Philip

I got into a creative writing mode and wrote this. Please enjoy 🙂 — The year was one of melting ice cream and broken air conditioners. Archie Banks sat on the edge of the river that had once been lined with daisies, now reduced to nothing more than weeds and pieces of broken branches. He rolled up his checked shirt, skipped a few rocks, and as the clouds darkened, he held an old vintage photograph of a beautiful woman in one hand, creased and weathered by time, almost faded. Parts of him resembled her, the smile mostly, bright as the moon, though these days it looked more like an upside-down crescent. Drops of liquid splashed and danced on the photo. He wiped the image and his face, and the clouds wept too, softly, then much too strong. And that was when he saw it. A body. Face down. He froze. It passed him by, and for a moment he held his breath, face whiter than the veneer teeth his stepmother always flashed when she wasn’t busy chasing him with the broom. He did what I or any sensible child would do: made a dash for it. To home, I mean. Little feet echoed through the woods, stumbled twice, but made it back in one piece, more or less. Home. “And where in God’s name have you been?” his stepmother asked, reaching for a tough leather belt. Her favourite. But Archie was quick on his feet, made a dash for his room, slam, lock, under the covers. He began to weep, and despite the banging and yelling, soon fell fast asleep. The next day. School. “Has anyone heard of the boy who cried wolf?” Mrs. Sunny asked with a frown. The class groaned. “Well,” she said, “there are lies we tell people for attention, until the lies themselves are the ones that destroy us.” “I don’t think that’s how the story goes, Mrs. Sunny,” said one of the children. “Well, if you can do a better story, be my guest,” Mrs. Sunny said, frowning. “My pleasure.” And for the next ten minutes or so, that child stood in front of the class and told the most brilliant story, but Archie was in a world of his own. He thought about the riverbank, and he thought about the body. But most of all, he thought about going back to investigate. And so he did. But the body was not there. Of course it wasn’t. It had probably rotted away or been eaten by a bear. It might be of great interest to you to know that this story took place in Canada, where bears did these sorts of things, the carnivorous ones, not the ones you might meet in a gay club, if you were into that sort of thing. He contemplated under the beating sun what he should do, whether to tell someone or to investigate. But who would believe him? He asked himself the question found in the title of this story. He decided, then, to follow the river for as long as his little feet could carry him. Perhaps he might find clues. Somewhere on the horizon, the sun was packing her bags for the day. Archie knew he shouldn’t have wandered this far from home, but he could always follow the river back, one bend at a time. The ache of the truth compelled him to continue, even if only to convince himself. And just as the thought of giving up crept as high as the full moon that night, he saw something that made him scream. The body. This time, Archie did not hesitate. He did not hesitate to step into the river, soaking his clothes. He did not hesitate to approach the body, even when he knew deep down who it was. And he did not hesitate to run when the dead body in his arms was none other than himself. His face was neither rotting nor bloated, but one of calmness and serenity. Graceful, even. He reminded Archie of an alternative life, perhaps in another universe where things might have turned out differently, happier, with his mum. Or in another universe where his pain ceased to exist, to finally have peace. He held the body up, and the moonlight shone her brilliance onto their faces, before the body faded. He took the picture of his mother and unfolded it. The image was broken by the creases, stained by years of tears, worn thin by the hands of a boy who had never truly known how to let go. He would often whisper to himself that everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t, that smiling through the pain would make it easier, because that’s what people expected him to do. And the thing with lies is, if you tell yourself enough times, perhaps you would believe it too. He had become the boy who cried wolf, even when no one was there to hear his cries but the wind on lonely nights, through the covers, under the stars. And the wolf. Who is the wolf but the truth he’s too scared to name? Grief dressed in black, disguised as his shadow, following him relentlessly. It was time. The picture fluttered onto the river, drifted away, and carried with it the body of the boy who had grieved. *** The light of the house shone brightly as he approached. His dad sat on the porch, embraced him when he arrived. He did not ask where he’d been or what he’d been up to. His face was wet. Eyes swollen. “Your stepmother,” he said, “was eaten by bears.” “The carnivorous ones?” Archie asked. “Or the ones you find in a gay club?” He raised an eyebrow, then knitted them tightly. “The former one,” he assured him. “It’s just us now,” he said. And for the first time in a long while, Archie’s smile was as full as the moon on that summer night.

To the part of ourselves that lingers. A day after James and I stopped seeing each other, I went back on the Hinge app and started going through the backlog of guys who had liked me during the three weeks I’d been off the app—because I was dating James. One guy in particular stood out. His name was Phil (short for Phillip with two Ls), and out of everyone I replied to, I secretly hoped he would be the one to text me back. Fortune had it—he was the only one who actually did. We connected deeply, on so many levels. Mutual interests like gaming, movies, writing, and reading. Deep thoughts. Long messages. Quick wit. All of it. We scheduled a date for the upcoming Saturday, and in the days leading up to it, we exchanged texts and even had a phone call that lasted three hours. When the day arrived, we met at a restaurant called Universal on Bygone Street in the city—halfway between us. We live about an hour and twenty minutes apart, seventy-five kilometers to be exact. I felt comfortable within the first five minutes of meeting him. We talked about our lives, our careers, relationships—everything in between. To both of us, the date went extremely well. There was just one problem. Philip had recently come out of a seven-year relationship. It’s been just three months. He told me this upfront, even before the date, and gave me the choice to continue or not. I said yes—I was happy to go along for the ride. But I had my doubts. Can someone truly move on after just three months from something that deep? Is the heart really healed enough to let someone else in? I didn’t have to wonder for long. The next night, he sent me a message saying that while he had a really great time, he needed to be honest with himself. He realized he’s not looking for anything serious right now—he’s still in a healing space. And I understood. He said he’d still like to hang out, if I wanted to. When I asked about boundaries, he said he was happy with hugging, cuddling, and sex—what he confirmed as friends with benefits. I told him I was okay with that. What happened with Paul a few months ago taught me something important: to accept people for the version they are now, not the version I hope they’ll become. That means I’m not holding out hope that Phil will heal and, at the end of that process, suddenly open the door for something more. That’s a nice fantasy, but it’s not healthy. It creates pressure. It sets expectations. And it prevents me from loving or showing up for who someone is, in the present moment. So I told myself: I’ll keep living my life with him in it, as a friend, maybe something physical, but I won’t invest my heart too deeply. I’ll protect that part of myself. I’ll save it for someone special. A few days later, I met someone new on Hinge. His name is Angelo. He’s from the Philippines, eight years younger than me. I’ve dated someone with that age gap before—it was wonderful. Angelo is 27. He’s building his career, his home, his life. We vibed. We had our first date just a few days ago—home-cooked dinner, movies, a lot of cuddling. He’s already excited for our second date, which we’ve planned for next week. But here’s the truth. A part of me is still with Phil. The situation is messy as hell. I still have feelings for him. I’m being honest about that. And because of that, I can’t fully give myself to Angelo—not right now. I can feel the imbalance. The way Angelo likes me, versus how much of myself I can actually give back. It’s uneven. And I find myself caught between two worlds, two men—splitting my heart without fully cutting the tether to Phil. So now I lay here in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what to do. What would closure look like with Phil? What would surrendering myself fully to Angelo look like—for him, and for me? I take a deep breath. And I trust myself. I have faith in myself. That I’ll walk out of these woods in one piece.

To the harbours that we anchor. I’m driving home from work. The traffic is bad. The sun is setting somewhere on the horizon. And a thought occurs to me. I know what I am to people now. I am a harbour. And this is what harbour means to me: A harbour is a place for ships— ships that have been out at sea, weathered by the storm, damaged, but still able to find comfort in arriving. The harbour is a safe space. A place to dock. To rebuild. To recover. To rest. It’s a place where the ship can just be— no performance, no pretense. Where it can express its fears and hopes, its fatigue and wonder. Where it can stay for as long as it needs— until it’s ready to head back out into the open waters to conquer the world again, knowing that the harbour will always be there if it ever needs to return. In my life, Michelin—my current workplace— has become that harbour for me. In that part of the world, I’m the ship. I dock there every morning when I arrive at work. And when I clock off, when I leave for the day and head back into the world, my ship feels brand new. Fully recharged. And that— that is the space I want to offer to people. Because I know how damn great it feels to have a harbour in one’s life.

To the calm after the storm. I’ve been trying to master the art of teasing. And I’ve come to realize that it’s a very delicate dance— a dance between lighting someone up and tearing them down. The line is razor thin. And I find myself dancing on it at all times. It’s exhilarating. It’s challenging. But the payoff? The payoff is always so damn worth it that it’s worth dancing that line constantly for me. Teasing is meant to be light-hearted. It’s meant to be fun. You’re both supposed to laugh—maybe feel a little embarrassed— but never, at any point, feel hurt. Feel small. Feel insignificant. Because that’s when teasing stops being teasing. That’s when it becomes cruelty. But teasing—when done right— it connects people on a deeper level. It’s playful intimacy. A coded language. A test of wit and trust all in one breath. Lately, I feel like my teasing has crossed into flirtation. Maybe even a little witty, too. And I’m embracing that space. I’m learning to read the room, to gauge the other person’s response, and to adjust the intensity like a dimmer switch. And so far? It’s working. Really well. But I’ve noticed something important. Something crucial. Aftercare matters. Because when you run someone over with a bulldozer— even if it’s with charm and cheek— there’s going to be collateral damage. You have to know how to pick up the pieces. You have to remind them that it was all in good fun— and that you’re still there. Still present. Still holding them together. You have to remind them that they are enough. Weirdly enough, I’ve found that this same kind of aftercare extends into sex, too. I’m definitely more drawn to the rougher side of things. But I’ve learned— the best kind of rough sex always ends in softness. It’s in the way the top pulls the bottom close. The way he whispers, “You’re still here. You’re still wanted.” It’s the way he reminds the bottom that after the surrender— the degradation, the spit, the rawness— they are not worthless. That they matter. That all of it was just play. Delicious, messy, powerful roleplay. And that at the end of the day, they are still whole. Still loved. That’s what teasing is to me. The art of playfully jabbing someone while never letting them forget— they matter.

To checking in on ourselves. A wise friend of mine said something recently that stopped me in my tracks. He said, It’s important to check in with yourself— and ask, when you’re connecting with someone: How do they make you feel? Do they make you feel seen? Do they make you feel safe? Or do they make you feel small— scared, anxious, unsure? Do you feel inspired? Alive? Like you can breathe deeper? Or maybe it’s a tangle— a mix of feelings you haven’t had time to name yet. And I found that so profound, because honestly, we don’t stop to ask ourselves that question often enough. Not until the moment’s over. Not until the silence hits. Not until we’re driving home replaying everything we didn’t say. But what if we asked it in the moment? That’s what I’m practicing now— checking in. Especially when I’m around people I care about. Especially when I’m dating. When I’m with someone, I want to feel safe. Seen. Heard. I want to feel like I’m enough— not a performance, not a highlight reel, not a curated version of myself to win someone over. I want to be able to show up as me. Messy. Grounded. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes quiet. And still be worthy of love. That question— How do I feel right now?— it’s not just for people. It stretches beyond that. It applies to everything. The game you’re playing. The book you’re reading. The job you’re doing. The path you think is yours. Ask it when you’re alone. Ask it when you’re in motion, or when you’re still. Ask it mid-scroll, mid-sentence, mid-chore. Ask it when you’re about to say yes to something that deep down, you know should be a no. So next time— whatever space or interaction you find yourself in— pause. Check in. And ask yourself one simple, powerful question: How does this make me feel? And don’t rush the answer. Let it rise. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.

To overflowing containers. My whole life up until this point, I’ve always been searching for love. I used to think— romanticize— that love was something missing from me. That I was incomplete. And the world held the answer. Somewhere out there was a person who would find me, and fill the space. But over the past few years— and more recently, more profoundly— that perspective has shifted. Love isn’t missing. It’s everywhere. I love my family. I love my friends. I love writing. I love gaming. I love when people ask good questions— and when they give honest, messy, beautiful answers. I love curiosity. The kind that digs beneath the surface and asks Why do you do what you do? Who are you when no one is watching? And yes, when the time comes, I will love my partner. Not because I’m empty— but because I’m already full. I’ve realized— I am no longer searching for love in someone else. Because I am overflowing with it. It’s brimming from the top, spilling past the edges of my container. It runs down my sides, touching everything I do, everyone I meet. Now I’m looking for someone who can hold that overflow. Someone whose container is big enough— not perfect, but patched. No bottomless holes, no leaking cracks. Just someone who’s done the work, stitched their own soul back together enough to hold what I have to give. Which is a lot. And maybe— just maybe— my love can overflow his container too. ⸻ On a side note— I’ve been going on more dates lately. And the dates themselves have been excellent. But still, I keep getting the same messages: I had a great time with you, but I’m not in the right place for anything serious. Or I haven’t really been feeling the love emotion. And yeah— it stings. It disappoints me. It hurts. I’m not going to lie about that. But the hurt is short-lived. And I’ve learned to give myself a little pat on the back— because these days, I get back up faster. I don’t shield my heart. I don’t go cold. I stay open, even when it hurts. And I think a big part of that is the support behind me. The quiet anchors in my life. Family. Friends. The structure of work. The safety of home. These invisible hands— they lift me up off the floor. Every time. So I never really stay on the ground for long. Because isn’t that what love is about? It’s about choosing to open again and again, even when it would be easier to close. It’s about loving fully, knowing the risk. It’s about falling, but learning the art of getting up— softly, bravely, with both fists full of love anyway. And honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Sharp observation. You’re absolutely right—where I drop my anchor is where home is. Except, for me, “home” isn’t just four walls or a fixed address. It’s any place where I feel safe, seen, and nourished. Michelin was always a kind of second home for me—maybe not perfect, but a refuge. Maybe what I’m feeling right now is a kind of homesickness. Or maybe it’s just that I’m missing that anchor: a place I could return to every day, recharge, and then head back out to conquer the world, a little stronger each time. Thank you for helping me see that—sometimes it takes another pair of eyes to spot where the real anchor’s buried.

To the corners we have yet to explore. There are spaces in my life that are currently evolving. Spaces I’m stepping into— not for the first time, a space filled with fog. I can’t quite see what’s around me, only feel the shape of change brushing against my skin. But every day, when I talk to someone new or read a line that lingers or watch a video that jolts something loose, I learn a little more about this space. A step closer to the clearing out of the woods One of these evolving spaces is travel— and I want to save that for another day. Because today, I want to talk about the shifting space of my career. I left Michelin about two weeks ago. It was bittersweet. Sadness, yes. But also a wild pulse of excitement— the kind that dances behind your ribs when you’re about to leap. A sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time. I didn’t really have a solid plan. Just a loose sketch of doing a bit of content creation, teaching fitness classes on the side, with the ultimate dream of becoming a personal trainer on a cruise ship. And now that I’ve tasted that freedom— really tasted it— I’ve realized something painful but clarifying: I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur. I had a hunch before I left. Because I’d tried it ten years ago, as a personal trainer, a sole trader, and I knew even then that it wasn’t in my blood to be that lone wolf chasing his own brand. But I figured—hell, maybe a decade has changed me. Maybe I’ve grown enough, sharpened my tools enough to carry that weight now. But these past two weeks have done nothing but confirm what I already knew in my gut— I work better as a co-pilot. A collaborator. A gear in something greater than myself. I also realized that Michelin was more than just a job. It was an anchor. A sanctuary. A goddamn playground. It was where I moved my body, lost myself in music and podcasts, laughed with coworkers, mucked around, and somehow got paid to be present. And most days, it didn’t even feel like work— it felt like play. Right up until the very end. It was also a place I went to to unravel my thoughts, dissect them, and stitch them back together before the end of each shift. A ritual I didn’t even know I had until it was gone. And now, without that anchor, I feel adrift. I sleep in. I waste time. I spend half the day doing absolutely nothing, then try to cram some productivity into a fleeting two or three hours. And I feel—truly— a part of my soul shrinking in this air where others seem to thrive. But to me, this much freedom isn’t a gift. It’s suffocating. And so, I’ve realized something else— something I wish more people would say out loud: I work really well under time restraint. One of the best things about Michelin was that it took away eight hours of my day. Another eight went to sleep. Which left just eight hours to live— to create, to connect, to dream. And that restraint? It fueled me. It gave me urgency. It made me move. But when you hand me twenty-four hours of freedom, I unravel. Because I’m too efficient when I need to be. I know I don’t need the whole day to make something great— I only need two or three hours. Which means the rest gets wasted. I get wasted. Time gets heavy when it isn’t held. Which is why, next week, I’ve decided to walk back in. To that factory. To that space. To drop anchor not as a step backward, but as a strategy. Ironically, I need something stable to set my sails free. To move forward into this ocean of freedom with something steady beneath my feet.

To colliding worlds. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about mutual interests— and how they shape compatibility. Looking back now at my most recent dating experience with James, I realized we actually didn’t have anything in common. And yet, I was still willing to make it work. I’m the kind of person who finds peace in silence, in stillness. Someone who writes, reads, plays games, goes on long, quiet walks and hikes just to hear my own thoughts echo. But James— James is more of the party type. Always on the move. Brunches, lunches, dinners. Art galleries, shows, parties, raves, and trips that make your passport ache. We were two people in two different worlds. And it doesn’t mean we were incompatible. It just means we had to try and understand each other’s world a little more. To learn what makes the other person tick— what drives them to wake up in the morning and chase whatever sets their soul on fire. For a while, I tried to do that with James. Tried to understand his love for travel, why his friends meant the world to him. And in return, James tried to understand why I love gaming so much. Why I lose myself in singing. Why my Vietnamese roots feel like an anchor and a flame all at once. Today, I’m talking to someone new. His name is Phil—short for Phillip, with two Ls. And we’ve already found a few shared interests. Gaming, for one. We’ve both done a personal training course in the past. We have overlapping hobbies— writing, reading, a love for reflection and movement that comes from the same place. And it’s made me think about how easy it is to connect when someone mirrors your interests. How conversation flows without effort. How you feel seen—not just heard— because you speak the same language without needing translation. It’s the same way I’d connect with another Vietnamese person if we were dating. There’s an understanding woven into the details of how we move through the world. But I still believe— deep in my bones— that two people completely different can still find love through mutual understanding. And that, to me, is a philosophy I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

Thank you for sharing Jamie. That was beautiful 🥰

To the empty spaces that don’t need filling. I’ve been learning to sit with silence for a while now. It’s those moments where everything is calm and still. In the past, whenever there was silence between me and someone else, I would always find it a little bit awkward, as though that silence needed to be filled with something— mainly with a question, or a conversation. I wasn’t comfortable sitting in the silence, because it meant that something was wrong. But lately, I’ve been embracing the silence. I noticed this when I was with Paul, coming home from a hike that we’d done. We were both pretty tired, and we chatted a lot on the way there. We also chatted a lot during the hike as well. So on the way back, we were just enjoying each other’s presence— both eyes on the road while I drove. And we didn’t need to say anything to tell the other person that we are still here, still present. I remember a time when I was with Kevin, and many times we would just share the same space. I would be doing my own thing, and he would be doing his own thing, and we wouldn’t talk to each other, but we were just there, sharing each other’s presence. And it felt nice. And lately, I’ve been learning to feel comfortable in the silence when sending texts to the guys that I’m dating, and they take forever to send me texts back. I would sometimes think that something was wrong, that I did something wrong, or said something that upset them— but they always get back to me. Perhaps they were busy, perhaps they got caught up in something, or maybe they weren’t that interested in me. But whatever the case is, I’m learning to continue with my life without pausing it to wait for them to text me back. And I feel like I’m growing, and evolving, by embracing the silence. By knowing that everything is just going to be alright, if I continue to take one step forward at a time. The texts will come. The conversation will still continue. There’s nothing to worry about. Sometimes, the silence can be its own beautiful music too.

To the winters that are bitter cold. James and I decided to end things, three weeks into dating. He sent me a text, asked if I could come over for a chat. It sounded serious, and I had a feeling something like this was coming. So I showed up. And sure enough—he said that even though he enjoyed dating me these last three weeks, he didn’t feel any romantic attraction, and he thinks we should stop seeing each other. To be honest, it did come as a surprise. Sure, I didn’t feel a strong romantic connection either, but I always figured this was one of those slow burn types of love— the kind where you slowly get to know each other over time, where love happens organically, not the love-at-first-sight kind, or the kind that keeps the spark raging through the honeymoon period. But I guess, I was wrong. I told him how grateful I was, for him being a beautiful chapter in my life. And we parted ways with grace. At home, in bed, I am thinking about the chapters that are closing in my life. The chapter I had working with Michelin. The chapter with my massage course. And now, the chapter closing with James. It makes me feel like I’m standing in the rubble of everything coming down. And I look around me, and behind me— I’m not alone in this. Because behind me are my friends. My family. All there to support me. And Michelin? Always welcoming me back with open arms if I ever choose to take that route again. I look at all the crumbling towers in front of me, the chapters that have closed— and all I see are opportunities for bigger, better structures. And it fills me with excitement. Because I have no idea where this next chapter will lead. Winter is coming for me. It’s a season of life that’s full of hardship— but that’s also where I thrive. So I’m looking forward into the future. Not with sadness. Not with despair. But with excitement. And because I’m human, a little bit of nervousness too.

To the lives we live together. James and I have been dating for three weeks now, and things have been going quite smoothly. To me, I think that we passed the honeymoon phase a while ago. It feels like we’re settling into the normalcy phase now— where we’re starting to understand each other’s daily rhythm. It’s no longer about being performative, but just about being in each other’s presence. Being able to be ourselves and not always trying to impress the other. We see each other in our PJs. We go to each other’s houses and act like it’s our own. And best of all— and it’s something that’s been there from the beginning— we can be honest with each other. We can share our thoughts and feelings without worrying about being judged. James told me in the first week that he’s someone who falls in love very easily. He knows this about himself. He’s got good self-awareness. So he usually gives four to six weeks to see how things are going— to wait for the honeymoon phase to fade, to see if the feeling is still there. I’m a little bit faster than he is. My honeymoon phase lasts about a week. I’m not sure if James still thinks we’re in the honeymoon phase or not. But we’ve definitely moved into a routine now, figuring out how to fit each other into our lives. It’s an unfolding story. I’m sure there will be many twists and turns. And I think, what we need to do for each other, is just show up. We’re in the phase now where we’re still learning about each other. And let’s be real— there are tons of annoying things that we’ll find. I noticed when we first slept together, he snores. A lot. Very loudly. He also scratches his head a lot— his skin gets itchy from time to time. My solution? Noise-cancellation headphones. But that only lasts for a few hours before I have to charge them again in the middle of the night. And last night, when we slept together again— he was snoring. And you know what happened? I didn’t have my headphones on. They must have dropped somewhere in the bed. But I didn’t mind. It felt normal to hear him snore. Comforting, even. My ex used to tell me that they like to hear me snore, it means that I am sleeping deeply that I feel safe enough to let my guard down around them and that feels nice. Now I know how it feels to be on the receiving end. James woke up a bit tired though— because unfortunately for him, I’m also quite the snorer too. He had trouble sleeping. He’s now considering noise-cancellation headphones for himself. Now isn’t that a funny twist?

To shifting the air and the Universe. I learned something in oriental massage today. It’s a lot different from what we’ve been taught in the past, which was more aligned with Western medicine. With oriental massage, it leans more towards Eastern traditions—where they teach you to connect with the spirit, the qi, and the flow of energy—rather than just focusing on the tightness or knots in the muscles. And I absolutely love it. One of my goals for this year is to connect with the universe, and this is such a different and unique way of massaging and connecting with the body. Lynette, our trainer, always starts off the class with some sort of warm-up that she draws from her experience as a karate teacher as well. Today, she showed us Tai Chi—how to shift the energy, or our body weight, from one foot to another. It’s an important skill as a massage therapist, because we’re always moving from one place to another. We learned to move the air through our hands. And if you’ve ever watched Avatar: The Last Airbender, this is what the air nomads do—and it’s as close as I’ll ever get to becoming an airbender. It felt so natural, so peaceful, so calm. And for a moment, I felt at one with the universe. This is something I want to explore in more detail—not just to help me grow as a massage therapist, but to help me stay grounded, to stay present, and to keep finding new ways to connect with the world around me.

To the inner child that says no. Recently, a guy that I’ve been dating—James—mentioned a certain characteristic of mine. One that I’ve noticed for a long time, but never really found the words for. An inner rebellious nature. One that often makes me do the opposite of what someone tells me to do. I’ve noticed this trigger in particular phrases— “You should…” “You must…” If I hear those words, you can bet that the instant you turn your back, I’m doing the complete opposite. And I sat in that space for a while. And I thought to myself, why do I do this? A good friend once mentioned something about my growing up experience. Maybe there was a time in my life when society—or maybe my parents—laid out the blueprint. The life plan. The one I followed obediently for years. Until one day I didn’t. Maybe that was the day I decided to take control of my own life. My own agency. And since then, I’ve been quietly rebelling against the world, one decision at a time. I like to make my own choices. And when other people—especially people I care about, like my partners—tell me to do something, I usually don’t. Which, as you can imagine, can be problematic. Especially when it comes from a place of love. Of safety. Of wanting the best for me. This is an evolving space for me. Recognizing the trigger. Finding a way to let the people who love me steer me away from the rocks I might be sailing toward—without making me feel like they’ve taken the wheel. Because I notice I respond well to suggestions. To invitations. To logic. Phrases like: “Have you ever thought of…?” “What are your thoughts on…?” “What does this mean to you?” “What’s your take on…?” They help. They make me feel like I’m being asked, not instructed. Like I’m being met halfway. And if their reasoning makes sense—if it aligns with who I am—then I’ll most likely follow. Not because they told me to. But because I chose to. But, and here’s a big but, if their logic doesn’t hold up against my own values, then I’ll probably stick to my beliefs. Still— for that moment— we shared the same space together. And that, I think, is a good start.