Tag: relationships

  • Date Yourself

    I couldn’t help but wonder, why do we treat our homes like pit stops instead of sanctuaries?

    In relationships, we crave that can’t-wait-to-see-them energy. We text them on the way home, already imagining the conversations, the cuddles, the snacks. So why don’t we feel the same way about coming home to ourselves?

    Maybe the truth is… most of us don’t actually want to spend time with ourselves. We’ve become the partner who’s “too busy,” who doomscrolls through the silence, who binge-watches Netflix just to avoid ourselves.

    Because if you think about it… your relationship with yourself is a relationship. And much like in any relationship, too much screen time kills the vibe. You can’t exactly build intimacy when you’re both staring at your phones or binging shows, even if “both” just means you and your inner child sitting in the same room while you doomscroll.

    So here’s the little self-love audit no one asked for: If you were dating yourself: how’s that relationship going?

    Do you communicate honestly, or do you ghost your emotions until they show up uninvited at 2 a.m.?

    Do you spend quality time with yourself, or do you just… watch Netflix in silence and actually avoid sitting with yourself?

    Do you cook nice meals for yourself, or are you in a long-term situationship with takeout?

    Do you surprise yourself with gifts just because, or wait for someone else to find you “worth” them?

    Are you consistently loving yourself or do you flake on some days?

    Do you take yourself out, or are you still waiting for company to start living your life?

    Do you choose yourself every single day, know your worth and hold onto your boundaries, or are you neglecting your own heart?

    Do you consciously take some time in your day-to-day to make yourself happy or are you being lazy in your commitment to yourself? 

    If your answer to most of these is “ehhh,” congratulations: you’ve just discovered why you sometimes feel disconnected. You’ve been neglecting you.

    And if you take a look back at your relationships with emotionally unavailable people, you’ll see every mirror they held up to your face. Every time you bent your boundaries, every moment you sold yourself short, every place you were starving for love you hadn’t yet given yourself. The key takeaway? It’s the same every time: choose yourself.

    We spend so much time longing for people who make us feel safe, seen, and at peace, but the truth is, you can build that with yourself. Make your home somewhere you can’t wait to come back to. Make your own energy your favorite company.

    Because at the end of the day, you’re the longest relationship you’ll ever have, and honestly, you’re a catch.

    So light the candles. Put on that playlist. Cook yourself something sexy. And when you walk through your door at the end of the day, I hope you think, “ahh, finally, I’m home and I get to spend time with me.” 

  • Mercury Lemonade (served chilled, with extra chaos)

    November rolled in and, surprise surprise, five planets decided to moonwalk backwards. Mercury included. Because apparently the universe looked at our lives and said, “You know what this needs? A little confusion and emotional déjà vu.”

    I’ve been feeling it since the shadow period, which, by the way, is just cosmic slang for “the pre-party to the main mess.”

    Here’s what Mercury Retrograde really does: It opens the group chat of your past. You’ll get emotional notifications you didn’t subscribe to “Remember this feeling?” “Miss this person?” “Regret that text?” like it’s customer service from your unresolved emotions.

    If you haven’t closed a loop peacefully, Mercury will kindly reopen it like a wound with a Wi-Fi connection. Suddenly, it’s 2024 again, and you’re emotionally reliving scenes you thought were deleted footage.

    But here’s the twist: this isn’t punishment. It’s emotional composting. You’re not backsliding, you’re recycling. You’re being given a cosmic second chance to feel what you couldn’t feel then, and release it this time, for real.

    Eventually, those old memories will lose their emotional charge. They’ll just be… stories. No longer triggers. More like, “Ah yes, that was my character development era.”

    Personally, my retrograde rerun seems to be October–December 2024. Of course it is. The season of my life I still haven’t fully made peace with. I keep thinking, “Ah, I’m healed now.” Then life or some planet say, “Cute. Let’s test that.”

    So here I am again, remixing anger into clarity, chaos into closure. This is my Mercury Lemonade. Sour, slightly bitter, but surprisingly refreshing once you stop resisting the taste.

    So if you’re feeling it too: the emotional flashbacks, the random longing, the texting temptations to get closure from a ghost who didn’t take any accountability: take a deep breath. This isn’t regression. It’s integration. And if you’re feeling angry at yourself for bending over backwards for someone who didn’t deserve it, work on your boundaries, and give yourself that love. Multiply that love, and give it to yourself. Because you deserve it. 

    We’re just learning to sip the lessons life squeezed out of us. 

    Make your home cosier. Reorganize your kitchen. Give yourself a facial. Connect to nature. Go to the sauna. Jump in snow if cold’s your thing. Light your candles, turn on your cosy galaxy lights, play your favorite songs. We’ve got this. 

    Now go feel your feelings. Mercury insists.

  • Snacks

    I remember going to a supermarket with an ex, buying snacks, and doing what any sane human being would do, wanting to have a snack on the way back. I opened it, and he looked at me like I had just committed a crime. “Can’t you just wait until we’re back?” he said, in full snack-police mode. That killed the vibe. The mood. The entire snack timeline.

    Then later, with another guy, after I’d retired from mid-commute snacking due to previous trauma, he surprised me. He bought snacks for the way back. My inner child practically jumped up and down in joy inside my heart. “Finally, someone who gets it!”

    When I was little, around five, I convinced my parents to let me go to the supermarket alone because apparently I was already a fiercely independent grocery enthusiast. I bought myself a snack, sat at the park, and ate it before going home. Meanwhile, my parents were in full panic mode, convinced I’d been kidnapped. When they found me, just chilling, I said, “I got myself a snack for the way back.” They were speechless. I was snack-satisfied.

    I think that’s the thing about connection. The more someone brings out your inner child, the happier you are. Science even says we’re more likely to fall in love with people who remind us of our childhood. I lived that. He had my favorite childhood tea at his place, completely by coincidence. Then, as we hung out more, I kept rediscovering snacks from my childhood in a totally different country. Coincidence? Maybe. Magic? Absolutely. Drinking milk with milk chocolate? Love it. Late night candy? Yes please. My inner child was thriving. She finally felt safe. Seen. Snack-approved.

    Since I was a kid, I always wanted someone in my life I could bring shells to. He was that. I’d spend hours at the beach finding the most perfect ones to bring back. He’d put them around his apartment, and that, even if it sounds small, was a dream come true. He was the guy who made so many of my childhood and adult dreams come true. Not all, but most.

    It didn’t last, of course, but that’s beside the point. If there’s anything I miss from that connection, is how my inner child felt around him. Safe, happy and healed. 

    Now, I surround myself with people who bring that version of me out. The one who laughs with her whole heart. The one who gets overexcited about gummy bears. The one who loves animals, and shares food without being asked. When my inner child comes online instead of hiding in her room, I know I’m around the right people. It is not the same, but it doesn’t have to be.

    So yeah, snacks and candy, apparently, are my love language. If you ever want to win my heart? Don’t wait till we’re home. Just open the damn bag.

  • Ice Walls

    My relationship with the cold began after I was mentally, emotionally, and spiritually destroyed. I couldn’t even stand the heat, my chest would tighten, my breath would catch, and the sun felt like an interrogation lamp I never agreed to sit under. I hated the sun because it was warm and bright and cheerful, three things I was not. I even avoided the sea, the same sea I grew up with, because water was too emotional. Too much flow. I needed the mountains instead. The heights, the rigidity, the stillness, the cold air, the quiet blanket of snow. 

    I became cold-resistant out of sheer survival. I learned to control my muscles, to reverse the involuntary flexing that comes with feeling cold. When you relax your muscles in the cold, you stop feeling it. Wild, I know. That little trick trained me to control my emotions too, especially the negative ones. I built walls. My heart became an ice fortress. Elsa would’ve been impressed. 

    Then he came along. (There’s always a he, isn’t there?) I remember the exact night my walls melted in front of him. With him, I started enjoying the sun again. I found peace near water again, like I used to. I remember floating, laughing, breathing. I was healing. I even lost my cold resistance, which at the time I blamed on his overheated apartment; meanwhile, mine was hanging out somewhere between 13 to 16 degrees like a polite fridge. Now I know it wasn’t his radiator. It was my nervous system feeling safe. Warm. Nurtured. 

    It didn’t last, of course. I’m cold-resistant again. But this time, I don’t hate the warmth. I can enjoy both the sun and the snow, the flow and the stillness. My apartment’s still cold, but I’ve got blankets. Layers. Tea. Balance. Orange and blue. The Moon and the Sun. The Feminine and the Masculine. Shadow and Light. Harmony.

    My walls are still down, but don’t get me wrong, the boundaries are very much installed. I learned them the hard way. I broke every rule I had for a person, stretched my limits into a yoga pose that didn’t exist. And that taught me everything I needed to know about myself. 

    So even if my ego still throws shade at him and says, “no forgiveness, not today,” my soul knows better. It sees the whole thing as growth. As healing. As my love finding its way back to me, even if it took the scenic route through chaos. 

    Someone once told me I needed to get hurt to learn. At the time, I thought, “that’s a terrible teaching method.” But they were right. Pain really is the ultimate life coach. And the sooner we accept that, the sooner we get to ride the waves of life instead of fighting them.

    Some waves crash you down, some you ride like a pro, but either way, the ocean always teaches you something. That’s probably why I want to surf so badly. My emotional body has been riding waves its whole life; it’s only fair my physical body gets to join the party, so I can master the act of Surrender in real time. 

    So maybe, just maybe, the point isn’t to stay warm or cold. Maybe it’s to live in that perfect middle ground; balance, harmony, integration. Learning to dance between shadow and light, and realizing you’re both the wave and the one riding it. 

  • The “I Love You”

    Lately I’ve been digging. Digging deep, not in the romantic sense, but in the “why can’t I say I love you without sounding like I’m confessing to a crime?” kind of way. I realized that I can’t say it out loud. Not to my parents, not to my friends, not even to my plants. Apparently, I can whisper it to a city, but even then it’s in this weird, baby-talk tone like, “oh I wuv you.” Which is… not the same thing.

    I’ve tried practicing it in the mirror. “I love you.” Nope. My throat tightens. My face does this awkward twitch thing. It’s like my vocal cords are on strike.

    I started to wonder, how many times have I heard that phrase growing up? Not that my parents or grandparents didn’t love each other. They did. They just expressed it in ways that didn’t require actual words. Like, “Here, I cut you some fruit.” Or, “You’re getting pale, eat more iron.” Apparently, our family tree has a generational allergy to saying “I love you.” Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s trauma. Or maybe we just prefer our love medium-rare, served through acts of service, not syllables.

    That tracks for me, though. Acts of service? My main love language. I show love by doing things. Cooking for someone. Listening to their existential crisis without checking my phone. Helping them pick an outfit that doesn’t scream midlife panic at 25. But sometimes that turns into overgiving, which I’m… still unlearning. Learning to say no without feeling like I’ve committed a felony. Learning to ask, “Can we meet at 6:30 instead of 7?” instead of martyring myself at a bar for half an hour writing blog drafts like this one.

    Words of affirmation, though? That’s where things get tricky. I see people throw “I love you” around like confetti. Girls saying it to someone they met ten minutes ago: “I love your energy.” And I’m like: wow, that’s a bold move. I admire it, but I also needed a nine-month period before my “I love you”s left the mouth to the person I loved with all the cells in my body. No offence girl, but I think I need to complete my 3 years of getting to know you period before I get to say “I love you.” 

    But maybe, just maybe, the real work isn’t about blurting it out. Maybe it’s about making peace with the feeling behind it. Letting love exist in whatever form it wants to, whether it’s a whispered “I love this city,” a packed lunch for someone you care about, or a silent I love you said internally because your voice still cracks when you try.

    Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s shy. Sometimes it’s clumsy. And sometimes it just needs a little practice before it comes out naturally, without the baby voice. And sometimes the people who don’t blurt it out, may be loving you the deepest, quietly. 

  • 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.

  • We Broke Up, But Why Did We Also Break Apart?

    on post-breakup territory wars and becoming strangers with people we once undressed our souls with

    No one warns you about the silent custody agreement after a breakup.

    You get your side of the city. I get mine.

    You get the bar near your place. I’ll avoid it like it’s cursed.

    I get the bookstore downtown, but only before 2PM, because I know that’s when you usually go.

    The mutual cafe? Dead to both of us.

    We don’t talk about it, but we feel it.

    And suddenly, we’ve turned a love story into a war over real estate.

    We used to walk these streets like we were creating a world together. Now we’re living in the ruins, divided like ex-nations.

    There’s no judge or jury…

    But somehow, we both know which cafés are now forbidden, which parks are now sacred, and whose friends are no longer “neutral ground.”

    And I can’t help but wonder why does a breakup have to mean a complete delete of the non-romantic parts of a connection?

    We weren’t just lovers. We were people.

    Friends, even.

    We shared music, dumb jokes, late-night thoughts about the meaning of life.

    We sat on balconies and talked about our parents.

    We slow-danced in kitchens.

    We cried. We laughed.

    We knew each other.

    So why is it that, after it ends, we’re supposed to act like we never existed?

    Why is “just friends” seen as a downgrade, not a grace?

    Why do their friends have to stop being our friends?

    Why is it suddenly “too weird” to say hi without pretending like the past didn’t happen?

    Why does the end of romance mean the end of all relating?

    Maybe it’s ego.

    Maybe it’s pain.

    Maybe it’s our culture telling us to “cut the cord” and never look back.

    But maybe, just maybe, we’ve forgotten how to hold space for nuance.

    Maybe two people can love each other deeply, part ways honestly, and still care, without it being “messy.”

    Maybe it’s possible to outgrow the role without erasing the person.

    To say:

    “I no longer want you as my partner, but I still respect who you are.”

    “I won’t be at your birthday party, but I hope someone brings your favorite cake.”

    “I’m not yours anymore, but I hope you’re happy.”

    “I’m moving on, but I remember us fondly.”

    We don’t have to vanish from each other’s lives like ghosts.

    We don’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.

    It did.

    It just doesn’t anymore.

    And maybe that’s okay.

  • Mercury’s in Gatorade Again, Isn’t It?

    You don’t need an astrologer to tell you that the planets are in the microwave or turned into lemonade, again. 

    Just open your window and listen, the neighbors are screaming about who left the yogurt out.

    Your mom suddenly decided now is the perfect time to critique your life decisions, your career, and the way you dress. 

    A guy from 10 years ago? Resurfaces via a “heyyy… hope you’re well, I’ve been thinking about you” message. 

    Your phone glitches just when you finally send a risky text.

    Your emails vanish.

    Your emotions don’t.

    The group chat is suspiciously quiet, and everyone’s “just been going through it.”

    Even your plants are looking at you sideways. And the birds are giving you spiritual downloads through eye contact.

    It’s not just Mercury.

    It’s the whole zodiac throwing a tantrum.

    Venus is crying in the shower, then putting on a sexy black dress and going out to flirt. 

    Mars is organizing your closet at 3AM. 

    Saturn’s giving everyone a pop quiz on boundaries.

    And Neptune’s making your dreams weirder than usual.

    (Oh hey the guy who’s not in my life and his entire friend group chilling at my childhood house!? Nice haircut btw!)

    So no, you don’t need a birth chart.

    You just need to know that every coffee shop line is now a test of your spiritual maturity.

    Your inbox is a battlefield.

    And your nervous system? A full-blown disco.

    But don’t worry.

    Like all those before, this too shall pass.

    Just maybe don’t sign any contracts, text your ex, or try to explain anything to your mom until it’s over.

    We’re just cosmically inconvenienced.

  • Can We Really Meet “The One” Before We’re Healed?

    …or are we just falling in love with different versions of our own wounds?

    At first, I thought I had a type.
    You know; emotionally unavailable, mysterious, says things like “I don’t believe in labels,” and somehow ruins me with a smile.
    But after the third version of the same man with a different star sign, I started to ask:
    Is this really my type… or is this my trauma playing dress-up?

    Because the truth is: we attract what we are.
    Not on the surface, not what we look like, or what we post, or even what we say we want.
    We attract from the core wound. From the energy we haven’t healed. From the version of us that still doesn’t fully believe we deserve the love we crave.

    So maybe the reason we keep falling for the same kinds of people isn’t bad luck or bad taste.
    Maybe it’s a mirror.
    Maybe it’s the universe screaming look at yourself.
    Maybe it’s that unresolved need to be chosen by someone who doesn’t know how to choose themselves.

    And here’s the cosmic twist that no one wants to say out loud:
    You might not meet the “right one” until you become the version of yourself who can actually receive them.

    Because soulmates aren’t here to complete us, they’re here to reflect us.
    And if we’re still fragmented, afraid, closed off or secretly addicted to chaos… Guess what we attract?

    Another incomplete mirror.

    So can we meet the one before we’re healed?
    Maybe.
    But chances are, we’ll push them away.
    Or sabotage it.
    Or not even recognize them, because we’re still wired to crave the pain we’re used to.

    Healing isn’t about being perfect.
    It’s about being aware.
    Aware enough to stop blaming everyone else for the ways we keep breaking our own heart.

    So if you keep attracting the same type… pause.
    Ask yourself: What part of me is still choosing this dynamic? What part of me thinks this is love?

    And more importantly… Who do I become when I stop chasing the reflection… and start becoming the source?

  • How Many Hearts Do We Break to Protect Ours?

    The one that got away (and never really left)

    aka: how do you move on when you’re still haunted?

    We all have that one.

    The one we fell for like fools in a free fall.

    No parachute. No plan. Just the dizzy, delusional, delicious hope that this was it.

    The great love. The one we’d tell stories about. The one that cracked us open and made everything before it look like a dress rehearsal.

    And then… they left.

    Maybe not all at once. Maybe slowly.

    Maybe they ghosted. Maybe they said it wasn’t the right time. Maybe they promised they’d come back.

    But in the end, they left, and we stayed.

    Stuck in the space they used to occupy.

    Haunted by memories. By songs. By phantom touches and texts we still read like scripture.

    And here’s the cruelest part: They don’t even have to be in our lives anymore to still be in our heads.

    So when someone new comes along, someone good, someone kind, someone who sees us without the chaos, we hesitate. We hear I love you from them and flinch.

    Because somewhere in the back of our mind, we’re still waiting for them.

    The one that got away. The one we’ve turned into a myth.

    The one who could return just when we finally feel safe again; to test us, tempt us, or worse… ruin the soft, steady love we almost let ourselves believe in.

    So we sabotage.

    We stay half-in, half-out.

    We love carefully. Quietly.

    Because we fear committing to someone who loves us… only to end up abandoned again.

    We fear breaking a good heart the way ours was once broken, and living with the guilt and the grief.

    It’s a tragic kind of math:

    How many hearts do we break just trying to protect our own?

    And at what point does protection become isolation?

    Maybe the real heartbreak isn’t when someone leaves.

    Maybe it’s when we stop letting ourselves be loved, because we’re still holding space for a ghost.