Today In My Room
Right now, I’m sitting in the middle of my room, trying not to spiral into a snack-fueled existential crisis. Again.
I’ve been working on myself lately—not in the glow-up, hustle-culture kind of way, but in the quiet, slightly unhinged way that involves staring at the ceiling and asking, “Is this growth or just a rebrand of my coping mechanisms?”
I’m trying not to brain rot. Trying to move. Trying to think thoughts that aren’t just reruns of last week’s anxiety. Trying to see my body as something other than a distorted funhouse mirror I walk past every morning.
It’s hard. Especially when I’m always hungry. This new diet has me eating dreams for dinner and pretending water is a personality. I haven’t had sweet tea in weeks and I swear my soul is starting to protest. I miss the sugar. I miss the chaos. I miss the version of me that didn’t count macros and just vibed.
And then there’s the rain. The rainy season always makes me soft. Makes me want to crawl back into old comfortabilities—hoodies, nostalgia, the kind of sadness that feels like a warm bath. It’s tempting. It’s familiar. But I know better now. I know that comfort isn’t always care. Sometimes it’s just avoidance dressed in cozy lighting.
So I’m trying. To emerge. To live up to change and possibility. To see myself as someone worth showing up for, even when the mirror lies and the cravings scream and the weather begs me to disappear.
I’m not perfect. But I’m present. And that counts.
Also, I really need to order that snail serum. Future Me deserves luminous skin and a life that doesn’t feel like a series of postponed intentions.
Until next time, Me
We Live On A Floating Rock, Dont Overthink It Sweetheart!
Notes from the edge of the Earth
There’s something liberating about admitting it: None of us really know what we’re doing.
We wake up, check our phones, chase deadlines, curate personalities, and pretend we’re not quietly unraveling while waiting for our coffee to kick in. We build routines like scaffolding around our uncertainty. We overthink texts, rehearse conversations, and spiral over things that won’t matter next week.
But here’s the cosmic joke: We live on a floating rock. In space. Spinning. With no manual.
So maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to stop taking it all so seriously.
Maybe joy isn’t found in the big answers, but in the small, unassuming moments:
-
The way sunlight hits your floor at 4:17 p.m.
-
The first sip of something warm when your soul feels cold
-
Laughing so hard you forget why you were sad
-
A stranger’s compliment that feels like a secret handshake from the universe
-
The quiet thrill of doing absolutely nothing and calling it self-care
This isn’t a manifesto. It’s a reminder. To unclench your jaw. To let the day be imperfect. To romanticize your walk to the mailbox. To eat the damn pastry without guilt.
You don’t have to earn rest. You don’t have to justify joy. You don’t need a five-year plan to sit in the grass and watch clouds shape-shift into stories.
We live on a floating rock. So dance badly. Love recklessly. Cry when you need to. Laugh when you don’t expect to. And for the love of all things cosmic—don’t overthink it, sweetheart.
These are my notes from the edge of the earth. Unpolished. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
I haven’t updated my blog in a while, but the writing hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten deeper—more exploratory, more intuitive, more alive.
It started unexpectedly. I was listening to music, not even trying to write, and something shifted. A lyric hit differently. A melody cracked something open. And suddenly, I was writing—not from a plan, but from a feeling. No outline. No pressure. Just vibes and emotional residue.
That’s when Her Method: The Art of Becoming was born.
I didn’t name it right away. I just kept writing. Letting the story lead. Letting the characters whisper. Letting my own emotional landscape bleed into the pages. The main character came to me like a quiet revelation—a psychologist. It made sense. I’ve always been hyper-intuitive, always drawn to the breakdown behind the behavior. I’ve read the studies, sat with the disorders, and asked, “But what does it feel like?”
That’s where the story lives.
I’m not ready to share all the details yet. The plot is still shifting. The characters are still revealing themselves. But I will say this: writing Her Method has felt like turning my brain into book soup. Stirring memories, moods, metaphors, and music until something sticks.
And it’s working.
I’m enjoying the process. Not rushing it. Not overthinking it. Just letting the writing room window stay open—so the intuition, the curiosity, and the quiet revelations can drift in.
This is where I am. This is what I’m building. And this is me, finally letting the story lead.
Health Info Tech, But Make It Emotional Damage
Fall semester just started and I’m already in the trenches.
I opened my textbook, blinked twice, and suddenly I was knee-deep in acronyms, performance measures, and the kind of data analysis that makes my soul whisper, “Are we sure about this?” The syllabus reads like a threat. My planner is gasping for air. And somewhere between “Chapter 2 Review” and “Submit by Sunday,” I realized—I’m not thriving. I’m surviving. Barely.
But here’s the thing: I’m still here.
Still logging in. Still trying to decode Six Sigma like it’s not a math cult. Still pretending I didn’t just Google “What is Lean methodology?” for the fifth time. I may be spiraling, but I’m spiraling with purpose.
Because this semester, I’m choosing to see myself as a Health Info Tech girly. Not just someone who’s enrolled—but someone who belongs. Someone who can talk about performance improvement models without crying (or at least while crying efficiently). Someone who knows that sending patients home without proper instructions is like giving someone car keys and forgetting to mention the brakes.
I’m leaning into the tech side. Into the data. Into the chaos. Into the version of me that doesn’t flinch when someone says “benchmarking” or “numerator.” I’m learning to love the spreadsheets, the systems, the strange satisfaction of organizing clinical documentation like it’s a love language.
So yes, I’m fucking up. But I’m also showing up. And that counts for something.
This semester might be messy. My GPA might flirt with danger. But I’m buckling down, caffeinating up, and reminding myself that emotional damage is temporary—certification is forever.
Catch me at the edge of burnout, whispering sweet nothings to my EHR software and manifesting a future where I’m not just passing—I’m thriving. In scrubs. With a badge. And a brain full of acronyms I finally understand.
