Tag: one day at a time

Waves washing over a rocky beach at sunset beneath coastal cliffs and lighthouse

Changing the Tide of Time

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Daily writing prompt
If you could erase one event from history, what would it be?
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If I could erase one event or concept from history, I would choose anything related to nuclear technology, whether it is nuclear bombs, nuclear accidents, or the harmful consequences of nuclear radiation. The reason is simple: it is one of the few things that not only takes lives but also destroys the quality of life for those who survive. A person may have had everything ahead of them, yet their life can be reduced to the lasting physical effects caused by nuclear exposure. What makes it even more tragic is that the suffering is often endured by innocent people who had no part in the decisions that led to it. Beyond affecting one generation, the consequences can continue to impact future generations as well.

On a more emotional level, I would want to erase every instance of violence. Looking at the news today, it often feels as though violence has become so common that we no longer wake up shocked by a single tragedy. Instead, we wonder how many incidents have occurred. Violence has crossed boundaries of reason, age, and circumstance. What affects me most is thinking about the innocent people involved, not only those who are directly harmed, but also their families. I also think about the families of those who caused the harm, as they too are often left to deal with the consequences and pain.

When I consider the question from a more philosophical perspective, I wonder whether changing one event would actually make the world better or worse. We can never truly know. The butterfly effect suggests that even the smallest change can have vast and unpredictable consequences. A single event may have influenced countless outcomes that shaped the world we live in today. If there were a way to identify the one event responsible for the greatest suffering, I might choose to erase it. Yet I cannot know whether the event that replaced it would create a better world or a much worse one.

So, in the end, my answer is that I do not know. Because I do not know, I would choose not to change history at all. Not because the world today is perfect, but because it is the life I have been given. Despite all the pain, hardship, and injustice that exist, I am grateful for my life. I can only hope and pray for a better future, not just for myself, but for everyone in the world.

Growing Up

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

For much of my childhood, I lived in a cocoon of protection. My parents spared no effort in shielding me from hardship, and my sister, too, placed my needs above her own. It was a world where happiness seemed permanent, where every want was met before I even knew to ask. I thought that was life — simple, safe, and endlessly cared for.

The illusion shattered the day I was handed medical proxy papers when my mother was admitted to the hospital. I was not yet eighteen, still technically a child, but in that moment the world demanded something more of me. Though I ultimately needed a relative to sign, the weight of responsibility pressed down on me. I felt inadequate, unprepared, and suddenly aware that the real world was far harsher than the one I had been living in. That was the day I realized I had to grow up.

From then on, every step became part of that growth. I finished school, pursued my undergraduate studies, and eventually secured a job. Each milestone carried with it the quiet determination to shift roles — from being the one cared for to becoming the one who could care. I wanted to give back to the family that had given me everything, to stand as their support just as they had always stood for me.

Growth, I have learned, is not a single event but a continuous unfolding. It began in that hospital corridor, with trembling hands holding papers I could not yet sign, and it continues each day as I navigate adulthood. I am still growing, still learning, still striving to balance the weight of responsibility with the gratitude I feel for the love that raised me.

Adulthood is not about perfection. It is about stepping forward even when you feel inadequate, about carrying the lessons of protection into the practice of care. My journey is ongoing, but I know now that growth is not something to fear — it is the path that allows me to honor the family who gave me everything, by becoming someone who can give back in return.

One more message to the past

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If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

What my past self needs to hear from the me of today.

Since I have already answered a similar question motivationally, I am choosing to answer this one a little bit practical. No supportive statement this time, this time it’s a slap in the face do or die statement.

There are moments in life when we convince ourselves that pain is deserved. That imperfection means we must accept whatever treatment comes our way. I once believed that. I stayed in a toxic relationship, telling myself that suffocating was the price of belonging. I gave up pieces of myself to fit into someone else’s mold, and for that, I lost years I’ll never get back.

But here’s the truth I wish I had carved into my mind – You don’t deserve pain just because you’re not perfect. You walk alone happy rather than stay with someone who will break you. Be different. Be controversial. Refuse to bend into society’s expectations. At the end of the day, you still have yourself — and that is enough.

Be alone rather than lonely. Be alone rather than broken.

This is not comfort. This is survival. It’s the reminder I carry now, the lesson I would have shouted into my past self’s ears. And it’s the truth I want anyone reading this to hold close: your wholeness is worth more than any relationship that demands you shatter to fit inside it.

Ethereal library with swirling staircases, countless books, and a luminous door

Magic that Distance brings

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Which author would you love to have dinner with?

While I love books and the worlds authors create for me with their words, I have never wished to meet any of them in person. My love is for the words themselves — words that open doors to thrillers, mysteries, and fantasy realms where the impossible suddenly feels possible. These stories are dreams I carry with me, and I would not intentionally break that magic.

The mystery of the human mind fascinates me. Two people can grow up in the same circumstances, yet the worlds they imagine will never be the same. That divergence is what makes storytelling so extraordinary. Each reader builds their own version of the author’s world, and that uniqueness is what I treasure most.

Meeting an author, however, feels like it would collapse the boundary between dream and reality. To see the person behind the words might fracture the spell those books have cast over me. I prefer to keep the curtain closed, to let the illusion remain untouched.

There is also a practical side to this choice. Being an introvert, I know I would struggle to hold a conversation with an author. Relating to another reader is easy — we share the experience of being transported. But relating to the author’s mindframe, the place where those worlds were born, feels like a gulf too wide to cross.

So I choose to keep my dream world separate from reality. I admire the craft, I cherish the words, but I do not seek the person behind them. Meeting an author is not on my bucket list. For me, the truest way to honor their work is to let their words live freely in my imagination, untouched by the weight of reality.

Day 236: Taking a step back

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When I first decided to pursue my qualification, I imagined myself building a meticulous schedule and sticking to it with unwavering discipline. After all, this milestone deserved seriousness. Yet what unfolded was far from that vision. I became procrastination personified, caught between exhaustion from work and the lure of late-night distractions.

I am not a morning person, and studying at night felt natural. But after eight to ten hours of work, my mind was drained, my body begged for rest, and yet I found myself scrolling through endless reels instead of sleeping. The cycle left me tired, guilty, and unprepared. My study plans shifted constantly — two hours a day, then weekends, then impossible five-hour marathons after work. Each plan collapsed under its own weight, and eventually, I rescheduled my exam.

The anxiety leading up to that decision was suffocating. For days, I carried the dread of failure, until finally, rescheduling brought relief. In that pause, I noticed another pattern: stress had pushed me back into online shopping, the very habit I had tried to limit this year. Purchases became a coping mechanism, a temporary dopamine fix for mounting pressure.

Yet amid the chaos, one good habit emerged — art. I began sketching, experimenting with digital drawings, and creating spreads. Art became my anchor, a healthier outlet for stress and a reminder that creativity can restore balance when life feels overwhelming.

Stepping back taught me something vital: slowing down is not failure. It is recalibration. I had been lazy at first, then delusional with unachievable targets, and finally regretful when timelines shifted. But failing outright would have been worse. By pausing, I gave myself space to breathe, to reflect, and to redirect energy toward what matters.

Consistency is not about grand gestures or impossible schedules. It is about small, steady steps — reducing what drains me and increasing what sustains me. My life may feel like a leaking boat, but leaks can be patched. With patience, awareness, and gentler expectations, I can steer myself back on course.

Yoga mat beside open journal and bowl of fruit on wooden floor near window

Day 221: Trying to

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have heard over and over again that to develop good behavior you don’t need to be perfect — you just need to be consistent. But that’s where I struggle. I always want things to be good because I don’t want people to find fault in what I do. I think I probably want their appreciation, but the main thing I worry about is someone saying that it’s bad. I don’t particularly want everyone to like what I do, but I really don’t want anyone to hate it. Is that a shallow thought? I end up spending way too much time trying to perfect the things I do, and at some point I feel it’s taking too much time. Then I decide it isn’t worth it, and my hope of starting a good habit fades away. With the pressure of work and studies, good habits fall out of the list of things that get done in the day.

I wanted to make exercise a daily thing just to keep myself healthy. I tried for three months, but the body aches kept getting worse and worse until I gave up. The thought of pain made me want to take a break. I kept thinking I would get back to it, but the truth is I never actually did.

I wanted to stop eating outside food and start cooking at home. I wanted to learn different recipes. I don’t have a refined palate — if it were up to me, I could probably live on instant food for the rest of my life. But I knew it wasn’t healthy, and I wanted to eat better. I managed to cook for two days in a week, and then I was done. By day two I felt exhausted and didn’t have the energy to try again.

Another thing I lose is my hobbies and passion projects. I wanted to start writing again. I’ve always wanted to write my own novel. When I was 13, I wrote the first chapter after months of creating characters and a plot line. It took me four months because I kept re‑editing it. But as schoolwork increased, I dropped the weekly writing practice.

I also wanted to continue improving my art skills. I started drawing whenever I found time — between school notes and random pieces of paper. Over time, I collected a lot of sketches stuffed into a file. I wanted to learn portrait painting, but I never put in the time to improve.

When it comes to sleep versus good habits, sleep wins. And when work and study come into the picture, hobbies fall off my mind. I am trying to stay consistent. I am trying to make a better version of myself. This year I thought I would start doing things every day, but it’s like I start and then stop, start again, go on for some days, and then stop again. Consistency is my Everest, and I am hoping that maybe this time around, I can conquer it.

Day 106: Recovering from the Break Down

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So I am back. Today I am smiling again, even though there is still pain in my heart. Life feels heavy right now, with so many things going wrong all at once. Some days I am simply too weak to face it. On those days, I withdraw into myself and hope that the storm will pass. It feels like the world is closing in, and all I can manage is the simple act of waking up. I want to lie down the whole day, doing nothing, because nothing makes sense. It feels like drowning on dry land—unable to breathe, unable to move forward. My heart had taken my mind hostage, and I was trapped in the tension between wanting to live fully and feeling paralyzed by pain.

My mind kept reminding me of all the things I needed to do, all the ways I should keep pushing forward. But the reminders felt hollow, because nothing seemed to matter. I don’t like this feeling, but I think it was inevitable. For too long, I’ve tried to push down the pain, convincing myself to focus only on the good things. That works sometimes, but not always. There are days when the weight of what I’ve hidden breaks through, and I am forced to face the vulnerability I fear. I hate being vulnerable. I think I am scared of what it reveals about me, scared of being seen as weak. Yet, despite that fear, I made it through. After days of feeling like everything was collapsing, I am finally beginning to emerge from the darkness. Sitting here now, writing this post, I feel grateful to be back on track, ready to work toward meaningful change in my life.

I know this cycle will repeat if I keep relying only on myself. That’s why I hope, going forward, I learn to turn to God instead of crashing out internally. He has carried me even when I never asked Him to. If He takes care of me without my asking, how much more will He take care of me when I reach out to Him for help? That thought gives me hope. It reminds me that I don’t have to fight alone, that there is strength beyond my own walls. And today, even with the pain still lingering, I am smiling again—because I believe I am being led toward something better.

Day 101: Cracked Walls, Shaken Will

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There are nights when the tide rises too high, when emotions surge like waves against the walls of my chest, and breathing feels like a luxury. Tonight is one of those nights. My mind is a storm—thoughts racing, colliding, multiplying—each scenario demanding attention, each possibility dragging me deeper into the undertow. The compartments I’ve built to keep myself functioning are collapsing, one after another, until I am left standing in the ruins.

It’s astonishing how something so irrelevant, so small, can become the final straw—the crack that shatters the whole structure. I want to run away, to escape, to leave everything behind. And yet, tomorrow I know I will begin again. I will stack bricks of compartmentalization, rebuild fragile walls, and convince myself I can breathe one more time. But tonight, I am falling.

There is irony in this collapse. A quiet voice inside me whispers: You’ve been here before. You survived. This storm will pass. But another voice roars louder, insisting that my heart is breaking, that this breakdown is shameful, that I am failing to meet the world’s impossible standards of “normal.”

Society has taught us to equate breakdowns with weakness. To cry is to falter. To panic is to fail. To admit that the mind cannot carry the weight is to confess defeat. And yet, isn’t it strange that we celebrate resilience only when it looks polished—when it’s the triumphant comeback, the motivational story, the glossy version of survival? We rarely honor the messy middle, the nights when breathing feels impossible, the moments when strength is simply enduring the next minute.

But here is the truth I am learning: weakness is not failure. A breakdown is not the end—it is a signal, a cry for pause, a reminder that even the strongest structures need repair. To collapse is human. To rebuild is human. To admit that the tide is too high is not shameful; it is honest.

So tonight, I step back. I let the walls fall. I let myself feel the weight of this moment, knowing that tomorrow I will gather the pieces again. Today, only part of me believes in my resilience. Tomorrow, I hope the whole of me will recognize it.

And perhaps, if we begin to speak of these nights openly, without shame, we can redefine what it means to be “normal.” Maybe normal is not the absence of breakdowns, but the courage to rise after them. Maybe normal is not perfection, but persistence.

Day 100: Choosing Joy, Seeking Peace

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Today feels different. It is a day of contemplation, a pause to ask myself – why am I doing this?

When I began this blog, it was with the hope of reigniting a passion that had quietly slipped away. Writing once centered me, even when my world was engulfed in chaos. Putting thoughts onto paper made the weight of life feel lighter, more bearable. It gave me perspective, strength to fight one more day. But somewhere along the way, the more blows I took, the further I drifted from writing. I lost a piece of myself without even realizing it.

I wonder—when did we move away from doing things simply for the joy of doing them, to doing things only because we have to? Today, every action seems to demand justification, a measurable benefit. My parents called it “growing up.” But in truth, it clipped the wings that longed to fly. Perhaps they too had dreams they were expected to abandon in the name of reality.

I count myself among the privileged, because I still have the choice. The choice to follow dreams, even when it goes against everything I’ve been taught. The choice to take the difficult path, knowing it may lead to failure. But I am grateful for that choice, because even if I stumble, I will have tried. And in trying, I will have chosen happiness. In a world where joy feels scarce, perhaps that is the greatest achievement of all.

While I am deeply grateful for all the blessings God has given me, I cannot ignore the reality that, in many parts of the world, people’s lives are engulfed in war and suffering. Their homes are burning, their families torn apart, and their futures uncertain. My heart aches for them, and so I lift my prayers to the heavens—for peace, for hope, for protection, and for safety.

Prayer may be the only thing I can offer from where I stand, but I believe it matters. I believe that once hearts are changed, the world itself can change. And I hold onto the faith that God is the One who softens hearts, just as He did with Pharaoh in the Holy Bible. If He can turn hardened hearts toward compassion, then there is hope that even in the midst of war, humanity can find its way back to peace.

Day 99: Jigsawing a plan

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I’ve never considered myself an organized person. In fact, I often admire those who can plan their day and stick to it with discipline. They seem to move through life with clarity, while I stumble through mine with hesitation. This morning, I decided to try something new—I sat down to make a daily schedule. Deep down, I know I might fail at following it, but I want to become someone who honors her commitments.

The idea of a schedule feels both exciting and intimidating. On one hand, it promises structure and progress. On the other, it raises endless questions: how do I divide my day between home duties, work, studies, and rest? Eight hours are already reserved for sleep, leaving sixteen to be split wisely. Do I study in the morning when my mind is fresh, or at night when the world is quiet? How much time should I give to chores, and where do I fit in my art projects—the one thing that brings me joy? Sometimes, I feel I waste more time planning than actually doing.

After watching countless productivity videos, I’ve realized a few truths about myself:

  • First, I get anxious when I make plans. I imagine everything that could go wrong before I even begin. I need to remind myself that missing one task doesn’t mean the whole day is ruined. Progress isn’t about perfection—it’s about consistency.
  • Second, I am inherently lazy. Having had many things handed down to me, I never truly learned the discipline of effort. Procrastination has become a habit, almost an addiction. I know I need to break it. Maybe limiting my screen time again could help—it worked once before, and perhaps it can work again.
  • Third, I am easily distracted. I’ve reached a point where I can’t do anything without background noise. I replay old series I’ve already watched, convincing myself I don’t need to pay attention, but it still pulls me away from focus. Silence feels uncomfortable, yet I know it’s necessary for deep work.

Despite these challenges, I want to dive into the deep end. I want to build habits that last, even if they start small. I want to learn to sit with silence, to push through laziness, and to quiet the anxiety that comes with planning. My hope is that one day, I’ll look back and be proud of myself—not for being perfect, but for finally breaking free from the cycle of procrastination and distraction.

For now, I’ll take it one step at a time. A schedule may not transform me overnight, but it can be the first brick laid in the foundation of a more disciplined life. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover that organization isn’t about rigid control—it’s about creating space for the things that matter most.