The Weekly Reset: How I Get My Life Together Every Sunday

There’s a certain sacred rhythm to Sunday that has nothing to do with rest and everything to do with panic. It’s not a spa day. It’s not quiet reflection with herbal tea and lo-fi beats in the background. No, my Sunday is a controlled burn—an orchestrated unraveling followed by just enough reconstruction to fool myself into thinking I’m a functional adult again. This is my weekly reset.

I Never Heard Him

I never heard him speak. Not once.

That should have been a red flag. But in the beginning, I told myself it was part of the appeal. In a world that never shut the fuck up—feeds full of performative trauma and influencer updates, podcasts about nothing hosted by men who didn’t know when to stop talking—there was something magnetic about his quiet. It wasn’t shyness, not the way we usually define it. He didn’t look away or shrink under attention. He simply… didn’t respond.

Ferret-Proofing My Office: A Battle I Will Never Win

Every so often, I have the audacity to believe I live in my own home. That this is my space, that I have sovereignty over my environment, and that—should I feel the urge—I could, say, sit at my desk without being swarmed, chewed, or launched upon by small, musky missiles of chaos.

The Productivity Myths That Don’t Work for OCD Brains

There’s a certain flavor of smug that comes with productivity advice. You know the kind. It’s usually delivered in a tone that suggests your life would be perfect if you just got up at 5am, color-coded your goals, and drank more lemon water. These people swear by “hacks” like time blocking and morning routines that involve more steps than my entire skincare regimen. They say things like “you have the same 24 hours as Beyoncé,” as though my brain chemistry and Beyoncé’s personal assistant army are somehow comparable.