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.