Daily journal

Friday, Jan 16

Today I woke up to the sound of rain against my window, and for a moment I just lay there listening. There's something deeply comforting about rain—the way it transforms the world outside into something softer, more introspective. It reminded me of childhood mornings when my grandmother would make hot chocolate and we'd watch the droplets race down the glass, betting on which one would reach the bottom first. I've been thinking a lot about the passage of time lately. How we measure our lives in these arbitrary units—hours, days, years—when really, life seems to move in moments. Some stretch into eternities; others collapse into nothing. A conversation that changes everything. A glance that stays with you for decades. A random Tuesday afternoon that somehow becomes the thing you remember on your deathbed. Work has been challenging, but in a good way. I'm learning to embrace the discomfort of not knowing, of being a beginner again. There's a certain freedom in admitting you don't have all the answers. It opens you up to possibilities you couldn't see when you were busy pretending to be an expert.

Thursday, Jan 15

I had coffee with an old friend today—someone I hadn't seen in nearly three years. It's strange how you can pick up exactly where you left off with certain people, as if time is just this thin veil between you, easily brushed aside. We talked about everything and nothing: the jobs we've had, the relationships that worked and the ones that didn't, the dreams we've abandoned and the new ones we've picked up along the way. She told me she's been learning to paint. Not because she wants to become an artist or sell anything, but just because she wanted to know what it felt like to create something with her hands. I love that—the idea of doing something purely for the joy of it, with no goal or metric or outcome in mind. We've lost so much of that as adults. Everything has to be productive, optimized, monetizable. Walking home, I took the long way through the park. The trees are starting to change color, that first hint of autumn creeping in. A child ran past me laughing, chasing a dog that was clearly having the time of its life. Simple joy. Uncomplicated happiness. I want more of that.

Wednesday, Jan 14

I finished reading that book I've been carrying around for months. The ending wasn't what I expected—quieter, more ambiguous—but it's stayed with me all day. The best stories don't tie everything up neatly. They leave you with questions, with a kind of productive uncertainty that makes you see your own life differently. The author wrote about grief in a way that felt true. Not the dramatic, cinematic version of loss, but the mundane reality of it—how you can be fine for weeks and then suddenly break down in the cereal aisle because you saw the brand your father used to buy. How grief isn't a linear process but more like weather, unpredictable and indifferent to your plans. I called my mom tonight. We didn't talk about anything important, just the usual updates about neighbors and cousins and what she's growing in her garden. But there was comfort in the ordinariness of it. Sometimes love is just showing up, again and again, in small unremarkable ways. Making the call even when you have nothing to say. Being present, consistently, over time.

Tuesday, Jan 13

Spent most of the day reorganizing my apartment, which turned into one of those archaeological expeditions through your own past. Found a box of letters from college, ticket stubs from concerts I'd forgotten, photographs of people I don't talk to anymore. Each object a doorway into a different version of myself. It's humbling to realize how much you change without noticing. The person who wrote those letters—earnest, certain, full of plans—feels like a stranger now. Not better or worse, just different. I wonder what the me of ten years from now will think of who I am today. What beliefs I hold now will seem naive? What fears will turn out to be nothing? I kept a few things and threw away the rest. There's a kind of freedom in letting go, in accepting that you don't need physical objects to hold onto your memories. The important things stay with you regardless. The smell of your grandmother's kitchen. The way sunlight looked through the window of your first apartment. The sound of someone's laugh who isn't around anymore.

Monday, Jan 12

Couldn't sleep last night, so I went for a walk at 3am. The city is completely different at that hour—quieter, emptier, somehow more honest. Passed a 24-hour diner where a group of nurses were having breakfast after their shift. A man walking his dog who nodded at me like we were both members of some secret society of insomniacs. The world continues even when we're not watching. I've been thinking about what it means to live a good life. Not successful by external measures, but genuinely good—meaningful, connected, present. I don't think I have the answer, but I'm starting to suspect it has more to do with attention than achievement. How you show up for the ordinary moments. How you treat people who can do nothing for you. How much of your life you actually experience versus how much you sleepwalk through. Made a decision to change some things. Nothing dramatic, just small adjustments—more time outside, less time on my phone, more conversations that matter, less noise. The gap between the life I'm living and the life I want to live isn't that wide. It's just a series of tiny choices, made over and over, that compound into something larger.

Sunday, Jan 11

There's a particular quality to Sunday mornings that feels different from every other day. Maybe it's the collective exhale of a city not rushing anywhere, or the permission we give ourselves to move slowly. I made pancakes today—the real kind, from scratch, the way my dad used to make them. There's meditation in the measuring, in the waiting for bubbles to form on the surface before you flip. I've been rereading old journals lately. It's both comforting and alarming to see how many of the same struggles repeat themselves, year after year. The same fears about not being enough. The same resolutions to be more present, more grateful, more intentional. Growth, it seems, isn't linear. It's more like a spiral—you keep passing the same points, but each time from a slightly different altitude. What I'm learning, slowly, is that the goal isn't to fix yourself. The goal is to become better at being with yourself, including all the messy, contradictory, frustrating parts. To extend the same compassion inward that you'd offer to a friend. It sounds simple. It's the hardest thing I've ever tried to do.

Saturday, Jan 10

Watched a documentary about artists who didn't receive recognition until after they died. Van Gogh sold one painting in his lifetime. Emily Dickinson published fewer than a dozen poems while alive. Kafka asked his friend to burn all his manuscripts. I'm not comparing myself to any of them, but it made me think about why we create at all. If no one ever sees what you make, is it still worthwhile? I think the answer has to be yes. The act of creation is its own reward—the way it forces you to pay attention, to wrestle with form and meaning, to translate something internal into something external. Recognition is nice, but it can't be the point. The point has to be the doing itself. I wrote for two hours today. Most of it was garbage, but there were maybe two sentences I liked. Two sentences that felt true, that captured something I'd been circling around for weeks. That's enough. That's more than enough.

Friday, Jan 9

Had one of those days where everything felt slightly off. Not bad, exactly, but muted—like watching my life through a slightly dirty window. I've learned not to fight these days, not to force productivity or positivity. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is allow yourself to feel whatever you're feeling without judgment. I took a long shower and let myself think about nothing. Made tea and sat by the window. Watched the clouds change shape, which is something I haven't done since childhood. There's wisdom in that—in the willingness to do nothing, to resist the constant pressure to optimize every moment. Rest is not the opposite of productivity. Rest is what makes productivity possible. Tomorrow will probably be different. The tides always turn. But today, I'm okay with being still.

Thursday, Jan 8

Someone asked me today what I would do if I knew I couldn't fail. It's such a common question, almost cliché, but for some reason it hit differently this time. I realized that fear of failure isn't really what holds me back. It's fear of being seen trying—of wanting something badly and publicly and not getting it. It's easier to pretend you don't care, to keep your ambitions private and your efforts invisible. But what kind of life is that? A life of perpetual hedging, of never fully committing because you're too busy protecting your ego. I think about the people I admire most, and they all have one thing in common: they're willing to be embarrassed. They're willing to look foolish in pursuit of something that matters to them. I don't have a resolution yet. But I'm starting to see the cage I've built around myself. That's the first step, I think. Seeing the cage.

Wednesday, Jan 7

Met my nephew for the first time today. He's three weeks old, impossibly small, with tiny fingers that wrap around yours with surprising strength. Holding him, I felt something shift—a reorganization of priorities, a reminder of what actually matters. We spend so much time worried about things that, in the end, don't amount to much. The email that felt urgent. The slight from a coworker. The number in our bank account. But sitting there with this new human who knows nothing of the world's complications, all of that falls away. What remains is simpler: love, warmth, presence, protection. I don't know what kind of world he'll grow up in. I can't protect him from heartbreak or disappointment or the fundamental uncertainty of being alive. But I can try to be someone who shows up, who listens, who makes him feel less alone in all of it. That seems like enough. Maybe that's all any of us can do for each other.