So, here I go again. Fifth time’s the charm? Or maybe just another round in the ring with the same tired ghost.

I tried to be nicotine-free—again. After seven years of chaining myself to this addiction like it was some kind of lifeline. It wasn’t. But it sure felt like one when nothing else made sense. It filled the silence. It stitched the seams when I thought I’d fall apart. But now my chest is heavy—like something is knocking from the inside, asking to be let go. Fever’s been dragging through me for days. My body feels like it’s waving a little white flag, whispering, “Please, enough.”

It’s not like I’ve never walked away before. Last year, I quit cold turkey. Two whole months of breathing without the burn. I almost felt human again. But then life cracked at the edges, and instead of holding myself together, I reached for what I knew would break me faster. A strange kind of comfort, that.

I’ve watched myself slip deeper into it over the years. It went from once in a while to every damn moment. Like I couldn’t exist without it. Like every second without nicotine was a second too sharp, too loud.

But I want out.
I want out because I’m tired.
Because I don’t want to trade years for minutes of relief.
Because even if I don’t believe in forever, I still want a little more time.
Because my chest hurts, and I want to know what it’s like to breathe easy again.

So this is day one. Again.
Maybe it’s different this time. Maybe not.
But I’m showing up for myself.
Even if I’m limping. Even if I’m scared.
Even if I’ve failed before.

Because every time I try again, I’m choosing to believe that I still can.
And maybe that’s enough—for now.

Today feels heavy, like the sky is choking on smoke no one admits is there. They say this is democracy, but I can’t find it—maybe it’s buried under the slogans and staged smiles. Maybe it’s bleeding on the street, the kind of red they’ll call something else in tomorrow’s news. The ones with guns were meant to guard us, weren’t they? Now they aim at us instead, and still call it order. They tell us stories, sweet and bitter, like poison in sugared tea—innocence burned, but in the headlines, it was always guilty first. I wonder if justice was ever real here, or if it was just a word we borrowed, wore thin, and forgot to return.

They say,

“You’re too nice for your own good.”

I’ve heard it so many times it might as well be printed on a mug—right next to “World’s Most Conflict-Avoidant Human.” It’s not that I try to be nice all the time. It’s just… easier. Quieter. Cleaner. I avoid arguments like they’re potholes on an already bumpy road. The idea of confrontation makes my stomach do cartwheels, and not the Olympic kind. More like the panicked, uncoordinated kind that ends with me questioning every life choice that brought me to that moment.

I’ve wondered why I’m like this.

Is it my upbringing? The way I was told to smile politely even when I felt like crumbling? To be agreeable, gentle, pleasing—like that’s where my worth came from? Or is it those Bible verses etched into my conscience from childhood? “If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other also.” At this point I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of cheeks. I’m starting to wonder if Jesus anticipated that part.

And here’s the part that scares me a little: I don’t even know how I really feel sometimes. Like deep down, under the polite nods and soft “it’s okay”s—what’s actually sitting there?

Is it resentment?

Is it quiet, unspoken rage that never found a proper exit door?

Sometimes I imagine myself doing something wildly out of character—like spitting on someone mid-argument. (Too much? Yeah. But it crossed my mind.)

What if one day I just… snap? What if the years of swallowing irritation and smiling through it all build up until something finally bursts? That thought terrifies me. And yet, part of me thinks the real danger isn’t in snapping—it’s in never figuring out where the line is. Never knowing what I actually feel, or where my boundaries begin and end.

Maybe this “niceness” isn’t a virtue.

Maybe it’s a survival mechanism that got a little too good at its job.

And maybe—just maybe—there’s a way to be kind and honest.

To love people without losing myself in the process.

To turn the cheek when I choose to, not because I’m afraid not to.

I don’t have the answers yet.

But today, I’m giving myself permission to ask the questions.

And that feels like something.

I don’t know when we stopped being just classmates who liked the same books and became this strange, beautiful constellation of three. A book club that rarely finishes the same novel on time, but always finds a way back to each other. We crossed oceans just to scream-sing in a stadium lit up like a sky full of bracelets. Three days of chaos, glitter, hotel mirrors, and the kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt—and somehow, that was enough to stitch us together for good.

We speak fluent fiction, drink coffee like it’s oxygen, and text in bursts of feelings that don’t need full sentences to be understood. We are different, wildly so—and maybe that’s why we work.

To the one on the left—

You are a spark—bold, noisy in the best way, hilarious without trying, and somehow always three questions ahead of the rest of us. You ask things no one else dares to. You say things that make us pause, laugh, or scream into our pillows. Your stories never run out—about your whirlwind life, your moving cities, the annoying stranger at the store, or that mysterious someone from five cities ago. You’re far, always moving, but somehow always present—yapping into the group chat like it’s your stage. You live by your own compass, and I admire the way you hold your worth with both hands. You know exactly what you deserve—which includes great coffee, genuine people, and absolutely no weak fictional male characters. You’re our chaotic big sister—exhausting, entertaining, impossible not to love.

To the one on the right—

You carry a kind of calm most people spend years chasing. You’ve known stormy seasons and walked through them with grace—not loudly, but deeply. You love intentionally, quietly, in the way that stays. And you’ve found a kind of happiness that feels earned. My mom always tells me to be more like you, and honestly, so do my better instincts. You’re thoughtful, self-assured, and somewhere along the way, you became our anchor—the one we turn to when the world feels too loud. You love matcha like it’s a love language, and one day, I’ll hold you to the promise of making me a cup. Soon, you’ll be working nearby, and the thought of sharing dinners and soft nights with you again makes my chest feel warm. You are, without question, the mother of this book club—and our forever role model.

To us—

May this book club outlive our TBR piles.

May we stay the kind of women who meet over coffee and talk nonsense until the sun goes down. May we be the cool aunts with great playlists, questionable decisions, and group chats that never die. I want more blurry bathroom selfies, more impulsive catch-ups, more nights where we drink too much caffeine and spiral over fictional plotlines. I want more of this—this rare, imperfect, soft thing we’ve made.

We didn’t begin in fireworks. We grew quietly, chapter by chapter—and somehow, we became each other’s favorite story.

Always,

—the one in the middle

There’s something about new beginnings that always makes me uneasy. People talk about them with such hope, as if starting over is a clean page waiting to be filled. And maybe it is—for them.

For me, there’s always a quiet kind of fear that comes first. A slow, steady weariness that settles in the closer I get to change. Even when part of me is curious—maybe even excited—there’s another part that holds back, unsure.

What if this isn’t the right step?
What if I’ve misread the signs?
What if this place, this path, this moment… isn’t mine to belong to?

The more I sit with these questions, the more I realize—it’s not the uncertainty itself that unsettles me. It’s me. Or more precisely, the way I look at myself in moments like this. I start to doubt whether I’m enough—whether I deserve to be here at all. I find myself quietly searching for signs, for validation, for someone to say, Yes, you’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to try.

Sometimes, I wonder if maybe someone else would be better suited. Someone more certain, more brilliant, more… made for this. There are even days I wish I had been born different—lighter somehow, easier to place in the world.

And yet, here I am. Still walking forward, still opening new doors. Still meeting each beginning with a breath, a tremble, and a kind of quiet courage. I may not always feel ready. But I’m learning to begin anyway.