Somewhere in all of the chaos and even the quiet this year, I caught myself realizing something I hadn’t noticed all year: I stopped saying “I used to write.”

For a long time, that sentence followed me around like a disclaimer. Something I would mention almost apologetically, as if creativity was a former version of myself I had outgrown or misplaced. Life happened in ways that demanded practicality, structure, and resilience, and somewhere along the way, my creative side didn’t disappear; it just went untouched. Unexpressed. Put on hold. I kept telling myself I’d return to it when things felt lighter, when time felt kinder, when I felt more like myself again.

This year, I did return. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but slowly and honestly. I wrote again because I missed the way writing made me feel anchored. Because it reminded me of how I process the world, how I make sense of things that don’t always come with clear answers. Writing became less about output and more about coming home to myself, and without realizing it, I stopped talking about it in the past tense.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I didn’t find my way back alone. 

I’m deeply grateful for the readers who stayed, the ones who read closely, who sit with the words, who reach out just to say that something resonated or felt familiar. Every message, every thoughtful reaction, every small moment of recognition reminded me that writing doesn’t have to be loud to matter. That being understood, even by one person, is already a kind of connection worth holding onto.

I’m also thankful for the people who pushed me, who challenged how I think and how I write, who offered constructive criticism instead of easy praise. The ones who saw potential where I sometimes only saw hesitation, and who reminded me that growth often comes from being uncomfortable, from being willing to refine, rethink, and try again. You treated my writing like it was worth taking seriously, and that mattered more than you probably know.

This year didn’t just give me back the habit of writing; it gave me back permission. Permission to take up space with my thoughts, to be curious out loud, to create without constantly editing myself down. It reminded me that creativity isn’t something you outgrow; it’s something you return to when you’re finally ready to listen again.

So this is my holiday, thank you. Not polished, not perfect, but honest. Thank you for reading, for supporting, for pushing, for staying. Thank you for meeting me where I was, and for walking with me as I found my way back to something I thought I had lost.

Here’s to no longer speaking about the things we love in past tense and to carrying this voice with us into whatever comes next.

A luxurious lipstick, a perfume bottle resting on fabric, a café table mid-conversation, a picnic laid out just enough to feel intentional. They read as a lifestyle. As indulgence. As calm. However, when I examined them collectively, I realized they were saying something entirely different.

They might actually be recession indicators. 

This year, I’ve come across multiple videos and posts with the same observation: during periods of economic uncertainty, women tend to spend more on small luxuries: beauty products, accessories, fragrance, not because spending increases, but because spending narrows. Big purchases disappear. Long-term commitments feel heavier. What remains are items that still feel attainable, justifiable, and emotionally rewarding. 

And it doesn’t stop at economics. Social habits, cultural trends, and even moments of emotional need filter into what we photograph. A flatlay isn’t just about objects; it’s about mood, control, and comfort. It’s about what we hold close when the world feels uncertain, what we choose to show, and what we keep private. That tiny ritual (it can be a ritual for me, haha!), arranging a few things for a photo, can reveal how we negotiate the tension between desire, limitation, and expression.

Of course, someone might say, “It’s just a photo.” And yes, technically, it is. But that’s the thing: so much of life works this way. The small gestures, the little curated choices, the aesthetic decisions we make, they reflect bigger truths. When we start noticing patterns, when we start connecting the dots, even a simple flatlay can speak volumes about culture, society, and economy.

That’s why there are times I’ve started looking at my own photos differently. It's possible that they’re not just creative expression. They can be micro-essays on life in a particular time and place. They can evidence that even the seemingly trivial can carry meaning beyond the frame. It just takes attention to see it.

I’ve caught myself nodding at my phone more times than I’d like to admit this year.

It usually happens mid-scroll. An article headline flashes by: smartly written, confidently framed, published by a name I recognize. I pause. I read. It makes sense. I nod. Maybe I save it. Maybe I repost it. Then I keep scrolling.

The next day, I stumble onto another piece. Same topic. Same authority. Completely opposite conclusion. And somehow, I nod again.

That’s when it started to bother me, not because the opinions conflicted, but because I didn’t. I hadn’t stopped to ask why both felt equally convincing. I hadn’t noticed how quickly agreement had become muscle memory.

We like to say we’re overwhelmed by information, but I think the real problem is subtler than that. It’s not that there’s too much to read, it’s that reading has quietly turned into consuming. Scroll. Absorb. Agree. Move on.

At some point, we stopped reading to understand and started reading to validate whatever mood or belief we happened to be in that day.

I notice this most with articles that begin with “Study says…”

Those three words carry so much weight. They signal credibility. They tell us, You don’t need to think too hard about this, someone else already did. And we fall for it every time. Coffee is good for you. No, wait—it’s bad. Eight hours of sleep is ideal. Actually, seven. Or maybe six if you’re productive enough. Every week, a new conclusion replaces the old one, and I obediently adjust my nod accordingly.

The uncomfortable truth? I rarely remember these articles the next day. What I remember is the feeling of having read something smart. For a while, I mistook that feeling for learning.

But learning, I realized, is heavier. It lingers. It forces you to sit with discomfort, to wrestle with contradictions, to ask annoying follow-up questions like why does this matter to me? or what assumptions are baked into this claim? I wasn’t doing that. I was collecting scraps of information and mistaking them for understanding.

The gap wasn’t intelligence. It was curiosity.

This isn’t a narrative to reject media or distrust everything we read. It’s a reminder to resist passivity. To remember that truth isn’t something we inherit just because it was written well or published loudly. Thinking takes effort. Curiosity takes time. Forming your own conclusion, one you can stand behind, takes courage.

So this is a quiet note to myself as much as anyone else: pause before you nod. Let an idea sit longer than a scroll. Ask one more question than feels necessary. Tug at the thread instead of accepting the weave.

And since this space is where I put my own thoughts into the world, I want to say this plainly: I don’t want blind agreement here either. Don’t just nod at what I write. Challenge it. Build on it. Push it further than I did. If it sharpens, let it cut. If it stretches, let it grow.

That’s how we stay awake in a world that constantly invites us to switch our brains to autopilot, not by agreeing faster, but by thinking deeper.

It’s strange how we’ve reached a point where having a boyfriend is now considered embarrassing, not because women have suddenly decided they hate men, but because the value system around relationships has changed.

For decades, women were rewarded for their ability to find and keep a man. It was proof of worth: you were desirable, stable, and complete. Then social media turned relationships into entertainment. Love became a feed of curated moments: soft launches, hard launches, anniversary montages. 

Now, that badge feels cheap. Because somewhere along the way, women realized the very thing they were told to aspire to, male validation, was also what held them back.

But here’s what’s rarely asked: why don’t we ever say being a man is embarrassing? Why is the shame always redirected toward women? We never look at men collectively and ask them to feel ashamed of their patterns, their species, their contributions (or lack thereof) to emotional maturity, gender safety, or respect. Yet somehow, women can’t catch a break. It’s embarrassing to be single, and now it’s also embarrassing to have a boyfriend.

Even worse, women have begun turning on each other. There are girls mocking others for being in relationships, calling them needy or “dependent,” while quietly tolerating men who treat them poorly behind closed doors. It’s not empowerment; it’s projection.

Meanwhile, men remain unbothered. They don’t have to dissect their choices or explain their attachments. They watch this cultural tug-of-war from the sidelines while women debate how not to look pathetic for wanting connection. 

Maybe the problem isn’t that “having a boyfriend is embarrassing.” Maybe it’s that being associated with men feels embarrassing when so many refuse to evolve, yet women are the ones made to absorb the cultural shame.

If men were held under the same scrutiny, if we said being a man is embarrassing, perhaps the weight of accountability would finally shift. Until then, women will keep balancing between vulnerability and self-preservation, learning how to love without losing dignity in a world determined to make them feel foolish for both.

It’s a phrase that shows up everywhere; on TikTok captions, in Instagram affirmations, whispered as a kind of shield against life’s chaos. I’ve said versions of it, too. 

But whenever I hear it now, I pause. Who exactly is this “divine energy” we’re talking about? Is it a God, the universe, something nameless? And if it truly is watching over us, shouldn’t we think about what it means to protect it back?

The question hit me harder one day when I stumbled across a TikTok. The creator was talking about divine protection while splicing together clips of mountains, forests, rivers, and sunsets. And that’s when something clicked. Out of all the places people say the divine lives, it makes the most sense to me that it lives in nature. The trees that outlast us. The rivers that move on, no matter what we’re carrying. The sky that stretches endlessly, asking nothing but still giving light, air, and warmth.

That realization shifted the phrase for me. Because if I really believe the divine shows up in the natural world, then “being protected” stops feeling like a passive prayer and starts looking like a responsibility. I can’t keep asking nature, the universe, or the "divine being" to shield me while I do nothing in return. It feels hollow.

And yet, we do it all the time. When something goes wrong, we blame the universe. When something goes right, we thank the universe. It’s convenient. It keeps us from looking too closely at our own choices, our own accountability.

But maybe the cycle was never meant to work that way. Maybe protection is mutual. Maybe we are being asked, quietly, to protect the very thing we’re asking protection from. In my case, to start caring more for the earth. To some, to respect the balance of what we’ve been given, to stop waiting passively for blessings to fall into our laps.

If the divine really is everywhere in the water, the air, the soil beneath our feet, then every careless act against it is also a dismissal of its protection. And every small act of care becomes an act of reverence.

So I wonder now: what if “protected by the divine” isn’t a promise we simply receive? What if it’s a responsibility we choose to carry?

When it comes to money, I know the drill. I have my brother, who shares my reality with me. I have Gerrel, who understands and supports me. I know the paths, the formulas, the strategies I would take. Earning more is within reach. I don’t say that lightly; I know it is a privilege.

But when it comes to creativity, it feels like another world entirely. Money is linear and measurable. Creativity is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes even buried. I know there are still talents, hobbies, and corners of myself that I haven’t revisited or even discovered. That’s what I need right now.

So I’ve been leaning into spaces where creativity lives. Talking to people who create not because they have to, but because they can’t help it. Surrounding myself with that energy, hoping it wakes up something inside me, too.

Lemon Peel is where the little thoughts live. The ones too personal for a full blog, too sharp to keep to myself. Short, raw, and sometimes messy—just like the peel, they add bite to the whole.

Lately, I came across a TikTok video that hit me: Consumerism is the perfection of capitalism. We’re trained to work endlessly so we can spend endlessly, and the system celebrates us when we keep wanting more.

I have talked about this with friends, how good shopping feels, how it gives that instant rush, yet when you think about it, we are just feeding into a cycle where we end up as the perfect victims. I am guilty too. The “I deserve this” marketing works on me every time. I have splurged more than I needed, and sometimes it feels impossible to pull back.

Psychologists say the thrill comes less from owning and more from anticipating. A Harvard Business Review piece explained that dopamine spikes in our brain just from imagining a purchase, long before we click “buy.” No wonder it is addictive. And to make it worse, researchers have found that when ads tell us we have “earned it,” we are even more likely to give in. Guilty again.

The dilemma is real: buying less is not easy when affordable, long-term quality items barely exist anymore. So we are left choosing between overconsumption and compromise.

Still, I am learning to take small steps. I tried the two-week challenge: if I did not feel empty after two weeks, I would not buy the item. It felt awkward at first, but it showed me I could stretch this into my own Project Pan, which means no new skincare, makeup, or perfume until I finish what I already own. I did slip once, buying perfume in South Korea before my brother’s wedding, but having told my friends about my plan, they help me walk my talk.

This shift even inspired me to curate something I call The Repeat Club. It is a small gathering I will share more about soon, built around the idea of rewearing, reusing, and reminding ourselves that new is not always better. A space with my peers to celebrate clothes and objects that have lived with us, and to resist the pressure to constantly “refresh” our lives with purchases.

I have also started thrifting, enjoying the hunt for pieces with history. And an added filter for myself: if the product is not cruelty-free, I do not buy it. Small steps, yes, but conscious ones.

And then there is the bigger picture. I cannot stop thinking about Earth Overshoot Day. This year, it fell on August 2, the date humanity used up all the resources the planet can regenerate in a year. Every day after that, we are living on borrowed time. To me, it felt like staring straight at the bill of our overconsumption, one we cannot keep ignoring.

These are not perfect solutions, but they make me more mindful. And maybe that is the point, not to be flawless, but to be aware. To value what is already here. To pause before we swipe the card.

Because the quiet rebellion in all this might just be choosing to live outside the script of endless wanting and daring to live with enough.

And silence has never saved anyone.

My brother has a pamamanhikan today at his fiancée’s place. That’s where I need to be.  I wish I could be out there in the protests. But I’m not. 

All I could do today is write. And for now, I’m choosing to believe that counts for something.

Because protest takes many forms.

It’s not always about being on the front lines. Sometimes, it’s about refusing to go quiet, even when you’re somewhere else entirely. It’s choosing not to move on like nothing’s happening. It’s choosing to say something even when it’s late, or soft, or unsure.

I don’t always know what to say. I’m afraid of sounding inauthentic, or self-centered, or misinformed. I second-guess myself. I write, delete, rewrite. And sometimes I go quiet, not out of apathy, but out of fear that I’m not doing it right.

But I’ve learned that silence might protect my comfort, but it doesn’t protect anyone else.

We don’t have to be experts to care. We don’t need credentials to feel rage. We don’t need to have the perfect language to convey what we mean.

Grief is not a contest. Neither is protest.
You’re allowed to feel helpless and still speak up.
You’re allowed to hold heartbreak and still resist.
You’re allowed to not be physically present and still refuse to look away.

Rabbi Tarfon once said, “It is not your job to fix the world entirely, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

This is what I could do today.
I couldn’t march, but I could write.
I couldn’t shout, but I could still refuse to stay silent.