i had recently turned 21, moved to a new city, rented my first apartment, felt a sudden rush of “free will” on weekends, and finally met audacity.

i would book a trip with nothing lined up except how to get there. say yes to a 10-hour bike road trip with no itinerary but a hunger to explore what looked exciting. go to cafes i had heard of but hadn’t verified. try looks and things even without a Pinterest board guiding me.

the primary “why” was simple: i wanted to find out.

not every experience was memorable. some turned out mediocre and some were nothing remarkable at all. but i feel i wouldn’t have any stories had i not been willing to follow that pull - with places, plans, people, anything. how gen z says that we should “do it for the plot”. i actually love that advice.

cut to a decade later.

now, a cafe now gets vetted across five or six platforms before i decide it deserves my evening. itineraries are mapped to the T so i don’t have to think when i’m there (i tell myself this is maximising experience). meeting new people comes with a perception already forming before i’ve given them a real chance. even picking up a book needs more than an interesting cover now, because leaving it halfway would feel almost criminal, like a failed investment.

i justify all of it and it also makes sense a lot of times, but there’s a more honest name for what’s happening.

i am outsourcing my curiosity now.

and i don’t think i’m alone in this. we’re still curious, of course, but maybe we just don’t let ourselves act on it until someone else has confirmed it first.

with all the technological advancement, somewhere, we started needing the world to tell us what’s worth our time. slowly, our own pull toward things atrophies. you don’t know what you like anymore, only what’s been confirmed as likeable.

we bookmark the restaurant after the third reel. we read the book after three friends have. we visit a place after it makes a ranked list. the curiosity is real, but it gets laundered through external proof before we allow ourselves to move.

and in doing so, something important gets lost - we stop arriving open.

when you already know what to expect, you go with a filter on - a perception, a checklist, or a verdict half-formed before you’ve walked in. and, that filter blocks what the place, the person, or the moment actually had to offer. you’re not discovering anymore, you’re confirming. there’s a difference, and it shows up in how present you are - how much you actually notice and how much gets in.

curiosity used to include the possibility of being wrong.

the place that turns out mediocre, the trip where nothing remarkable happens, and the evening that becomes a story only because it went sideways. that risk is what made the discoveries feel earned. when we demand consensus first, we don’t just eliminate the risk, we eliminate the texture of genuine surprise.

i’ve been trying to unlearn this. a month ago, now living in Delhi, i was invited to an experiential dining event. i didn’t have a plus one or know anyone but the host.

but, i went anyway “for the plot”.

when i got there, i felt like i was crashing someone’s party. everyone seemed to know everyone. i sat alone at my table, had a drink, tried the menu, and at some point decided to just be there, for however long, with no anchor and no agenda. after about an hour, three nice girls i didn’t know joined my table. somewhere into the evening i admitted i’d felt like a gatecrasher the whole time. they laughed and immediately made me feel like one of them. i left with inside jokes with complete strangers.

one of them told me she’d seen me sitting alone and was surprised how i was “vibing by myself”. she said she could never imagine doing that. nor can i, my inner voice admitted. how she saw me versus how i was feeling were poles apart, and it made me register something.

i hadn’t done something like that since early years in Bangalore. and this experience only happened because i decided to not know too much before going. i allowed myself to just be curious. because i arrived without a script, i was actually there. i noticed things, was open to strangers, and let the evening in.

this was a big feat for someone like me. i am often socially anxious and prefer to have an anchor. but, i guess i wanted to find out what happens without one?

i felt that giving myself permission to just explore without expecting any outcome allowed me to be more present.

information is great but it also shouldn’t guard you from new experiences needed to grow.

it also backs this recently loved quote “everything in life is a win if the goal is to experience”.

so, i leave you with this:
we’re curious, of course, but the question is whether we trust ourselves enough to act on it, before the ratings come in, before the consensus forms, and before someone we respect has vouched for it.

to take a chance on our own instinct.
to be okay with it not working out.
to not know the ending before we begin.

so, the next time you’re curious about something that excites you but you’re tempted to validate it, maybe go ahead and try it anyway?

you know, for the plot.

love,
tan

In fact, I don’t think I fully grasped this until much later in life, perhaps somewhere in my late twenties, when experience quietly began reshaping definitions I had long taken for granted.

Love, as we first encounter it, makes the most sense when dressed in loud costumes.

Control mistaken for care, intensity mistaken for depth, frequency mistaken for presence, grand gestures mistaken for true romance, and urgency mistaken for longevity.

This isn’t on us, not really. Every movie and book that becomes most popular in the genre sells a version of love that feels unreal yet deeply aspirational. We grow up absorbing how ‘love should look’ rather than how ‘love could feel’. The ‘shoulds’ quietly take the gravity out of love.

It takes time, and a certain softening of one’s own edges, to recognise the quieter architecture of it.

To be loved is to be seen.

Not simply looked at, not admired, not observed from a distance, but seen in the way something becomes deeply known. It isn’t a matter of time either.

It’s the way you come to understand the presence of the moon even on nights it refuses to appear. You do not doubt its existence. You recognise its cycles. Its absence carries meaning, not anxiety or fear. The effect of it is felt beyond its appearance.

To be seen is to be held in someone’s awareness, even in your invisibility.

It lives in the smallest recognitions of a life.

Remembering how you take your coffee without ever having asked.
Sensing the difference between your quietness and your withdrawal.
Noticing when your laughter is wholehearted and when it is carrying weight.
Catching the thought behind your eyes when you momentarily drift away.
Knowing that sometimes, all it takes is one gentle word to steady you.
Recognising whether you need to be held with space or without leaving any.

Love is rarely constructed in grand gestures.
It is assembled, patiently, through attention.

Through the gentle study of another person’s rhythms, sensitivities, peculiarities, and comforts. Through learning the emotional climate of someone’s inner world simply by staying present long enough, carefully enough.

Because being seen is an intimacy few things rival.

It is relief.
It is safety.
It is the quiet exhale of not having to explain your nature repeatedly.

When someone truly sees you, love stops feeling like performance. You are not being managed, impressed, or interpreted. You are being understood in your natural habitat, in all your contradictions, patterns, silences, preferences, and shifts too subtle for the hurried eye.

It surprises me how little it asks of you.

It quietly transforms the texture of ordinary moments, making small things feel charged with meaning, and stretching time seemingly beyond the laws of physics. Nothing dramatic necessarily happens, and yet everything feels subtly richer, fuller, more alive. You feel held without feeling contained and complete without feeling consumed.

Perhaps that is why the deepest love isn’t always loud or magnanimous, contrary to what pop culture repeatedly reminds us of.

It feels like coming home without having to knock.

It feels like someone learned your language, the wordless one, the invisible one, the one most of the world never slows down enough to hear.

May this love find you.

Love,
Tan

At that age, the conclusion felt simple. There was a right way to move, a right pace to trust, a neat ending waiting at the finish line.

When I think about the story now, not as a lesson we were taught but as a mirror we’ve grown into, I start seeing the two characters differently. Less as winners and losers, more as two ways of moving through the world. Two tempos. Two relationships with time.

The hare, in this light, is not careless. It is capable, efficient, and built for speed. It knows how to arrive quickly, how to cover distance, how to make momentum look effortless. It trusts acceleration. It believes in the power of getting ahead. It is alert to every movement around it, responsive, ready to pivot, to chase, to adjust.

The tortoise moves with a different intelligence. It doesn’t measure progress in leaps. It doesn’t look for shortcuts or side paths. It stays with the ground it’s on. Each step is small, but it is complete. Nothing is rushed past. Nothing is skimmed.

When I place these two in the texture of modern life, the resemblance is almost tender in its accuracy.

We live like hares now.
Fast minds. Fast schedules. Fast responses.
Multiple windows open, multiple conversations running, multiple versions of ourselves being managed at once. We are good at movement. We are good at reach. We are good at becoming.

And yet, so often, we are not quite inside where we are.
We don’t recognise when we leaped so far ahead. We recognise the adrenaline it left as souvenir. We often confuse that for joy.

The tortoise represents something quieter. A way of moving that is less about velocity and more about inhabiting. About letting the road register under your feet. About staying with one direction long enough for it to become familiar, intimate, and yours.

What draws me to the tortoise today is not the promise of winning. That framework feels dated. The race itself has lost its romance. The idea of arriving first, faster, ahead, no longer feels like the prize it once did.

What feels alluring now is absorption.

The ability to walk through a day and actually feel it.
To stay with a conversation without mentally leaving it.
To do one thing at a time without narrating the next.
To let time move, without constantly trying to outrun it.

Choosing the tortoise’s pace is not about rejecting ambition.
I think this is one thing I find myself clarifying often, even to myself.
It is about choosing depth over blur.
Texture over speed.
Savouring over skimming.

But the tragedy, and the tension, is that we are tortoises by design.
Our bodies, our attention, our capacity to feel, remember, attach, and stay with things all naturally move at a pace that is unhurried, sequential, rooted.

And yet, we are trained to live like hares.
To move quickly, respond instantly, switch constantly, arrive fast, leave faster.

Somewhere between who we are and what the world rewards, a quiet mismatch opens up.
Not a dramatic one, a subtle one.
The kind you feel when a day ends and you realise you were present for very little of it.

I don’t think the question anymore is who wins the race, or if you’re even meant to take part in one.

I think it’s this:
What pace allows your life to feel like it’s actually yours while you’re living it?

Love,
Tan

We don’t talk about it often, but most of our restlessness comes from trying to be somewhere else — a version of ourselves we’ve imagined, rehearsed, or promised. And yet, we wake up exactly where we are: half-formed, half-certain, halfway through a dream we haven’t reached.

“Meet yourself where you are” isn’t an affirmation; it’s a reminder. Something I told myself a few times in the last couple of days. I felt I was everywhere and nowhere at once. As if my feet were touching ground, but I was still afloat.

This moment makes you question things that you have set in stone. You have no business hammering what’s done, but you’re so restless that you project it outside.

When you try to meet yourself where you are, you choose to look at the coordinates of your life without shrinking or posturing. It’s admitting: This is the page I’m on. Not the one before it. Not the one I thought I’d reach by now. And, this is okay.

When a year ends or a birthday comes or something cracks open in our life, our instinct is to run backwards or forwards. Back to the version of us that feels familiar or ahead to the version that feels impressive. Anywhere but the precise spot our life is quietly pointing to.

But the truth is: you can’t skip the part you’re standing in. Life won’t let you. Every acceleration has a cost. Every detour hides a toll.

This in-between — the last days of a year, the final stretch before change — is not asking you to transform. It’s asking you to witness.
To notice what’s here. What’s been shaping you quietly. What still feels true. What no longer fits.

It’s uncomfortable because it’s unedited.
No soundtrack.
No montage.
Just you, sitting in the middle of your own life, noticing what’s true.

Meeting yourself where you are means standing in the exact emotional weather of the moment, not dressing for a season that’s already over or one that hasn’t begun.

It means letting this version of you have a say. The one who’s tired in new ways, hopeful in small ways, learning quietly, and changing without ceremony.

I have been reminding myself, in an attempt to walk back home, where life is slow and in reach, that:

I don’t have to leap.
I don’t need to have an opinion about ‘today’.
I don’t have to overcompensate and say yes to something I don’t want because I’m uncomfortable where I am.
I just have to recognise the ground under my feet, even if it’s uneven.

And maybe that’s the whole point of this season — not to reinvent, not to race, not to rewrite your life overnight, but to arrive in it.

To return to the version of you that’s here now, breathing, evolving, unfinished, and still worthy of attention.

Because the next chapter doesn’t begin when the calendar tells you.
It begins the moment you stop abandoning the one you’re already in.

Love,
Tan

Meeting yourself where you are is easier when you are intentional. These will help:

1. What needs to go (for you to go slow)

2. When nothing works, I organize a drawer.

3. How to slow down and stay warm this season

It’s most of our adult lives. Full, but crowded. So crowded that we often miss the small, living parts in between - the quiet satisfaction of an uninterrupted tea between tasks, a slow walk after dinner, walking your dog on purpose rather than out of obligation, or simply watching the sun set because you feel like it.

What I’m really asking is: are you deliberate?

Not about the grand decisions - career, marriage, purpose, or the next show to watch. I mean the ordinary.

Are you deliberate about how you eat, or does lunch just happen between meetings?
Are you deliberate about how you speak, or do you just fill silence with sound?
Are you deliberate with your time, or does it slip away politely, without resistance?

The Roman philosopher Seneca once said, “If a man knows not to which port he sails, no wind is favorable.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We keep adjusting our sails without checking where the boat’s even going, or better, not realising that we’ve been on a boat all this time.

Being deliberate isn’t about planning, perfection, or slowness. It’s about intention.
It’s choosing to participate, not just spectate. You’re aware of what you’re doing while you’re doing it. You notice why you’re saying yes, and why you’re saying no.

It’s building an intimacy with your life; an antidote to being on autopilot - the difference between living from within versus living from an agenda. It takes you on a morning walk, not because it is ‘good for you’ but because you ‘like to’.

When we’re not deliberate, we go with the flow, and the flow, let’s be honest, isn’t always kind. It’s what makes us ghost people we care about, ignore the purchase we bought to bait the dopamine, or postpone the small wins we hoped to experience. The flow is comfortable, but it rarely feels like you.

Being deliberate doesn’t mean obsessing over every detail or walking around with a magnifying glass. It might simply mean that in your everyday chaos, something inside you stays steady, like a quiet internal compass that keeps you from drifting too far from yourself.

You may wonder, “Yes, sounds perfect if you don’t have a packed life and no space to think.”

Fair enough, but you can live a fast life and still be deliberate. The overlap lies in awareness. Having ‘slow pockets’ simply gives awareness a chance to catch up.

So, for us, being deliberate can look like:

• Immersing in what we’re consuming instead of treating our meal as a side dish to our scroll or binge.

• Texting when we have something to say, not because the “seen” is staring.

• Letting a sight register in our mind before we reach for our camera.

• To create rather than consume because the algorithm wants us to.

That’s where the art of noticing sneaks in.
When you’re not speeding, you observe things like
the change in sunset hues when autumn begins.
How and where the afternoon light shifts in your home.
The kind of flowers blooming in the neighbourhood.
That your barista now has a ‘star’ on her apron.
If your loved one is quieter than usual.
Or, if you’re quieter than usual.
You begin to live with yourself, not just beside yourself.

And, this doesn’t cost us our ambition. We’re just awakened to a life in which ambition exists.

So, let me ask you: who would you be if you were deliberate?
If your choices weren’t rushed, your energy wasn’t scattered, your presence wasn’t borrowed by a screen.
Would your days feel richer?
Would your mornings feel slower?
Would you, perhaps, feel more like you?

Not necessarily a happier you, but a present you.
The one who remembers which chapter of life this is and what it’s made of, not just the one before or after.

It’s not easy, being deliberate. It’s an active choice you’ll have to make every day.
Some days, it’ll feel like an invisible rebellion against the world.
And maybe, in choosing that rebellion, you’ll finally start living your life—deliberately.

That day, we both will win :)

Love,
Tan
💌 The Slow Post

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The house smells of fried snacks and new flowers. The playlist swings between old Bollywood nostalgia and whatever someone’s cousin calls “Diwali Vibes 2025.” Bartending rotates among guests; some mix out of passion, others out of emotional necessity.

At one end, the poker tables are alive: roles claimed, chairs pulled close, sleeves rolled up. The quietest people of the year now explain the rules like seasoned commentators. Someone shuffles with surgical focus; some float over the “other side” reporting their net loss (with a smile) as if it were a trick to turn their luck. Around them, a few spectators channel their inner ‘Mentalist’, convinced they can spot a tell before anyone else.

It’s a kind of theatre - half strategy, half laughter, fully human. Firecrackers pop outside like uninvited applause, briefly shaking everyone’s concentration before the room slips right back into rhythm.

It’s a full house of warmth and chaos. And sometimes, I’ve found myself in it.

I don’t play; I float. I move between conversations, balancing a modestly full plate, pausing to catch up with someone I haven’t seen since last Diwali. There’s always that one smile you didn’t realize you missed until it’s right there again, expanding like a golden orb inside your chest.

Not everyone comes to win. Some come to reconnect, to exhale after long weeks, to laugh until the noise blurs, to remember they still belong somewhere. These are the nights when collective laughter feels like group therapy, when catching up turns into confession, when you realize how much you needed faces that know your stories from the middle, not the headline.

Every year, there’s at least one deep, unexpected chat that only happens now, in the middle of the noise. The kind that leaves no residue of expectation but quietly restores something human. There are eye rolls and knowing looks exchanged across the room with the people who really know you, and those are the jackpots worth keeping.

A few people hop between parties, keeping the night alive across the city. My social battery, however, is a fragile optimist - full of hope, short on stamina.

Although when a board game appears, I join with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been warming up all night. Maybe that’s what Diwali parties are really about - the in-between moments. Not the wins or the noise, but the small pauses that remind you that you’re part of something bright and alive.

As the night winds down, it hits me that most of us played a version of the same game - not of cards, but of connection. Of showing up, of noticing, of remembering how good it feels to have a few more inside jokes and memories to someone’s name.

Every year, we all leave with the same quiet prize: a few stories, a little warmth, and something gentle that lingers long after the lights go out.

The decade was an adventure that took me everywhere and, somehow, brought me home.

I reached places I hadn’t dreamt of, gave into trial and error (esp. human), climbed a mountain (well, a significant part of it), quit a path, started a business, earned nicknames I prefer over my name, stamped my passport, fed my curiosity, and found forever love in people, pets, and plants.

Alongside the joy, I felt like I was “always on”, overstimulated, and too rushed to process what I was experiencing. By the end of that adrenaline-packed decade, I craved a pace of my choosing - at home, at work, and in everything I sought.

I wanted to experience life, not just sprint through it. So, I made some shifts.

1. Measuring life by achievements → Living through presence & experiences

Back then, achievements looked like shiny proof I was on the right track. The job, the trip, the line on the CV. They weren’t meaningless, but they weren’t the whole story either. Now, presence is the metric that also matters: how it feels, not how it looks.

2. FOMO → The joy of being where my energy feels at home

Around 22, life suddenly became a broadcast. Social media turned everyone’s evenings into a highlight reel, while colleges still carried high-school cliques. It wasn’t that I wanted to be everywhere; it just felt like I should. Influence made things look magnetic that, in truth, I didn’t even want.

Now, my compass is quieter: does my energy feel at home here? If yes, I stay. If not, I leave. Even if that’s just my sofa and a book.

There’s no missing out when you’re already home.

3. Collecting mindlessly → Curating intentionally

In my 20s, volume had its appeal: a big circle of friends, a busy calendar, more shoes than I needed. I wasn’t chasing excess; I just didn’t know myself well enough to edit.

My 30s are about curation. A vase chosen with care, a book I’ll underline, a handful of people I can text without hesitation. Value feels abundantly appealing.

4. Overcommitting → Honoring my limits

Until I was in my late 20s, I felt like saying “yes” was the default. It was the way to belong, to not rock the boat. I didn’t know “no” was allowed, especially not in the professional world. It was a weakness you didn’t want to befriend.

But every unnecessary yes chips away at health — mental, emotional, physical. Today, “no” feels like kindness to me and the other person/ situation.

It’s how you learn who you are.

5. Rushing → Trusting life’s timing

False urgency was the mask of ambition, until Gen Z took it to LinkedIn and declared war against it (I think). Quick decisions looked like progress, but mostly came from fear.

Now, I know timing has its own intelligence. Some answers only arrive when you stop demanding them. Patience feels less like waiting and more like faith.

6. Fighting differences → Choosing peace over proving a point

I used to think disagreement was an invitation to perform: explain, defend, persuade. Most of the time, it wasn’t. Peace feels heavier in my hands than any “win” ever did.

7. Looking outward for approval → Going inward for alignment

Applause has been a measure of worth since childhood, from classrooms to rooms full of relatives. Social media amplified it: engagement as proof you mattered. I’m not challenging its value; I still care if my words resonate.

But my first question now is: do they resonate with me?

Approval is fleeting; alignment lasts. It shows up everywhere - in the clothes I wear, the work I share, the people I hold close.

My 20s asked, “Will they like this?” My 30s ask, “Does this feel true to me?”

I love what Confucius said: “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”

It aligns with where I am today - conscious of pace, not momentum. I’m sure this, too, will evolve as I gather more experiences.

Have you made any shifts that helped you evolve?

In a world that rewards “doing,” where do feelings go?
Mostly? Lost under laundry piles and half-read WhatsApp messages.

Back then, I didn’t know what “emotional regulation” meant. I just knew that on some nights, you needed to cry in the shower or replay the same Coldplay song until your bones felt rinsed.
Feelings weren’t an inconvenience; they were a part of the process.
Sometimes I’d write a poem, sometimes I’d lie on the floor of the balcony and stare at the moon like I was in a movie.
Melodramatic? Maybe. But available? Very.

Now, things are more... efficient.
I get the pang. I clock it. I do nothing with it.
I’ve become excellent at active detachment, or as someone might say, “practicality” - living with cognitive dissonance like it’s a roommate I can’t evict.
I go on with my day, let the emails find me “well,” and even reply to texts with exclamation points.
Sometimes, I even post an Instagram Story with a soft song and herbal tea, even though I’m actually sipping in silence and wondering whether I’m having an existential crisis or just need a snack.

It’s not every day, but it happens. And I know it happens to you, too.

Because here’s the thing: I wonder if our fast and smart world has quietly rendered feelings... optional. Especially the kind that take their time. The kind that asks you to pause and actually sit in the soup. In your 30s, that soup metaphor changes. It’s no longer “let yourself feel.”
It’s “don’t you dare stir that pot, we do not have time to wipe the mess if it spills.”

Expressing used to come easily, when it didn’t feel like it came at a bad time.
Now, it can be draining to even begin. You have to explain the backstory, the emotion, the context, and pretend that “no, I didn’t overthink it. I’m okay with it.”
Because who has the bandwidth?

So instead, you find your chosen people. You send a series of raw messages over WhatsApp or have a café conversation that saves your week. Not always therapy, but sometimes better.

Lately, I’ve been trying a few small things.
Not to fix it, but to stay vulnerably human in times where ChatGPT is increasingly becoming the most empathetic and patient presence in our lives.

I light a candle and write when it gets too loud inside. I tell the truth to people who are consistently there. I remind myself that feelings aren’t facts, but they do deserve airtime.
I sit in silence with incense or out in nature. I cry and then slap on a sheet mask - half for self-care, half so my family doesn’t start a full-blown investigation.

I try to balance ‘the heavy’ with things that allow me to levitate: music, gardening, cheesecake, asian takeout, or organizing a drawer.

I’m still learning not to sprint past my feelings, pretending I’m just “being productive.” I’m not a robot. Just a person trying to feel without ending up down bad and crying at the gym, as Miss. Tay Tay said in that one song.

And no, I’m not romanticising sadness. I just miss when being emotional didn’t feel like bad time management.

So if you’re feeling too much, maybe that’s good.
Maybe that’s just proof you’re still in there.
Not numb. Not flattened by the speed of it all.
Just human, inconveniently so.

So, let’s keep stirring the soup anyway.
Mess and all.

🎧 “For the Feelers Who Stayed Till the End...”

(a mini playlist for when you’re ready to feel again)

When you're feeling it but need it in the background:
“Heer Toh Badi Sad Hai” - Mika Singh

When the moon is full and so are you:
“Sparks” - Coldplay

When you’re crying in the shower but want it like a concert:
“Easy On Me” - Adele

When you want to sit in your soup and let someone narrate it to you:
“My Tears Ricochet” - Taylor Swift

When words fail you, literally:
“Jo Bhi Main” - Mohit Chauhan

Let’s not gatekeep - Tell me the song you ‘feel’ to?

The version that has five browser tabs open in your mind at all times.
Or feels that rest must be earned.
Or has outgrown people, but still texts them “let’s catch up soon,” just to delay the truth.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how many of these small, heavy things we carry, not because they help us, but because we’re used to the weight.

A slow life isn’t always about doing less.
Sometimes, it’s about subtracting what keeps speeding you up.

Comparison.
Overcommitting.
That one “productive” habit that actually exhausts you.
Friendships that don’t fuel you, leave you spiraling, doubting yourself, and screenshotting chats to friends for “advice.”
Rushing into plans just because it’s the weekend.
Saying yes when your gut already said no.
Scrolling reels to relax, only to wonder why you’re anxious 20 minutes later.
Tracking your every step, calorie, thought, and hour in the name of "self-care."

Mental clutter disguised as “just in case”—the imaginary scenarios, overpacked schedules, and bookmarked podcasts you swear you’ll get to.

And no, I don’t mean quit your job or ghost your responsibilities.
I mean the tiny, invisible edits.
The shift no one notices, but you feel in your shoulders.
The moment you say no to something that doesn’t need to be a yes.
The plan-free hour you defend like a national holiday.
The decision not to scroll past your own moment.

For me, it was reducing urgency.
Not everything needed a reply in five minutes.
Not every idea deserved a color-coded Notion board.
Some thoughts are allowed to pass through like clouds.

Slow isn’t just a pace; it’s a filter.
A way of choosing what gets your energy.

So, what needs to go?

Maybe not forever.
Maybe just for now.
Maybe just for today.

That unread book you’re pretending to love.
A goal that no longer feels like yours.
The self-imposed pressure to always be “available, lively, or on”.
That overcomplicated routine you stopped enjoying weeks ago.
That friendship that’s mostly maintenance, not meaning.

A full life doesn’t need to be a full plate.
Sometimes, it just needs space.

With love,
Tan 💌

The glorious “in-between”.

Where you’re not at the beginning, not yet at the end, and definitely not vibing with the middle.

There’s a specific kind of brain fog that rolls in when you’re in the middle of something.

Not the beginning, where everything feels possible and caffeinated. Not the end, where everything (hopefully) looks neatly tied with a bow. Just… the in-between. The “meh” of life. The emotionally gray waiting room of progress.

The “in-between” is wild.

And, June is a very “in-between” month, which prompted this post. You’ve done six months of whatever-you-thought-this-year-was-supposed-to-be, and now you’re staring down the other half like, “Should I pivot? Or nap?”

This is the part where the puzzle pieces are half-fit. Some sections look promising – look at me, I exercised twice this week! And then some are chaos, how did I forget to drink water for two days straight? In-betweens are brutal because they test your vision, patience, and return on energy invested. (ROEI - I used it in a conversation once, and it made sense!)

It’s also where self-doubt shows up uninvited and overdressed.

You ask questions like:
Is this even working? Am I lazy, are my stars lazy, or is it the weather?
Why haven’t I figured it out by now?
Is it a plateau or a plot twist?

You know when you’re watching a movie, and suddenly it enters that weird, neither-here-nor-there stretch? The music stops swelling. The main character starts questioning all their life choices. There’s rain. Maybe a montage. This “space” feels like that.

Feeling stuck but also kind of tired of trying to “unstick.” You keep refreshing your inbox, your energy, and your goals.

But here’s what I’ve been thinking lately:

First, accept it: the in-between isn’t temporary. It’s constant. Life is 85% in-between and 15% “made it,” and even that’s debatable. The only real choice you have is to pick what you want to experience the “in-between” of. Otherwise, you’re just tired all the time, mid-something, mid-nothing.

The process is not where dopamine lives. That reward? It’s mostly reserved for the finish line. But the process is messy, slow, and lonely at times. It demands belief before evidence. And it tests whether you’ll keep going even when it’s not glamorous.

Still, there are moments, small ones that don’t make it to Instagram. Clarity sneaks in while showering at 10 pm, in a text from someone who reminds you of what you used to love, or a sign – a random line in a show you rewatch, or a deeply specific horoscope.

It’s where you realign with what you actually want, because the shiny things stop feeling exciting. It’s where you realize your effort is your applause. And sure, that sounds poetic. Some days you’ll write a to-do list. Other days, the highlight is remembering to eat a banana.

And that has to be enough.

So, if you’re also in between, of clarity, energy, a decision, a plan – hello, pull a chair. You’re just… buffering. And you don’t need to have it all figured out today.

Take your next step.
Or take a nap.
Organize a drawer, remember? Or, drink water and breathe.
Or hop off that mental train headed nowhere and wait for one that feels like you.

Because honestly? You’re not behind. You’re just mid-plot.
So love, what are we choosing today?
Movement? Pause? A croissant?
I’m right here in the middle with you.

Until next time,
Love,
Tan

When nothing works, I organize a drawer.

The one with too many cables and not enough context. The one with diaries I’ve been “saving.” The one filled with old photographs I keep meaning to frame. Sometimes it’s stationery I’ve collected from everywhere, or “stuff” that doesn’t fit anywhere.

I have too many drawers.

Anyway, this month began with my body demanding a slower phase. My focus has shifted from doing a lot to doing just what’s needed. I’m not trying to fill every hour anymore. Just meet the ones that matter. And, it’s not easy. Not for me.

So, some days feel hazy – like, where did one-third of June go? I usually have a rhythm I recognize, and right now, it’s changed. It needed to. And I’m not resisting that.

So I open a drawer.

There’s something about untangling the mess you can see. Folding, sorting, and placing things back where they belong. For a few minutes, I’m fully here, not thinking three steps ahead, not bracing for what’s next. Just present.

And by now, you know, it’s not really about the drawer.

Well, maybe a little. It’s about what the drawer lets me practice.

I used to think slow living was about control. That if I moved gently enough, life would follow suit, on time, in rhythm, without resistance.

But now I know: Slow living isn’t about control. It’s about response. It’s about meeting life where it is, without needing to master it. Presence, when your mind wants to predict. Returning to your breath when your thoughts are three days ahead.

That drawer? That five-minute act of quiet rearranging? It’s not about fixing your whole life. It’s about creating a pause in the middle of it.

A soft kind of resistance.
A small act of grounding.
A signal to your nervous system that says: You’re not lost. You’re here.

So, yes, control might be the entry point. But acceptance is the evolution.

And slow living? It’s not always the story.
Sometimes it lives in the margins.
In the paragraph break.
In a drawer.

Until next time,
Love,
Tan 💌