Four weeks ago, I was standing in my kitchen when a quiet, uncomfortable thought hit me: I haven’t been single since I was eighteen. Now, at twenty-six, I look back and realize that much of my late teens and early twenties were shaped by the relationships I was in. And while I’ve only been in two serious ones, they each left a profound impact on me—mentally, physically, and emotionally. And in many ways, they altered the course of my life. My very first serious relationship began when I was nineteen and ended shortly after my twenty-second birthday. Two months later, feeling a bit restless at home with my parents, I downloaded Hinge. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, let alone someone memorable, but there was one man—seventeen years older—who was so persistent, I gave him a chance. That decision led to a two-and-a-half-year courtship and a short-lived engagement. When the

When I was younger, the safest place in the world wasn’t a room or a hug — it was my imagination. There, I could be anything: a queen with a sword, a time traveler, a girl who spoke to stars. It didn’t matter if I felt small in real life. In my mind, I was allowed to be huge. Even now, when life feels overwhelming, I retreat back into that inner world. Not to escape — but to remember that I still have power. The imagination is not childish. It is sacred. It is where the stories we tell ourselves begin — and we get to choose if they end in hope or fear.

I think about her sometimes — the version of me I haven’t met yet. She’s a little more sure of herself. Her hands don’t shake when she speaks up. She laughs louder. She forgives faster. She walks into rooms without shrinking. She still gets scared, I imagine. But she doesn’t let it stop her. I don’t know exactly how I’ll become her — but I trust that every time I rest instead of overworking, speak the truth even when it trembles, or give myself permission to begin again… I’m stepping closer. And maybe she’s already rooting for me — whispering, “You’re almost here.”

There is a kind of magic hidden in the smallest parts of our days — moments we often rush past, unaware they are quietly shaping us. It might be the way sunlight spills through the window as you’re washing dishes, or the sound of your sister’s laughter echoing down the hallway. It could be the silence between two friends sitting comfortably without speaking, or the smell of old paper when you open a book you haven’t touched in years. These are the moments that don’t announce themselves. They don’t demand attention. But they are the ones that anchor us — soft places for the soul to land. In a world that celebrates loudness, speed, and visibility, it’s easy to think you have to be constantly doing something big to be valuable. But growth, healing, and dreaming often begin in stillness — in those unnoticed corners of your day. I’ve started