Today I Am a Patchwork of Quiet Things

There’s not much to say today, and yet, my head won’t shut up. Maybe that's what it means to be a grown-up—you learn to carry noise inside while pretending you’re fine on the outside.

This morning I stared at my coffee longer than usual. I wasn’t tired. Just… still. Like my brain was buffering. The toast went cold while I sat with my phone in hand, watching nothing, doom-scrolling through reels of people I don’t know doing things I won’t try.

I’ve started making lists. Not just lists for groceries or errands, but things like "remember to breathe deeply," or "make your bed even if you’re not in the mood." There’s something oddly soothing about crossing things off—even the little things. Especially the little things.

I bought a new notebook last week, with the intention of keeping it tidy. It's already gone sideways. I’ve scribbled half-thoughts, reminders to drink water, quotes from books I don’t remember reading. One page just says, “call dentist,” and then, three pages later, “don’t forget: you’re trying.” Not sure if I meant that for the dentist or myself.

I’m saving up for something. An apartment, a little freedom. I have enough to almost breathe, but not quite. One more month of scraping by, one more month of choosing canned beans over Uber Eats. I tell myself it’s temporary. That word has started to sound permanent.

My computer's barely working, so even streaming feels like a luxury. It's turned me into a background character in Twitch chats, just watching, not speaking. That used to bother me, but now I find a strange peace in being invisible.

Writing helps. I feel like my brain is a messy room and writing is the only way to sweep the floor a bit. I don’t always publish. Sometimes I write and then close the tab without saving. It feels like leaving a note under my own pillow.

I watched Spirited Away again last night. The part where the parents turn into pigs still makes me uneasy, even after all these years. Maybe it’s the metaphor, or maybe it’s just the loss of control—how easy it is to slip into something else without noticing.

My eye is swollen today. Probably allergies. Or stress. Or sleep. Who knows. My body's trying to tell me something but I keep asking it to email me instead.

It rained for a bit, and I opened the window to let it in. Rain smells like time slowing down. Like something ancient and kind.

Sometimes I get anxious that I’m not doing enough, being enough. I read other people’s updates—new jobs, new cities, engagements—and I feel like I’m in the same room I’ve always been in. But maybe I’m growing in invisible ways. Like roots.

I’m planning to start studying for a certification in medical coding. The idea of sitting at a desk, sorting through data and forms, oddly comforts me. It feels like quiet work, like something that won't ask for too much of me emotionally.

I think what I want most is to be safe. To build a life where I can breathe and take care of my body and write strange, soft things that maybe no one will read but still need to exist.

My mom asked if I wanted to go to the store with her. I said no. I didn’t want to explain the eye or the brain fog. Sometimes it’s better to just not say much.

I’ve been sneezing a lot. Maybe it’s hay fever. Or maybe I’m just allergic to pretending everything’s fine.

At the end of the day, I look at my list. Some things are crossed out. Some are left for tomorrow. And some are just reminders that I’m here, still trying.

I think that’s worth something.