mental health

Rethinking Fulfillment

We treat satisfaction like a finish line — permanent, polished, waiting for us if we hustle hard enough and heal “right”. And yet, what if that’s the wrong map? What if satisfaction isn’t a destination at all — rather, a weather pattern: passing through, beautiful when it visits, impossible to domesticate?

What if the baseline isn’t seamless fulfillment?

Psychoanalysts called it jouissance: those bright, disorienting flashes of more-than-pleasure that visit and vanish. We get moments, not permanence. Yet we keep trying to retrofit life into a continuous high: more goals, more apps, more “optimised mornings”, more distractions polished to look like purpose. We stack our calendars like sandbags against an inner tide we don’t want to feel.

And then something tears through the fabric. The diagnosis. The layoff. The quiet Tuesday you crumble for no obvious reason. The void you’ve been outrunning steps into the doorway, and the light goes strange. It feels like descent — like a cold, locked crypt — but it’s also a threshold. The ache isn’t evidence that you’re failing at life. It’s evidence that you’re alive.

We’re not built for perpetual plenitude. Every wisdom tradition has said this in its own dialect: dukkha, exile, the wound that opens the heart. Jung mapped it as shadow and descent. Lacan called it lack. Mystics describe a dark night where the old scaffolding collapses so something truer can breathe. Different names, same contour: there’s a gap at the core of things. We suffer when we try to plaster over it. We grow when we learn to relate to it.

So here’s the unsettling invitation: stop trying to seal the crack. Sit beside it. Let the draft move through you without rushing to fix the windows. Notice how much of your life is designed to outrun this exact feeling – the tabs, the tasks, the tiny screens that promise relief but deliver numbness. Notice the bargains you make with yourself: “When I get there, I’ll finally feel whole”. There is no there. There is only here, and the momentary sweetness that visits like birds at dusk.

This isn’t a call to resignation; it’s a call to intimacy. To meet the void is to meet yourself without costume. It’s to put down the role of the one-who-has-it-together and become the one-who-is-honest. It’s to trade the anesthesia of certainty for the medicine of contact. Paradoxically, that’s where steadiness lives — inside the willingness to feel the wobble.

Look around: when we refuse the ache, we outsource it. We build cultures that run on distraction, economies that monetise our longing, feeds that flood the cavity with glitter until we forget it’s there. The collective chaos is the echo of a shared refusal. We think we’re avoiding darkness; we’re manufacturing it at scale.

What shifts when we stop? When we let the void speak in plain language?

Sometimes it says: Rest. Sometimes: Tell the truth. Sometimes: Cry. Sometimes it says nothing at all, and you learn to sit with silence without turning it into a problem to solve. You breathe in the unfinishedness and, somehow, it stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a horizon.

Practically, this looks smaller than your ego wants. It’s making hot chocolate and tasting it. It’s putting your phone in another room and letting loneliness introduce itself by its real name: longing. It’s prayer without performance. It’s a page in a journal that doesn’t have to be profound. It’s a walk where you practice being a body, not a brand. It’s telling a friend, “I don’t need advice; I need witness.” It’s letting satisfaction be an unexpected guest, not a lease you’re trying to secure.

And when the next tear comes — as it will — you’ll recognise the terrain. You’ll know that the crypt has a back door, that the darkness is not empty but full of seeds. You’ll remember that you don’t climb out by force; you grow out by contact. The more you befriend the gap, the less power it has to terrify you. Not because it disappears, but because you do not abandon yourself inside it.

Maybe this is the quiet revolution: to stop demanding wholeness behave like a product, and start letting it behave like a rhythm. To become someone who can hold sweetness without gripping and hold sorrow without drowning. To build a life that isn’t a fortress against pain but a hearth that can host it.

You don’t have to wake the whole world up. You don’t have to prove you’ve “healed”. You don’t have to turn your ache into content. You just have to strike one small match in the dark room of your own life and look honestly at what’s there. The flame won’t seal the crack. It will make it visible. And in that light, you might find a needle and thread.

Not to stitch the world shut — but to stitch yourself to it. To the gap, to the gust, to the gorgeous, fleeting weather of being here.

Gratitude Journal Entry No 3

Today I’m grateful for the quiet recalibrations — the subtle ways life keeps bringing me back to myself.

I’m grateful for the stories I no longer tell about myself. The ones that said I had to earn rest, or be conventionally productive, proactive or constantly performing in order to be worthy. I’m learning to meet my own needs without an apology attached. Boundaries are starting to feel less like fences and more like front doors.

I’m grateful for the body’s loyalty. Even when my mind argues, my body tells the truth — tightness when something is off, warmth when it’s right. I’m learning to listen sooner, to stop negotiating with signals that are already clear.

I’m grateful for the parts of me that used to feel inconvenient: the sensitive one who notices everything, the cautious one who double-checks, the fiery one who speaks up. They’re not problems to fix; they’re internal teammates with different jobs. They’ve become my compass. When I honour them, I move in alignment; when I silence them, I drift.

I’m grateful for work that asks for my heart and my brain. For words that show up when I’m truly present. For projects that teach me patience. For the reminder that progress is often a quiet accumulation of small, honest efforts.

I’m grateful for detours. Plans that didn’t unfold have redirected me towards what fits. The invitation I didn’t receive, the door that stayed closed, the path that forked — each one was a quiet act of care I didn’t recognise at the time. It’s easier now to release what isn’t a match without making it a story about my value.

I’m grateful for the work that lets me alchemise experience into service — taking what hurt and shaping it into language, tools, and presence that might ease someone else’s pain or mind. Meaning doesn’t erase pain, but it does give it a direction.

I’m grateful for ordinary comforts that feel like anchors: sunlight on tiles, cold drink after a walk in the heat, a playlist that hits the exact frequency my nervous system needed. These are my daily stitches — how I mend the day while it’s still in my hands.

I’m grateful for the future I can’t see yet. Not because I know what’s coming, but because I’m learning to trust who I’ll be when it arrives. I don’t need every answer to take the next kind step.

Healing: A Gentle Unfolding

I’ve walked through the terrain of healing, and if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this: healing isn’t linear. It may come in recognisable stages, but it doesn’t follow a timeline. It loops back on itself, unfolds unevenly, and often catches you off guard.

It moves in layers. Cycles. Spirals. It stalls and it surges — often revisiting the same path from a new depth.

It can feel like progress one day, and total regression the next. But what I’ve learned is that every part of the process — every step forward, every stumble, every still moment — is part of the return.

The return to yourself.

Even when it feels like everything has fallen apart, what people are really in is a sacred unfolding. A slow, aching, deeply intelligent movement towards healing. They are falling into alignment.

Healing doesn’t come all at once.

It reveals itself in waves, in seasons, in ambiguous moments.

It comes in that morning you wake up and realise you’re not bracing for the day ahead.

In the sudden softness of your breath when someone holds your hand without you pulling away.

In the moment you let the tears come — not out of despair, but relief.

And it doesn’t begin with joy. It begins with honesty.

The first stage of healing, for many, is rupture.

That moment something breaks — a relationship, a belief, your nervous system. Sometimes, it’s loud. Other times, it’s the quiet hum of “I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

Then many enter a state of shock. You might be filled with a thousand emotions all at once: disbelief, pain, rage, confusion. The ground feels shaky. The body instinctively retreats into itself. Let it. Meet the vulnerability with presence, otherwise…

Then comes the resistance.
This is the part we don’t talk about enough. The pushback. The “maybe I’m fine.” The instinct to numb, distract, avoid. It’s not weakness. It’s protection. The body’s way of saying, “I’m scared.”

Then comes the numbness. The protective freeze. The disbelief. You go through the motions. You’re functional, but far from whole.

Then comes the awareness…A flicker of knowing that something doesn’t feel right. That the ache you’ve been carrying wasn’t always there. That the exhaustion isn’t just from a bad week, but a buildup of years. Recognition… A dawning sense that something important is surfacing. That the story you’ve lived with isn’t the whole story. And with recognition comes acceptance — not the kind that makes everything okay, but the kind that says, “this is mine, and I can face it now.”

What follows is grief — deep, confusing grief. Grief for the things that happened, yes. But also for the time you lost pretending you were okay. For the versions of you that never got to bloom.

After that, often, comes anger. Rage, even. The fire. The “why didn’t anyone protect me?” The “how dare they?”

Anger is not the enemy. It is sacred information.

It protects your boundaries before you know how to. It says: “I deserved better.”

It comes in waves, or sometimes all at once. And while it’s not easy, this is the part where things begin to shift. The dam cracks. Emotion moves.

After the fire, sometimes there is emptiness. A hollow quiet where the old self used to be. This is not a failure — it’s the shedding. The space left behind when you let go of what doesn’t work for you.

And finally, slowly, there is softening.

Not forgiveness, necessarily. Not forgetting.

But space.

You place gentle distance between the wound and your identity.

You begin to see yourself not as what happened to you — but as the one who survived it, felt it, held it, and lived. As the awareness behind.

That’s when integration begins.

You start living again. Differently. More slowly. More consciously. More bravely.
You try new ways of being. You stumble, relearn, adapt. And it’s hard. But it’s worth it.
You practice micro-choices that add up: Breathing deeper. Saying no. Staying when it’s safe. Leaving when it’s not. Replacing old reflexes with new rituals.

The nervous system settles. It learns safety. Joy peeks its head around the corner. Not the loud kind, but the quiet joy of being present in your life. Of tasting food. Watching films. Catching a captivating scent. Appreciating nature. Of laughing without effort.

And then comes release.
A deep exhale.
Not because everything is fixed — but because you no longer have to hold it all so tightly.
You recognise that this moment, just as it is, holds you. And that’s enough.

Eventually, transformation comes.
Rather than as a grand event, it comes as the subtle, gradual, daily choosing of something new.
You rearrange your life in a way that honours who you’re becoming.
You build your world around your truth.
There’s no need to hurry. Even the smallest steps can lead to profound shifts.

You start choosing.

This journey is not linear. You may circle back, feel like you’re unraveling again, question whether you’ve made any progress at all.

But each time, the return is different. Quicker. Wiser. Kinder.

Healing is a relationship, not a destination. A relationship you nurture over time. One that asks for your presence more than your perfection.

I used to think healing was about fixing myself. Now I know it’s about finding myself again.

The parts I abandoned to survive. The softness I tucked away.

Healing is a series of moments where you choose to come back to yourself, again and again, with love.

And when that love is mirrored by the right people — by safety, by attunement, by presence — something incredible happens…

Your nervous system is shown, again and again, a different story. Through the repeated experience of safety, love, and presence — enough times for your body to finally believe: it’s over now.
And you begin to believe you’re worthy of healing.
And you are.
Always.

Healing doesn’t mean we forget what hurt us. It means we hold it with more care. We bring it to the light.

We meet it with kindness.

Wherever you are in this process, know this:

You’re not late.
You’re not failing.
You’re healing.

20 Beautiful & Oddly Specific Reasons to Enjoy Life

  1. The delicate and peaceful sound of my cat drinking water, like raindrops tapping the surface of a still pond.
  2. The papery sigh of a novel closing after a long emotional journey.
  3. Catching the scent of old paper and instantly being transported to a library I’ve never actually been to.
  4. Rereading a book and stumbling across a highlighted passage like a message from a past version of myself.
  5. When a line in a film or book mirrors my inner monologue so precisely, as if the screenwriter or author borrowed my soul for a moment. Also, when the first sentence of a book or line of a film feels like the start of a new life.
  6. Catching my reflection and thinking, “Who is she?!” but in a good, main-character way.
  7. When my playlist shuffle feels personally and eerily curated by the universe.
  8. When a song I forgot I loved starts playing in a random place.
  9. When sunlight filters through curtains like a scene from a French New Wave film.
  10. Watching the shadows of leaves perform a ballet on walls.
  11. The eerie comfort of fog swallowing the landscape, softening the edges of reality.
  12. Putting my ear to a seashell and pretending it’s whispering ancient stories just to me.
  13. Overhearing a random snippet of a conversation that makes absolutely no sense but still cracks me up.
  14. Talking to animals like they completely understand the emotional weight of my words.
  15. The delicate rhythm of footsteps echoing down an empty corridor, like life composing its own score.
  16. Witnessing two pigeons having what seems to be a very serious argument.
  17. Catching a falling leaf mid-air and making a wish, even if I don’t necessarily believe in them.
  18. When the shape of a cloud resembles something mythological like a sleeping Minotaur, a weeping Muse.
  19. The strange nostalgia of walking into a room I’ve never seen before but swear I’ve dreamed of.
  20. Realising I’ve designed entire cities in my dreams that I revisit as if they’re archived in a forgotten corner of the real world.

Gratitude Journal Entry No 1

Today, a sense of peace and joy fills me as I write this first entry in my gratitude journal. I’m thankful for the courage to finally start this little project, knowing it’s a step towards nurturing my mental health after facing a year of challenges I wasn’t sure I’d overcome. But here I am. Writing this journal is an act of self-love. As November comes to an end, I find myself looking forward to Christmas, anticipating the lighter, warmer feeling that always accompanies the magic of the season. This Christmas will feel even more special with my new companion by my side – my sweet little cat, Fairy, who’s been a constant source of joy and laughter. I can already imagine her curiously inspecting the ornaments and playfully pawing at the tinsel, adding a delightful touch of mischief and joy to the season.

I’m grateful for my inspiration to write poetry. I’m grateful for finally starting to take singing lessons, thus validating my real potential in this department. I’m grateful to have the chance to start a new online course on The Psychology of Emotions: an introduction to embodied cognition. I’m grateful for the Steam Autumn sale, as I will finally play Hogwarts Legacy.

I am filled with gratitude for the simple joys that often go unnoticed. I’m thankful for the slice of decadent cake I indulged in. For discovering the pure deliciousness of Oreo Frappé. For making plans to bake molten chocolate lava cake with my mother. For the laughter and care of loved ones.

As I look outside, I’m grateful for the crisp air, the gentle sway of trees in the wind, and the warmth of observing the cold weather while being wrapped in a cozy blanket watching the new season of Arcane.

More than anything, I am thankful for the chance to begin anew, the strength that has brought me here, and the hope that keeps me going. I embrace the journey forward as I’m sharing it with you.

Life’s beauty sometimes lies in such fleeting moments, and I am learning to cherish them more each day. Gratitude, for me, represents a path to finding peace in the present. This journal is also a promise to myself to reflect and cherish the good as it encourages me to keep my heart open, even on days when the world feels heavy. I may be sad at times, but, a layer behind the sadness, there is hope.

Midsommar (2019) – the representation of mental illness through horror, the psychological susceptibility to cult narratives, & the power of empathy

Midsommar (2019) is a dark-themed cinematic fairytale described by its director and writer Ari Aster as a “horror movie about codependency”. The film encompasses a portrayal of mental illness- bipolar disorder, anxiety, and mood disorders, the pattern and dynamics of a dysfunctional codependent relationship, the exploitation of trauma and vulnerability that is part of the cult indoctrination process, the disillusionment with reality, cognitive dissonance, the uplifting power and importance of empathy and reciprocity, and the psychological susceptibility of a fragmented psyche.

The overall atmosphere created and the feelings evoked in Midsommar are quite different compared to other horror films. Everything happens during daytime, which facilitates the beautiful contrast between the macabre aspect and the idyllic, nostalgic setting filled with enchanted fun, laughter, and dance- all wrapped in a shroud of dreamlike ambiguity (and tinged with a perpetual sense of ominousness). The bizarre light-heartedness of the inhabitants in the face of sinister macabre events adds another layer of ominousness as the spectator is held spellbound by the diaphanous fabric of reality within this strange peaceful community, whilst perpetually feeling like something horrifying could take place at any moment.

Initially shocked by the horrific, gruesome ritualistic events she witnesses within the cult, Dani is gradually lured into the peculiar, nightmarish world because of all its promises of bliss and belonging. The place she finds herself in is like a strange crystal ball, an escapist fantasy gone wrong, sheltering her from a reality that failed her expectations. The process of recruitment within cults often involves an exploitation of trauma, as they prey upon the vulnerable aspects of the human psyche, on powerlessness and feelings of isolation, of being misunderstood, disappointed or mistreated by fate or the external world, in order to sell an alternative, superior, rescuing narrative. For cult members, reality is either too much or not enough. Dani is the archetypal vulnerable person with a psychological susceptibility to being brainwashed and sucked into the ghastly, yet rewarding cult because of the suffering she has experienced in the “real world”. After the tragic demise of her family, she feels alienated from the world and can’t find comfort in her unsatisfying relationship with her boyfriend, Christian, who has emotionally checked out and is unable to fulfil or share her emotional needs.

Taking into account Dani’s backstory is essential in order to understand her gradual conversion to the religion and strange ways of the cult. The relationship dynamic between Christian and Dani is a typical codependent-avoidant dynamic. There is a particular scene in which this dynamic is emphasised very clearly: the more she pushes, both physically and emotionally, the more he withdraws and feels suffocated, and she feels even more rejected and pushes further- this type of dynamic is a vicious cycle. Early on, we find out Dani’s sister is bipolar, and Dani takes anxiety medication, whilst Christian and his friends see her mental struggles as a burden. Although his male friends encourage him to part ways with her in an insensitive conversation at the bar, he feels guilty for his thoughts after the tragedy that has struck, hence inviting her to the Swedish summer solstice festival. Throughout the film, Dani constantly condemns his attitude and perceived uncaring nature, sometimes in a controlling way, other times in a passive-aggressive way. Christian’s friends display no empathy towards her and, whilst he does not have enough energy to deal with her emotionally demanding nature and to reciprocate her emotional investment in the way she wants, he is also not inconsiderate. His friends put up a flimsy facade of niceness around her, which collapses whenever she walks out of the picture. The tension can be felt, and her instinct can tell something is wrong. Her good instinct is constantly denied by those around her, hence the dangerous gaslighting effect leading to a mistrust of her own instinct.

It is generally impossible to pinpoint the one to blame in such relational settings, as both the codependent and the avoidant contribute to a toxic relational pattern, sometimes as a result of emotional trauma or mental disorders, even if they have no bad intentions. It fluctuates. In his discussions with his friends, they sound selfish and unfair towards her and we pity or empathise with her and condemn him, especially after the lack of respect shown towards her in absentia. However, there are moments when Dani is the one seemingly unreasonable and overly pushy and controlling, with a needy attitude, and we almost empathise with his response of feeling cornered. The film manages to make the spectator understand both points of view, but ultimately condemns Christian. Their attachment styles render the relationship doomed to unhappiness due to incompatibilities on the levels of emotional needs and support.

Dani is not seen, her feelings are not acknowledged or validated, and there is an element of gaslighting. This is important because it is why she is attracted to and ensnared by the sinister world of the cult. It feels like the cult community fully accepts her, with her intense emotional makeup. In a bizarre and particularly powerful and cathartic key scene, her emotional reactions are validated and encouraged by the community- it is like she transfers her emotions onto them, and they directly empathise with her by sharing her energy and screaming with her. Crowned as the May Queen, Dani feels embraced, understood, more than seen: she feels celebrated as she is held up in the air and worshipped, she escapes from being sucked into a vortex of mental despair and unhappiness following the tragic events. The May Queen is the personification of spring, and spring is a time of rebirth, symbolically marking Dani’s personal spiritual rebirth and new, happier life. After the shocking imagery and events at the end, at first she is sad and distressed, but then, we can see how her sadness and despair are loudly echoed by the community, whilst Dani’s sorrow is superseded by a strong, gratifying feeling of belonging, of being part of a whole. Remember when her boyfriend’s friend, Pelle, significantly asks her “Does he feel like home to you?”. Her boyfriend never felt like home, nothing felt like home to her in the external world post-tragedy, since her actual family situation was so abnormal. A healthy approach would have been finding home within herself through self-love. However, after the surreal events, Dani’s mind is too unstable to represent the safe concept of home for herself and she needs external support, so the cult-like community becomes her home. After that realisation of unity, gradually, her facial expression transitions and she starts smiling. Her smile suggests a new beginning. The ending is quite powerful and touching: As she smiles, we smile with her and we feel happy for her because she has found happiness, even if her solace was found within such a grim environment and despite the human sacrifices and prior grotesque events unfolding on screen. 

Florence Pugh manages to convey the fragmentation and transition of her character’s psyche admirably. Dani experiences a state of cognitive dissonance when her emotional cravings for being loved and understood override her ability to reason and to process the gravity of the horror and the evil side of the cult. Her profound disillusionment with reality makes her idealise the cult community because it offers her what she lacks and craves the most. The disappointing, misery-inducing events in her life contribute to her future shift towards what feels good- namely empathy, regardless of the the fact that it is provided in an unpredictable, deadly environment. The director, Ari Aster, mentions that she transitions from one codependent relationship to another, so, from her unsatisfying codependent relationship with her boyfriend to a more satisfying one with the loving, empathetic, murderously dark community.

As a spectator, you might find Midsommar to be a strange dream you are deeply immersed in and captivated by, leaving you in a state of blissful confusion even after you walk out of the cinema. The celestial beauty and holy aura of the film setting masking the disturbingly dark characteristics of the cult contribute to a state of confusion, which is amplified by hallucinogenic moments. Aside from Dani’s inner turmoil and emotional metamorphosis compellingly conveyed externally, another ingredient to this cocktail of emotions is a general tinge of existential dread. Ultimately, though, you might empathise with Dani and feel happy and confused by your own happiness in such a gruesome context.