ll be taking switchback mountain roads like it’s second nature. Of surfing the waves while practicing on the balance board. Of one day cruising along the beach paths, surrounded by palm trees on the surfskate.

    We stroll through streets we feel like we’ve spent lifetimes wandering, dare to learn a new language, and discover new places in hopes that one day we’ll be dining there with the people we love. We spend hours “day-dreaming” aka. visualising the life we want.

    So, where’s the line? When does acceptance stop being surrender, and start becoming complacency? When does intuition-fueled dreaming turn into actual action?

    The truth is: we’ll never feel fully “figured out.” There’s no email that lands in your inbox saying, Congratulations! You now know exactly what you want, please proceed to checkout.

    What happens is this: the dream keeps circling back. It shows up in different forms; through songs, people you meet, places that tug at you, the bike engines you hear before you see them. And at some point, dreaming stops feeling like fantasy and starts feeling like oxygen. That’s when you know it’s not just “a nice idea.” It’s a pull.

    And the only thing left to do is accept that too. Accept that you’re never going to be 100% sure. Accept that intuition doesn’t come with guarantees. Accept that action always feels a little premature: until you take it, and realize the leap was the point all along.

    So maybe the real question isn’t how long until we take action? Maybe it’s how long do we want to keep pretending we’re not ready?

  • Congratulations, you raised your vibration. But how do you keep it?

    In the spiritual world, “raising your vibration” sounds like a permanent prize; like once you’ve done the yoga, the therapy, the shadow work, and maybe bought the overpriced sage, you get to live in eternal bliss. Birds wake you up. Candles glow just right. Everyone smells like bergamot.

    Except in reality? You wake up not to birdsong, but to a jackhammer outside your bedroom window. Your zen is blasted away by your neighbor’s LED floodlights, or the teenager upstairs practicing his nightly setlist of Italian R&B. Suddenly, your highly-tuned “spiritual gifts” (like being sensitive to smell) feel less like a blessing and more like a superpower no one asked for, especially on a sweaty, un-air-conditioned metro.

    And just when you think you’ve found a way to cope, every song, every TV show, every random conversation reminds you of that person. The one you do not want to remember. The universe seems to have gotten the memo wrong, and instead of delivering signs from your soulmate, it’s recycling reminders from someone you’d rather delete from your memory. 8 months in a row now. Seriously? I thought I did all my processing, healing and purging universe, what more do you want from me?

    They say you can’t control situations, only your reactions. Which sounds easy in theory, until your “reaction” involves getting annoyed out of your zen mode into your noise-canceling earplugs at 2 a.m.

    So what do you do? You adapt. You buy the eye mask. You turn up the music. You learn that keeping your vibration high doesn’t mean floating above it all like some celestial goddess – which by the way, I did at some point. Floaty had become my middle name, until even that reached its expiration date as I found out one cannot chill at the spiritual lounge forever. It doesn’t mean grounding yourself right in the mess of it either. It means balancing it all out and meeting in the middle; the heart. 

    And how do you live from your heart, when you just cannot – for the love of all that’s good – like the city you live in? Do you buy more house plants and surround yourself with the things you love? 

    Because even if you ran away to your favorite city, where you’d see almost everything you love daily, eventually the honeymoon phase would end, and you’d still find something to complain about: the rent, the taxes, the neighbors, the bills, the weather…

    And maybe that’s the point. Raising your vibration isn’t about avoiding the noise, the smells, the ghost of a person who is still haunting you, or the construction workers with no mercy at 7 a.m. It’s about holding your frequency in spite of them.

    And as I lay in bed, wrapped in earplugs, eye mask, with my calcite under my pillow and possibly mild resentment, I couldn’t help but wonder…

    Isn’t maintaining our vibration less about chasing peace, and more about choosing it, even when life gets loud?

  • The Frequency of Love

    Last year, a song got blissfully stuck in my head. I hummed the melody, enjoyed it, and didn’t think twice about the words.

    Fast forward a year, I play it again. And suddenly, the lyrics hit me in a way I didn’t even know I was ready for. The words I skimmed over before, the ones that once felt like background noise, turned out to be a blueprint for my journey.

    “The frequency of love. Feels like rivers to the seas, I’m trying not to drown, feel those currents over me, keep both feet on the ground, feels like electricity, this is the frequency of love. Can you feel it, you gotta feel it, you feel it all around, it’s in your heart, in your soul.”

    Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a frequency. A pulse that runs through everything; in the way rivers meet the seas, in the charge that tingles through your body, in the quiet grounding of two feet on the earth, how the sun feels on your skin, floating on water…

    In a world where chaos seems constant, where comparison is the default mode and perfection is demanded in one form or another, love becomes the rarest skill. Not just romantic love, but love for yourself, for the messy humanity, for the mirrors you meet along the way.

    I’ve seen it in my past relationships with imperfect people. They were all imperfect, yet perfectly imperfect. Some mirrored pieces of me. Some mirrored all of me. In family, friends, work, I’ve met reflections of myself, and in showing them compassion, I learned to show it to myself.

    The frequency of love is unity. So above, so below. It’s patience, forgiveness, joy, stillness, electricity, surrender, and fire… all at once. It’s the pulse that reminds you that even when life feels heavy, even when the world feels cruel, your heart can still beat in alignment with everything beautiful.

    And maybe, just maybe, that frequency isn’t something you find. It’s something you carry, something you radiate, something you become with a little help along the way.

  • Life is Full of Mirrored Moments

    There I was, Saturday night on my balcony, taking a break from watching Gilmore Girls because nothing soothes an overthinking mind quite like the fast-talking women of Stars Hollow.

    And then… from just one floor below, I hear it. The same theme song. The same Lorelai and Rory banter. I lean slightly over the railing and there she is, my downstairs neighbor, smoking, also watching Gilmore Girls. Two women, two apartments, one show, same scene, same night.

    I’ve lived in this apartment for 7 years. She’s just moved in.

    We didn’t say a word to each other. We didn’t need to. The universe already delivered the message loud and clear:

    Some nights aren’t about fate or romance or breakthroughs.

    They’re about mirrored lives, stacked on top of each other like chapters in a book we all think we’re writing alone.

    And it made me wonder…

    If our lives are all little reruns of each other’s heartbreaks, habits, and healing, maybe connection isn’t something we chase. Maybe it’s already happening, just one floor below, one rerun at a time.

  • When exactly did we stop playing like children?

    Was it after our first heartbreak? Our first tax return? The moment we decided swings were “embarrassing” and seesaws were “unsafe for the lower back”?

    Because somewhere between learning how to spell “mortgage” and forgetting how to skip without pulling a hamstring, we lost something. Something soft. Something simple.

    We traded jungle gyms for gyms.

    Trampolines for treadmills.

    Sandboxes for deadlines.

    We started amping up our dopamine instead of just feeling joy.

    “More, faster, better,” became the new fun.

    Amusement parks on steroids. Screaming rollercoasters and overpriced food. All engineered thrills.

    But joy? Real, no-filter joy? That’s harder to come by.

    Sometimes, when the city’s asleep, I go to the children’s park to swing.

    Just me and the stars. Sometimes with my girlfriends. Grown women, hip pain and all, giggling like we’re six and school just let out. That kind of joy is raw. Untouched. Uncomplicated.

    One time, on a mountain trail, we found this giant wooden seesaw, made for four people. We took turns like kids at recess. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t “Instagrammable.” It was just fun. The kind of fun that forgets to check the time. That reminds you your soul still has a playground inside, even if your knees say otherwise.

    Then there was that time I told a local guy (during one of my travels) that I love visiting the zoo and petting the wild goats. He smiled like he had just remembered a long-forgotten memory.

    “Isn’t that for kids? We’ve done that before, so we don’t think of doing it again.”

    Why does something only count if it’s new, impressive, and expensive?

    Why can’t naming a wild goat Sao-Feng and imagining you’re soul-bonded be enough?

    I think it is enough.

    In fact, I think it’s everything.

    We’ve overcomplicated joy. We turned it into a performance instead of a feeling.

    Maybe if we let our inner children run barefoot again, pick daisies, jump in puddles, and squeal when we see a sleepy bear nibbling on grass mid-hibernation, we’d actually feel alive again.

    Because maybe, just maybe, growing up doesn’t mean growing out of the things that made our hearts light up.

    Maybe it means protecting them even harder.

  • How blunt is too blunt?

    In a society where speaking your mind can quickly earn you a label; too much, too intense, too opinionated, we’ve collectively defaulted to “polite mode.”

    We sugarcoat. We tiptoe. We water ourselves down like a low-calorie version of truth, and we call it kindness.

    But in situations where the truth might sting momentarily, yet ultimately liberates the other person from a blind spot or a bad habit, who are we actually protecting by holding back?

    Is it them?
    Or is it us?

    Are we avoiding hurting their feelings…
    or just avoiding conflict altogether?

    Is it more loving to tell your partner that you’d really appreciate if he stopped leaving his socks all over the damn floor? Or to silently give them the side-eye while picking them up, punctuating the moment with a passive-aggressive sigh?

    Is it rude to tell your family “I love you, but your constant advice feels more like control than care”? Or is it honest?

    Is it disloyal to warn your friend that her new love interest has more red flags than a Formula 1 race? Or is it actually the loyalty test?

    The thing is: we think we’re avoiding drama by staying quiet.
    But what we’re really doing is delaying the explosion.

    Unspoken truths don’t disappear. They simmer.

    And the longer we let politeness take the wheel, the more tension piles up in the trunk, until we’re suddenly swerving off course, crashing over something that could’ve been a conversation.

    So maybe the better question is:

    How much future conflict do we create simply by avoiding present honesty?

    Written by a virgo. We won’t always hold back. Because we have regretted holding back when he had the chance to be brutally honest. And let’s face it, a virgo that doesn’t automatically tell you what they think is wrong with you, how much do they actually love you?

    If you have a virgo in your lives, kindly let us be brutally honest with you without taking it too personally. If you see a virgo trying to be fake-polite to keep the peace, it’s because they’re too afraid to lose you. Let us be ourselves, and try to see the criticism as an act of love. Because it honestly is. And we appreciate the brutal honesty back.