I am unapologetically obsessed with new beginnings. New year? Yes, please. New season? Sign me up. New day? Gladly take it. But new months? That is my drug of choice. That clean page on the calendar hits different—
This one is for the ones who want the raw, unfiltered version: the middle-finger-to-the-past, let’s-actually-change energy.
Every 30–31 days, the clock resets whether your life is together or a flaming dumpster. That is the beauty and the brutality of it. You do not get to negotiate. The month ends. Old excuses expire. The universe does not care if you ghosted your goals or finally told your toxicity off—it just hands you a new battlefield.
I crave that. It is proof we are not trapped. Last month you might have been spiraling, people-pleasing, doom-scrolling, or quietly dying inside. This month? You get to be the chaotic, glorious version of yourself that actually follows through. Or at least tries harder before self-sabotaging again. Progress, baby.
New months expose the lie that you are “stuck.” You are not. You are just dramatic about continuity. The calendar calls your bluff every single time.
The hope is not fragile and sparkly. It is gritty. It is the voice in your head that says “this month could be the one” even after you have failed spectacularly before. New months do not fix you. They just give you a fresh arena to fight in.
I am always looking forward to something shiny and new. I am like a child with a new toy or puppy…. People generally get bored and stagnant when things are no longer new and exciting. So I am always trying to find ways to make the mundane worth celebrating.
You do not need permission to want better. You do not need everything figured out. You just need to stop romanticizing your own stagnation.
So when the clock strikes midnight on the 31st, feel that delicious little jolt. That is your cue. The old month is dead. And you do not need to attend the funeral.
I have been known for mainlining sugar, stress, and antibiotics like they are essential vitamins (add in some coffee and bubbles and I am in nutrition heaven!). That often leads to a condition called Candida.
An array of sugary treats contrasts with fresh vegetables on a wooden kitchen table.
If you have never heard of it, Candida is not a bacterial infection. It is a yeast, a type of fungus that lives in all of us in small amounts. But when your gut ecosystem goes haywire, it throws a wild party and multiplies like crazy. The result is extreme bloating that makes your jeans beg for mercy and brain fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I have always been the queen of “Treat Yourself” and yes, sometimes stress can make me take the playing a bit too far. I have always had a preference for fruits and sweets. Plus I would hydrate myself only with caffeine and I would treat drinking as if it was a medical necessity (aperol spritz, champagne, Chardonnay?)— and , we cannot forget obsession for my bubbly water with yummy flavored electrolytes!
A peaceful morning scene with coffee fruit, pie, and a journal on a rustic table
Yes, I thought I was functioning. But looking years back, my body was waving red flags. That post-meal bloat was not just “I ate too much.” That mental haze where I could not remember simple tasks or focus for more than 10 minutes was never just the side effect of brain damage. It was my gut screaming for help.
Sugar and refined carbs are Candida’s favorite fuel. These are also the main sources that make up my diet. Stress pumps out cortisol, which further imbalances your microbiome and weakens immunity. Coffee keeps the party going. It is a vicious cycle: the yeast craves sugar, you feed it, it grows, symptoms worsen, you stress-eat more. Heaven for Candida, hell for me.
Then it stopped. I did not seek help from the western medical establishment… as you ask them for help and they turn into pill pushers (telling you that Big Pharma will heal you— never mind what the blood work etc shows).
It is sneaky because symptoms overlap with so many other things—stress, thyroid issues, etc. Many people (myself included) brush it off for years. Fatigue that no amount of coffee can cure and intense sugar cravings.
Cross-section of the digestive system showing candida yeast overgrowth in the small intestine
Candida overgrowth is not always a formal medical diagnosis everyone agrees on (some doctors are skeptical of “systemic” claims), but the symptoms are real, and addressing the root causes helps a ton of people feel better. Realizing that any gut issue is an issue with something that you are eating is the first step. Yes, most doctors will say that you have some sort of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), but I have found that starving out the yeast is the way to go. Plus, eliminating any stress in your life. So ultimately mindfulness is most important. Not some sort of medicine.
No, I am not eliminating all of the yummy joy out of my life— I am not about to spend my life being miserable. I simply added in fasting, limiting the overly sugary/ processed and voila! I get to play again. I will treat myself and then practice self discipline. Weekends are often for indulgence. Weekdays are definitely disciplined. One meal per day and always full of vibrant and nutritious foods. It is pretty fun (plus the reflection in my mirror and the look on my my boyfriend’s face are both ecstatic!)
Side-by-side display of sugary snacks and fresh fruits on a kitchen counter
We live in the age of now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now. Your ancestors waited months for a single letter, starved through brutal winters, and jerked off to cave drawings if they were lucky.
You open an app and flood your brain with validation, food, outrage, or orgasms in under three seconds. Welcome to the golden age of instant gratification—the ultimate cheat code that quietly turning your brain into wet mush and your soul into a pit of greed.
You know the drill. That little red notification bubble hits and your brain lights up like a slot machine. (I turned off my notifications for my own personal sanity). Social media is not a platform anymore—it is a premium-grade dopamine.dealer pushing TikTok, Instagram, X, whatever the flavor of the month is. Every scroll is a casino lever pull. Every like is a payout. We all check our phones at 3 AM, eyes bloodshot…
A person stands surrounded by swirling social media and message notifications at night
Dating apps turned romance into a vending machine: swipe, match, “u up?”—transaction complete. No slow burn. No tension. Just meat meeting meat with the emotional depth of a McDonald’s drive-thru. That is not how I met my forever. I do not do that empty soulless dopamine transaction.
A brightly lit vending machine named Heart & Glow dispenses snacks and drinks with a glowing pink heart theme.
Want to “learn”? Why read a full book when some caricature on YouTube (or even AI) condenses it into a 45-second reel that makes you feel enlightened without any of that annoying retention or effort?
Want to get rich? Crypto bros and OnlyFans “models” exist for this reason alone. Thus you have a lighter wallet and heavier self-loathing.
And entertainment? Christ. We have all become allergic to waiting.
Even my boyfriend refuses to start a new show until there are a fat stack of episodes ready to binge. He will wait weeks, sometimes months, just so we can tear through it together over a few nights. It is hilarious when you think about it—this is exactly how society used to watch television back in the day. You would tune in once a week, maybe catch the occasional rerun, and actually anticipate the next episode like a normal human with functioning patience.
I personally do not mind the wait at all. Because that delay means something better: his arms wrapped around me on the couch, my head on his chest, sharing laughs and gasps in real time. No more staring at my laptop screen alone in my little corner of the dining table, eating my sad little snack while doomscrolling between scenes. The wait forces connection. It builds something warmer than the instant hit ever could.
Your brain is still that of a caveman but now it is running on outdated hardware. It sees sugar, sex, status, or stimulation and screams “MINE“ like a toddler on Red Bull. Evolution never prepared us for infinite, on-demand pleasure at our fingertips 24/7.
So we chase the hit. The hit gets weaker. Tolerance skyrockets. Vanilla porn stops cutting it. We want something harder. Freakier. Regular food tastes like regret. Your attention span disappears somewhere between the 50th reel and your 15th rage-tweet of the day. You become an unsatisfied junkie constantly upping the dose just to feel anything.
Meanwhile, everything that actually builds a meaningful life requires the opposite: delayed gratification.That boring, unsexy grind.
Yet we have been sold the lie that happiness equals constant pleasure with zero discomfort. Real satisfaction comes from the burn after a workout. The pride of work you actually bled for. The quiet warmth of waiting for something good with someone you love.
Instant gratification is not pure evil. Life is too short to be like a disciplined monk. Eat the cake. Send the risky 2 AM text. Watch the porn. Chase that rush and feel alive for a minute.
The danger is when it becomes your entire personality. When every evening is another solo scroll session. When you cannot sit with your own thoughts for five minutes without grabbing your phone like an addict.
My boyfriend’s little TV rule is a small rebellion against all that. It is not revolutionary. It is just… human. It turns passive consumption into shared ritual. It trades the lonely instant dopamine dump for something that actually fills the tank longer.
Society used to run on delayed rewards. Season finales meant something. Relationships took time to unfold. Success required seasons of invisible work. Now we want the finale tonight, the soulmate by morning, and six figures by next quarter.
This might as well be a part of ‘My Passion for Nutrition’ series…
Remember the “Horse Paste” Hysteria? Time to Talk Honestly About Parasites and Ivermectin
Back in the chaotic 2020s, when the world felt like it was spinning out of control, one of the strangest battles was the all-out demonization of ivermectin. Labeled everything from “horse paste” to dangerous misinformation, it became a cultural exclamation point. But it is time to step back from the noise: Ivermectin is a legitimate, Nobel Prize-winning antiparasitic medication with a proven track record in human medicine. And yes—there is a broader conversation worth having about whether most of us could benefit from thinking more seriously about parasites in our modern lives.
Discovered from soil bacteria in Japan and developed into a powerful tool against parasites, ivermectin has transformed global health. It paralyzes and kills certain worms and parasites by disrupting their nerve and muscle functions. It earned its discoverers the 2015 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for its impact on river blindness (onchocerciasis) and lymphatic filariasis—diseases that blinded and debilitated millions.
A petri dish with glowing bacterial colonies under lab conditions
It is incredibly inexpensive to manufacture—estimates put production costs as low as two pennies (I guess you should round up to a full nickel now!) per dose in bulk. Generic versions sell affordably (often under $50–$100 for a treatment course in the US with discounts), which means it does not line Big Pharma’s pockets like patented drugs. Through donation programs, billions of doses have been distributed for free in endemic regions. This accessibility is part of what makes it such a public health success story.
Here is where things get uncomfortable but real. Many of us in developed countries like the US do not wash our hands as thoroughly as we should. Fresh produce (especially organic!) is not always perfectly cleaned. Pets track in dirt, fleas, or other critters. International travel, imported foods, and close contact with others can introduce risks. Thus,intestinal parasites like Giardia, pinworms (Enterobius vermicularis), or others are not unheard of—even in “clean” societies.
I am not here to advocate staring into your toilet bowl (I am a lady, after all).But cleanses can rid us of all the environmental toxins that infiltrate our daily lives.
An artistic portrayal of Earth surrounded by microorganisms and medical symbols, highlighting global health connections.
Ivermectin remains a wonder drug for what it was designed to do. The 2020s taught us many lessons about questioning narratives, but also about respecting evidence-based medicine (even if it does not bring in the big bucks!). Routine cleansing for everyone may be necessary, even for most in sanitary environments. Disease invades those in developed countries. Parasites can also make us ladies act like “lunatics” during full moons (The word “lunatic” comes from Latin luna (moon), reflecting ancient beliefs that the full moon drove people—especially women—mad)…Greater awareness and targeted use of something like Ivermectin is absolutely worth discussing without the {political} drama.
I am not typically a negative person (read more here). I see the glass half full not half empty. However, I often feel that lack in my life—my man will say, “I wish they did that for you… you deserve a win” and my response? “That’s just how life works out for me now…. Whether it is my recovery, my relationship… I always have to wait”. Recovery crawling. Relationship hitting every red light. Opportunities? I am always waiting. Always.
Sounds like some emo, woe-is-me playlist on repeat, right? But I am owning this pattern like its designer. I have stopped fighting the current and started riding the wave. Everything—everything—is gonna drop when it is supposed to. Not a second sooner, not a millisecond later. The delays are not punishments; they are plot armor. Call me delulu if you want, but I am wearing that label.
Now let us talk about the real cancer that is eating souls these days: being black-pilled. You know the type. These miserables look at society’s flaming dumpster fire and the wreckage of their own lives and decide the only logical response is to glorify the potential apocalypse. “It is all doomed. Women are finished. Men are finished. The future is soy, depression, and climate lockdowns. Might as well rot in bed.” Black-pillers do not see problems—they call it realism. They marinate in present-day suckage and future-cucked despair like it is a personality trait. Spoiler: this is not deep. It is just being an emotional with extra steps. Zero growth. All cope.
Personally, I am riding the white-pill wave so hard. White-pilled is not some naive sunshine and rainbows. It is refined, razor-sharp clarity with a side of patience. You start seeing every “delay” as divine diversion for your own good. That job that ghosted you? Saved you from becoming a soulless cubicle zombie. The slow recovery? It is the universe wrapping you in bubble wrap so you do not shatter before you are ready to become the final version of yourself.
DIVINE TIMING ✨✨✨
Nothing takes “too long.” It takes exactly as long as it needs to. You are not being ignored—you are being protected. That glorious 20/20 hindsight always rolls up: Every closed door, every late blessing, every “not yet” is the cosmos playing 4D chess while you are still stuck on checkers.
Thus , I am done romanticizing the wait. I am weaponizing it. The black-pillers can keep doom-scrolling and crying into their half-empty drinks. I will be over here, glass half full (of celebratory champagne,probably), watching the universe cook up my victory lap.
Timing is not the enemy. It is the ultimate plot armor. And when my moment hits it is going to be so loud that even the black pillers will not be able to ignore it.
A winding path through a colorful wildflower meadow at sunset
Stay white-pilled, kings and queens. The wait sucks, but the glow-up? Worth every second.
Modern day medicine turned the single most abundant, free, life-giving force on this planet—the magnificent sun—into Public Enemy Number One. Slather on the chemicals, hide indoors like a pasty little gremlin, and for the love of God, never let a single UV ray touch your precious skin. Meanwhile, humanity somehow survived ice ages, plagues, and zero SPF for hundreds of thousands of years without dropping dead from “sun exposure.” Funny how that works.
Our ancestors were not cowering in caves with broad-spectrum lotion and a sun umbrella. They were out there hunting, farming, fucking, and fighting under the blazing sky every single day. Skin cancer? Melanoma? Those numbers stayed relatively quiet until the sunscreen industry exploded onto the scene in the mid-20th century. Suddenly we are all marinating in titanium dioxide smoothies and wondering why skin cancer rates keep climbing.
He looks happy to me!
Do not get me wrong—there are decent mineral-based sunscreens out there that actually reflect the rays instead of turning your skin into a chemical refinery. But the cheap shit most people glob on? That is basically endocrine-disrupting soup with a side of hormone messiness. The kind of goop that probably does more long-term damage than a mild burn ever could. Yet the “experts” keep pushing it like it is holy water while conveniently ignoring the data that does not fit their narrative.
If you really want to see the sun’s power, look at what happens when you actually use it like nature intended. Andrew Huberman (neuroscientist chad who actually talks sense) hammers this constantly: get outside within the first hour of waking and stare at that beautiful bastard in the sky. Not directly—peripheral view only, soak it in. That morning light slams the reset button on your circadian rhythm harder than a triple espresso and a cold plunge combined.
A man enjoys a cup of coffee while sitting in an ice-filled wooden hot tub outdoors.
Your body clock starts firing on all cylinders. Cortisol wakes you up properly instead of that pathetic artificial spike from your phone screen. Melatonin production later at night becomes sharp and clean because you did not spend the whole day hiding from photons like some vitamin D-deficient basement dweller. Low levels of vitamin D is associated with many autoimmune issues and fatigue/ depression. Blue light from lamps and screens at night? That is the real villain, flooding your house- wrecking sleep, mood, and testosterone. But sure, let us keep blaming the sun.
People who get consistent, smart sun exposure report better energy, clearer skin, stronger immune systems, and yes—often better moods. The sun triggers nitric oxide release, helps with blood pressure, boosts mood via serotonin pathways, and is literally the reason you can synthesize vitamin D, which controls everything from bone density to immune regulation to cancer protection. That is right—proper sun exposure is anti-cancer in the bigger picture.
Modern medicine loves a good villain. Cholesterol was the bad guy until it was not . Fat was evil until keto took over. Now it is the sun’s turn to be demonized so they can sell you more pills, creams, and procedures. Meanwhile, populations living closer to the equator with higher natural sun exposure often show lower rates of certain internal cancers and autoimmune issues when their vitamin D levels are optimized. But do not expect that on the evening news.
The real message is not “go get third-degree burns, bro.” It is use your brain. Build tolerance gradually. Get morning light. Get midday sun when your shadow is shorter than you. Cover up or use good mineral protection during peak hours if you are pale if you want . Eat foods that support skin health. Stop treating the sun like a toxic ex when it’s been keeping life on this rock going since day one.
We have become a society of fluorescent-lit, screen-staring, sunscreen-caked weaklingswho are shocked—shocked—that we feel like shit and need SSRIs and sleeping pills. Maybe, just maybe, the glowing ball in the sky that every ancient culture worshipped for a reason is not trying to murder you.
Men used to fight wars, now “men” like Bryan Johnston are hiding from the sun
Get outside. Touch grass. Stare at the sun (responsibly). Feel alive for once.
Your ancestors are laughing at us, wondering what the hell happened to their descendants.
There is something refreshingly raw about a figure like Spencer Pratt, the infamous “villain” from The Hills, stepping into the political arena. Yes, I admit it: I have always been drawn to the villain in the story— the one who everyone else seems to hate. And right now, as Pratt campaigns for Mayor of Los Angeles in the 2026 race, that glossing over him is driving me absolutely insane.
The 2026 Experience
Pratt, who announced his bid on the one-year anniversary of the devastating Palisades Fire that claimed his own home, is not running a conventional campaign. He is on a mission to expose what he calls deep-seated fraud, mismanagement, and dysfunction in California. He talks boldly about cleaning up the streets, tackling homelessness (those “zombies”— as he calls them— wandering the city in a drug-fueled haze), and holding the powers-that-be accountable. It is the kind of outsider energy that resonates in a city plagued by visible decay. Yet the media and political insiders treat him like a punchline rather than a serious contender polling in the twenties and surging with real voter frustration. There should be a lesson in that.
Here is the core lesson I have learned from observing politics at every level, and this is not a partisan jab—it is a structural truth that transcends red, blue, or whatever color-coded tribe you belong to: If you truly want meaningful change, you have to drive it locally.Primarily, start with yourself. National spectacles and global posturing grab headlines, but the day-to-day realities that crush or elevate ordinary lives—trash on the sidewalks, skyrocketing rents, failing schools, unchecked crime—are decided in city halls, county offices, and state capitals. The so-called “global elite,” do not lose sleep over the average taxpayer scraping by. They are insulated by distance, wealth, and influence. Real accountability starts at the street level.
Yes, Pratt promises to shine a light on the waste, the fraud, and the entrenched interests that have turned parts of LA into an open-air disaster zone. But let us be brutally honest: do we really believe the system will simply let him? The mayor’s office sits beneath the governor’s shadow in the hierarchy of power. Look at the Zohran guy who won the mayoral election in NYC. never mind that I personally do not support his policies, I am pretty sure that he was never allowed to install his vision. It is because the governor makes the policies. And governors, like California’s Gavin Newsom, are in the business of creating jobs and opportunities—or at least the appearance of them. Here is where the cynical machinery reveals itself:
An hourglass with coins spilling over divides a prosperous city from a poorer settlement below.
Imagine a city where homelessness and open drug use are largely erased. No more tent encampments. No more “zombies” shuffling through downtown or Venice Beach. On the surface, that sounds like victory. But zoom out: entire industries, nonprofits, task forces, union contracts, consulting gigs, and government programs depend on the existence of these problems. Cleanup crews, social workers, outreach teams, mental health contractors, housing initiative funders—the list goes on. If the problem vanishes, so does the justification for the budgets, the grants, and the jobs that flow from it.
This is not conspiracy; it is economics 101. Problems that fester generate employment. Politicians can campaign on “solutions” year after year, securing votes from those dependent on the system while reassuring the frustrated public that help is always just one more program, one more tax increase, one more initiative away. “We’re working on it,” they say, as the tents multiply and the needles pile up. Clean it all up too effectively, and suddenly there is a surplus of idle bureaucrats and contractors wondering where their next paycheck comes from. Better to manage the crisis than solve it outright.
That is the quiet cynicism at the heart of so much local governance. The people are left in a dependent loop, turning to “daddy government” for salvation while the same officials who presided over the decline promise yet another fresh start. Meanwhile, the average Angeleno deals with the fallout: unsafe streets, businesses fleeing, quality of life evaporating. Pratt’s outsider status—reality TV fame, no long political résumé—might be exactly what makes him threatening to this ecosystem. He does not owe favors to the same players as the regular politicians. He lost his home to what he sees as failed leadership. That personal stake could fuel genuine disruption, or it could highlight just how immovable the bureaucratic blob really is. We will see how this all plays out…
I am not endorsing every plank of Pratt’s platform, nor am I blind to the spectacle of a Hills villain turned mayoral hopeful. But the visceral reaction against him from certain corners says more about the defenders of the status quo than about Pratt himself. In an era where frustration with visible failure is boiling over, his surge in the polls (recent numbers putting him in striking distance) reflects an electorate tired of the same scripted failures. But I remain skeptical whether his lofty vision is plausible.
I know that is not how the political game is played. Local politics matters because it is where we see the proof in action. If we keep waiting for distant saviors or global resets, we will stay stuck in this cycle of decline. Whether Pratt can actually break it remains to be seen on June 2 and beyond. But ignoring the messenger because of his reality TV past, while the city continues its slide, would be the real insanity. Change starts local. The question is whether we will let the problems keep paying the salaries, or finally demand they end.
This Memorial Day, my boyfriend and I will be doing what we do best lately: sharing our usual FaceTime coffee date from opposite sides of the country. We have spent several recent Memorial Day weekends physically together, but somehow these long holiday stretches still end up with us glued to our phones — sipping coffee, chatting, and wishing we were in the same room. His grandfather served in the Second World War (but passed away in 2010). Because of that, my history-buff boyfriend feels a deep, personal connection to this holiday that I, as a Russian immigrant, can never quite match.
In Russia, we grow up honoring May 9th — Victory Day — with parades, red carnations, and stories of grandparents who fought in the Great Patriotic War. Patriotism there is loud, emotional, and woven into everyday life. Here in America, it feels quieter. More subdued. I understand why. This land has not seen the kind of devastation and loss that so many other countries have endured on their own soil. America’s wars have largely been fought far away, on someone else’s beaches and battlefields. That distance changes how the day lands in people’s hearts.Still, I find myself reflecting on the sacrifices made by those who came before — especially the ones who made my boyfriend’s family possible. Even from a screen, I am grateful to share this day with him.
Most people treat Memorial Day as the beginning of the summer. However, Memorial Day is more than just a long weekend marking the unofficial start of summer. It should not just be a holiday for another coffee date. It is a solemn national holiday dedicated to remembering and honoring the men and women of the United States Armed Forces who made the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.
A Brief History of Memorial Day
The roots of Memorial Day trace back to the aftermath of the American Civil War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in U.S. history, which claimed the lives of approximately 620,000 soldiers. In the years following the war, communities across the nation began decorating the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers, wreaths, and flags—a practice that gave rise to the original name, “Decoration Day.”
On May 5, 1868, General John A. Logan, commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic (an organization of Union veterans), issued a proclamation establishing Decoration Day on May 30. That first national observance drew thousands to Arlington National Cemetery, where flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers.
While several locations claim to be the birthplace of the holiday (including Charleston, South Carolina, and Boalsburg, Pennsylvania), the tradition spread rapidly. After World War I, it expanded to honor all American service members who died in any war. The name officially became “Memorial Day,” and in 1971, Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, moving it to the last Monday in May to create a three-day weekend.
The True Meaning and Significance
At its core, Memorial Day is about remembrance and gratitude. It acknowledges that freedom is not free and that countless individuals—sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters—paid with their lives to defend the ideals of liberty, democracy, and justice.
This day serves as a powerful reminder of the human cost of conflict. From the Revolutionary War through today’s global operations, these heroes stepped forward when their nation called, often knowing the risks involved. Their sacrifice ensures that future generations can enjoy the blessings of peace and opportunity.
Memorial Day also fosters national unity. It transcends politics, reminding Americans of shared values and the collective debt owed to those who defended them.
How Americans Observe Memorial Day
Traditions vary, but the spirit remains consistent:
Cemetery visits and grave decorations: Families and volunteers place American flags and flowers on the graves of fallen service members. National cemeteries like Arlington become seas of red, white, and blue.
Parades and ceremonies: Military parades, speeches, and moments of silence honor the fallen. The National Memorial Day Concert in Washington, D.C., is a highlight.
Flags at half-staff: From sunrise until noon, U.S. flags fly at half-staff to symbolize mourning, then raised to full staff to honor the living who continue the legacy.
BBQs and family gatherings: While celebrations often include cookouts, many use the time to reflect, teach children about history, and express thanks.
It is important to distinguish Memorial Day from Veterans Day (November 11 AKA my boyfriend and I’s physical anniversary!)), which honors all who have served—living and deceased. Memorial Day specifically focuses on those who died in service.
Why It Still Matters Today
In an increasingly fast-paced world, Memorial Day calls us to pause. It invites reflection on sacrifice, service, and the responsibilities that come with freedom. For Gold Star families—those who have lost loved ones—it is a day of both profound grief and national recognition.
As we enjoy barbecues, beach trips, and time with loved ones, let us remember the true reason for the holiday.
To all who gave their lives so we might live in freedom: Thank you. We will never forget.
This Memorial Day, may we honor their memory not just with words, but with lives lived in gratitude and service to the country they loved.
When I first met my boyfriend, I was deep in what I now laughingly call my “fake it till you make it” era (read more about this, here). Acting like I had already mastered the art of manifestation. I talked about energy, alignment, and “calling in” the life he wanted with total confidence, even though inside I was still figuring it all out, myself. I pretended I was some wise manifestation guru who had her entire reality on lock.
Funny thing is… it worked. Not just in landing the relationship, but in sparking a genuine passion that has completely transformed how I move through the world. Is it ideal and perfect? No, but it is my first manifestation “win.”
Today, manifestation is not a performance for me anymore. It is a daily practice, a philosophy, and one of the most empowering tools I ever discovered. And the cornerstone of it all? Acting as if it has already happened.
A hiker enjoys a breathtaking sunrise above a sea of clouds in the mountains
We have all heard the phrase “fake it till you make it,” but manifestation takes this concept much deeper. It is not about pretending in a superficial way. It is about embodying the version of yourself who already lives in the reality you desire.
When you act as if your dream has already come true, you shift your vibration, your decisions, your energy, and even the opportunities that cross your path. You stop waiting for permission from the universe and start living like the universe has already said yes.
A cozy scene of journaling by a sunlit window with a cup of coffee
Think about it: How would you carry yourself if the love of your life was already by your side? How would you speak, dress, and spend your money if financial abundance was already flowing? How would your thoughts sound if your dream career or body or home was already yours?
That energetic shift is everything.
One of the ideas that completely blew my mind (and made manifestation feel less “woo-woo” and more practical) is this:
Everything is made of particles. And those particles already exist.
The relationship, the money, the opportunities, the health, the experiences you want—they are not being created out of thin air. They are already here, existing as potential in the quantum field. The house you dream of? Its particles are floating around. The love you desire? Those particles of connection and chemistry are already present in the universe. The success you are calling in? Those particles of achievement are waiting to organize themselves into form.
The missing piece? Recognition.
Until your consciousness tunes into them with clarity, emotion, and belief, those particles stay in a state of potential rather than physical reality. Your focused thoughts, feelings, and actions are what collapse the wave of possibility into your actual experience.
A luminous spiral galaxy glowing with vibrant blue and gold light in deep space
This is not just spiritual talk. It echoes concepts from quantum physics—observer effect, entanglement, the idea that reality is far more malleable and responsive than we were taught in school. When you understand this, manifestation stops feeling like wishful thinking and starts feeling like conscious creation.
The Power of Positive Thoughts + Gratitude + Excitement
Here’s the practical formula I live by now:
Think the thought — Get crystal clear on what you want. Write it down. Visualize it. Speak it out loud.
Feel the feeling — This is where most people fall short. You cannot just think it. You have to feel it. Feel the gratitude as if it is already here. Feel the excitement bubbling up in your chest. Feel the relief, the joy, the pride.
Act as if — Make decisions from that place. Show up as that version of you. Say no to things that don’t align. Say yes to things that do.
The combination of gratitude and excitement is an incredibly powerful emotional cocktail. Gratitude sends a clear message to the universe — “Thank you for delivering this” — while excitement broadcasts a high-frequency signal that draws even more of what you desire. You can also spark this excitement by assigning special meaning to a number, animal, or symbol. When you begin seeing it repeatedly, it becomes a beautiful confirmation that your desire is already on its way to you.
I make it a non-negotiable part of my morning routine. Before I close my eyes every night (after our nightly FaceTime session), I feel great gratitude and thank the universe for bringing me beautiful new experiences, this way I am already feeling grateful for the beautiful things that are on their way. I do this every morning, too… I write and talk as if they have already happened. I celebrate tiny wins like they are massive victories (like getting the bowl for my snack!). And the results? They keep showing up.
Looking back, pretending to be that manifestation guru when I met my boyfriend was never really pretending. It was me stepping into the energy of the woman I wanted to become. I was rehearsing my future self.
And now? I do not have to rehearse anymore. I am her.
Manifestation has helped me call in deeper love, creative opportunities, better health, and a sense of peace I did not know was possible. It is not about toxic positivity or ignoring real challenges. It is about choosing where you place your focus and refusing to let fear write the story.
The universe is listening. The particles are ready. Your only job is to recognize what is already yours.
In a world that glorifies the relentless grind—the 5 a.m. alarms, the overflowing inboxes, the endless cycle of productivity hacks and side hustles—there is a quiet revolution blooming in meadows and on windowsills. It is called cottagecore, and it is not just an aesthetic. It is a lifeline for those of us whose nervous systems have been fried by the modern expectation to do it all, be it all, and still look effortlessly polished while doing so.
Cottagecore is the dream of soft mornings wrapped in linen, the scent of fresh bread cooling on the windowsill, hands stained with berry juice from jam-making rather than ink . It is the gentle rejection of a life that was never designed for human flourishing. And for many burned-out Zoomers (and yes, some of us who came just before them), it became the soft landing we desperately needed.
Picture this: You are rushing out the door, hobbling in stilettos, latte in one hand, briefcase threatening to burst just like your barely-contained anxiety. You Uber across the city for a meeting that could have been an email, all while mentally preparing for happy hour later—because heaven forbid you miss the narrow window to “meet someone” who might join you for brunch on the weekend. Then, because society demands you remain a certain shape, you drag yourself to a workout class at dawn so you do not become one of those “sad piles of fat.”
A businesswoman confidently strides across a busy city street holding coffee and files
Layer on top of that the constant family obligations, notifications that never stop pinging, and the quiet terror that if you slow down for even a moment, you can fall behind. Our nervous systems were never meant to handle this level of stimulation. We are wired for seasonal rhythms, for community in small doses, for rest that actually restores.
The pandemic, for many, cracked the illusion wide open. Suddenly the hamster wheel paused. No more commuting. No more forced socializing that left us emptier than before. And in that stillness, a truth emerged: we do not actually want the girlboss life. We want to bake sourdough at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. We want to knit by the window while it rains. We want to tend a garden that feeds us more than just vegetables—it feeds our souls.
A person plants a young herb in a sunny garden bed surrounded by labeled plants and gardening tools.
I am not Gen Z. I did not discover cottagecore because the hustle culture finally broke me during lockdown. I chose this life because I fell in love—with a person, with a pace, with a vision of days that felt like poetry instead of performance.
While the world was collectively reevaluating during those strange years, my slower lifestyle was already taking root. The pandemic did not force my hand; it simply confirmed what my heart already knew. I did not want to optimize my life for maximum output. I wanted to nurture. To create a home that felt like an embrace. To build something sustainable not just for my bank account, but for my spirit.
There is profound strength in choosing the wooden spoon over the corner office. In trading stilettos for wool socks and well-worn boots. In measuring success by how many jars of jam line your pantry shelves instead of how many LinkedIn connections you have made.
This is not about cosplaying: romanticizing poverty or playing pretend farm. It is about reclaiming what actually makes us feel alive.
Cottagecore reminds us that caring— for a home, a garden, a partner, ourselves—is not weakness. It is the most radical act in a culture that tells us to outsource our softness.
A warm rustic kitchen bathed in morning sunlight overlooking a garden
We were not built for constant performance. Our bodies and minds crave the slow turn of seasons, the satisfaction of self-sufficiency, the deep peace that comes from creating rather than consuming.
To every soul who feels the pull toward this softer path: you are not lazy. You are not failing at modern life. You are remembering something ancient and true.
Kat’s Musings 