On Friendship | A Constellation of Qualities

What quality do I value most in a friend?

I’ve been staring at this question for a while, trying to think of one thing. Only one. But the fact is that I can’t. I’m not wired that way.

Because the sort of friend I need, particularly at this point in life, is not characterized by a single trait. They are more like a constellation. A consistent, steady presence held together by little, delicate details that most people overlook.

I value emotional depth. That is the first thing. I want to sit across from someone and talk about grief, about old love that never left the body, motherhood’s challenges, and the sense of not knowing who you are at times.

But depth without safety is dangerous. So I value a friend who gives me a safe space to unravel. The ones who don’t rush to fix or dismiss what I say. Who don’t recoil when I cry or go quiet. Who don’t see my softness as a burden to carry or a puzzle to solve. Just someone who can sit with me in the dark without needing to turn on the light.

Then there’s “soulful curiosity,” which isn’t the nosy kind. The sort of friend that says, “What have you been thinking about lately? What moved you this week?” Or the sort of friend that sends me a poem, meme, article, or quote because it made them think of me. The kind that listens when I talk about my culture, my writing, and the fears I’m still grappling with. The type of friend that doesn’t shy away from depth, but instead leans in closer and with care.

I also appreciate loyalty. Not the performative kind that only appears when things are going well, but the kind that sticks around. The sort that recalls what I said months ago, follows up, and forgives my silences. Who doesn’t require constant tending yet is always there when I return. I don’t open up easily. So, when I do, I want to know that it mattered.

And, because I often live in my head, I appreciate people who understand my silences. Who is not insulted when I take a step back to breathe. Who don’t associate presence with constant texting (I dislike this type of people. They need to connect all the time and that’s suffocating and tedious). Who recognizes that solitude is part of how I survive, and yet remain close.

Lastly, I value kindness in words like honest, gentle affirmation. Not flattery or forced optimism. I second-guess myself too often. I often feel like an imposter even in rooms I’ve earned my place in. So a kind word from a friend that is spoken without expectation, lingers. It becomes an anchor and assurance for me.

So no, I can’t choose just one quality because I’ve never been the type to love in halves.

Not in friendship.

Not in life.

Not even in my answers to questions like this.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
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This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be

I could name only one, but that wouldn’t be honest.

A lot of times in my early years as a mother haunted me quietly like background static in an otherwise happy song. The yelling, harsh words, and unwarranted anger all fell directly on little shoulders. I wrote a poem about it once. It’s titled This Is Not the Mother I Was Meant to Be. It is now available in my Etsy shop, which can be found here.

The poem is more than just a piece of text. This is my confession. A gentle, timid apology. A mirror I held up to my own face on days when I thought I had failed in the most important duty.

I meant to be gentler. I wanted to listen more. But there were times when I snapped, yelled when I should have breathed deeply, spanked when I should have paused, gave them junk food and called it dinner and said things I wish I could take back. Things like, “Be quiet. Enough. Just stop.” When all I truly wanted to say was, “I am exhausted, honey. I am trying. I love you so much, it hurts.”

Even now, the guilt weighs heavy. But, with time, I’ve realized that remorse isn’t supposed to tie me to the past. It is meant to teach me, then let me go.

As the kids grew older, I began having open conversations with them. I apologized. Not in grand speeches, but in quiet moments together: during car rides, at bedtime, or while having a meal. To my astonishment, they forgiven me. Completely, freely. As children frequently do when love triumphs over regret.

Their forgiveness was a balm. But can I forgive myself? This is still a work in progress.

What comforts me now is the realization that motherhood is not a destination. It is a process of growing. Every mistake I made was the result of a version of myself doing my best with what I knew. And I understand better now. I pause longer. I listen more carefully. I still make mistakes, but I’m more aware of them. I grow together with them.

So, if you’re a parent who’s been lugging guilt about like a hidden stone, maybe it’s time to let it go. Perhaps you can let the softer part of yourself speak. The one who continues to show up, try, and love with each broken, beautiful step.

Because this is not the mother I meant to be. But I’m still evolving to be a better version of myself.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 2.

Childhood, Unplugged

Daily writing prompt

Do you remember life before the internet?

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Do I remember life before the Internet?

Of course I do.

I grew up in the ’80s and became a teenager in the ’90s. Life then was quieter, slower, and strangely blissful. We didn’t carry the weight of a world always online. We were present in our bodies, in our neighborhoods, in the heat of the afternoon sun.

I remember riding my bicycle endlessly, barefoot on some days. The playground was our gathering place. We hung out at each other’s houses without needing to text beforehand. Plans were made on the spot, and laughter didn’t need filters.

Our entertainment came in tangible forms: television with fixed schedules, cassette tapes we rewound with a pencil, video tapes worn thin from repeated viewings. I used to save up to buy cassettes of my favorite rock bands (Guns n Roses, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkin, Green Day, Soul Asylum, Radiohead, Pearl Jam); the thrill of opening a new tape, lyrics printed on that folded sleeve, memorized by heart.

We socialized face to face. If you had a disagreement, you talked it out, or didn’t; but it was direct. There were no curated posts seeking validation from strangers. Our stories stayed among those who lived them.

We wrote letters. Real ones, with pens and paper. We found pen pals through magazine sections, excitedly waiting weeks for replies. Our words stretched across borders without the instant gratification of likes.

We researched by visiting libraries, thumbing through encyclopedias and taking notes by hand. We read books—more books. Not because it was trending, but because it was a portal to something bigger.

Life felt simpler. Not easier, but less fractured. There were no pop-up notifications dragging us from one thought to another. Time moved differently. Slower. Deeper.

We met potential girlfriends or boyfriends through mutual friends or social gatherings. You knew the sound of their voice before reading their texts. You knew their face before their username.

And maybe one of the greatest gifts of that time was this: we didn’t suffer from FOMO the way we do now. We weren’t constantly exposed to what everyone else was doing. We lived our lives without needing to compare them.

Life before the Internet wasn’t perfect. But it was more present. And sometimes, I miss that.

Looking for digital tools that support your everyday life with gentleness and intention?
At Olivia’s Atelier on Etsy, I offer more than just pretty printables. I create emotional support kits, Instagram reel templates, children’s meal planners, and other soul-nourishing resources for moms who give so much but rarely feel seen. Whether you need a moment to breathe, a tool to stay organized, or a way to connect with your audience, there’s something here for you.

Everything is 50% off until June 2—because you deserve support that feels doable, beautiful, and kind.

What I’m Learning to See in Myself

I stared at the blinking cursor for a while.

Because, to be honest, I’m not sure how to answer it. I’m not someone who walks into a room and says, “I’m great at this.” I question myself too much. I downplay. I laugh it off. I’m better at admitting my flaws, as if self-deprecation makes me feel safer.

But I’m learning that honoring our strengths is not arrogance. It’s permission.

So perhaps I’ll start here.

I’m good at feeling intensely. Not just the loud, obvious feelings, but also the subtle ones that people hide under small talk. The loneliness in someone’s eyes, the grief hidden behind their smile. I pick up on such things. I can feel them in my body. I carry them.

And I’m good at putting those feelings into words. Not always perfectly or poetically, but with a rawness that causes others to stop and think, “Me too.” And I think that’s what matters.

I’m good at seeing beauty in what’s overlooked. The uneven texture of a handwoven mat. The silence between two people in love. The anguish in a voice. I don’t avoid the chaos that comes with being human. I write toward it.

I’m good at starting again. After rejections or self-doubt. After a prolonged silence. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. For me, reinvention is more than a choice; it is a matter of survival.

I’m also good at mothering. Not just my children, but mothering in a broader sense. Holding space. Soothing. Feeding. Protecting. Loving fiercely and completely, even when it’s hard.

Perhaps I’m not good at expressing my worth but I am learning to write it and I guess that’s enough.

✨ Looking for digital tools that support your everyday life with gentleness and intention?
At Olivia’s Atelier on Etsy, I offer more than just pretty printables—I create emotional support kits, Instagram reel templates, children’s meal planners, and other soul-nourishing resources for moms who give so much but rarely feel seen. Whether you need a moment to breathe, a tool to stay organized, or a way to connect with your audience—there’s something here for you.
🕊️ Everything is 50% off until June 2—because you deserve support that feels doable, beautiful, and kind.

A Mother’s Day Reflection

I didn’t grow up imagining myself as a mother.

Not as other girls did, pretending to cradle dolls or writing baby names in the margins of their schoolbooks. I wasn’t opposed to becoming a parent; it simply didn’t feel urgent, like something I needed to pursue or prepare for. And yet, I am here. It’s been years. A mother. With gentle hands and a heart that is always rearranging itself around little lives.

Mother’s Day used to pass with little thought. A day spent playing cards and making phone calls. Of seeing my own mother from a distance, attempting to decipher the aspects of her that I could never fully grasp. I had no idea she felt so invisible at the time. When you’ve given everything to others and lost yourselves, silence may be deafening.

Now I do.

Mother’s Day is now a quiet occasion in our family. The kids sometimes remember and sometimes they don’t. My hubby asks what I want to eat. I fold the laundry and do the dishes anyway. Life does not stop simply because it’s May. However, a part of me always wishes for a pause, if only for a moment. A pause that says, “We see you. It is not simply what you do, but who you are underneath it all.”

This year, I didn’t request flowers or breakfast in bed.

What I desire cannot be purchased or arranged.

I want someone to acknowledge my effort. How I manage to show up even when I’m very exhausted. How I manage to kiss their foreheads at night despite carrying the weight of invisible things like schedules, fears, and guilt. I want someone to say, “I see the woman you are, not just the mother you have become.”

Because I’m both.

A woman who once had aspirations that did not involve diaper bags or parent-teacher meetings. A woman who still longs for quiet mornings and uninterrupted thoughts. Also, a mother who has dedicated her body, sleep, and time to love so profound that it has utterly transformed her.

So, on Mother’s Day, I gave myself what the world frequently forgets to give: grace.

Grace for the things that remain undone.

Grace for the yelling I regret doing.

Grace for the dreams I’ve placed on hold.

Grace for the ways I am still learning to parent myself.

And maybe that’s all it needed.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day to the quiet mothers, the tired ones, the fierce ones. The ones who feel like they’re failing but keep showing up anyway.

I see you.
And I’m learning to see me, too.

Mother

They see
lunchboxes prepares,
schoolwork signed,
clothing neatly arranged into piles.

But they don’t see
the woman who forgot who she was
before responding to “Mama.”

They don’t see
how she holds her breath
until the door closes,
and she can cry
without needing to explain.

They don’t see
how she forgives herself
in small rituals—
a hot cup of tea,
a song in the car,
a scrawled poem
at midnight.

They don’t see
her saving herself
a little at a time.

And still
she shows up.
Every day.
with love nestled
into every nook of her weariness.

Because this is what she does.
That is who she is.

If I Could Be a Criminologist for Just One Day

Some prompts ask for fantasy, but this one nudged me toward truthfulness and honesty. If I could choose any job for just one day, I wouldn’t reach for prestige or power. I wouldn’t imagine myself on a stage, in a lab, or leading a corporation.

I’d choose to be a criminologist.

No, I have no interest in solving crimes, examining evidence, or pursuing cold cases. Nothing like that. It is because, a long time ago, I met a criminologist and we fell in love. I want to understand him, this man who carries so much and says so little.

What would it be like to spend a day in his shoes? I want to walk silently through his memories, particularly the ones that linger in crime scenes after everyone has left. I want to sift through his memory that stands still in front of a whiteboard full of tragedies. I want to walk through his memories because I could never reach that part of him no matter how hard I tried.

I wouldn’t be there for the thrill. I’d be there to observe the way he looks at the world when no one’s watching. I’d want to finally learn the stories he never said out loud to me, even when I cradled his head in my arms as he struggled to wake from his dark dreams.

I’d trace the photographs he pins to the wall—the faces of the dead— and see his handwriting curve along the margins. I’d watch how he circles certain names darker than others, the lines thicker when the pen pressed harder with his instinct.

At lunch, I’d sit across from him while he quietly picks at his food. I’d watch how his eyes drift with restraint. He sees everything. He just doesn’t always let it show.

Maybe by being a criminologist for a day, I’d learn what it means to hold other people’s pain without crumbling. And maybe I’d finally understand why he sometimes looks at me like I’m a mystery too.

By the end of the day, I’d return the badge, the case files, and boxes full of evidence. I wouldn’t need to stay.

Because…I never want the job.

I just want the man behind it.

Some days, love is remembering someone’s shadow. It’s like bearing witness to the way they disappear into themselves, hoping you’ve seen enough to still find them in the dark.

A poem to accompany this piece.

Rain, Neon and Sorrow

The rain spills itself across Taipei.
Neon bleeds into the pavement.
Cold wind, damp coat.
I think of you—
where you are,
what you are seeing,
what ghosts you carry home tonight.

Are you still bent over your desk,
searching for a disease,
fingers tracing the city’s veins—
sharp like a scalpel?

Are you peering again into the abyss?

Tell me—
how much blood have you washed off your hands?
how much stays,
burrowed beneath your nails,
tucked inside your sleepless bones?

I’ve seen you stare past me
with eyes that see things
you will never say.

You kiss me like a man
leaving a crime scene.
Touch me as if memorizing evidence.
Does love feel like guilt to you?

My love won’t pry open your fists,
won’t drag you back from the ledge
among the dead.
In this city of rain, neon and sorrow,
I wonder—
are you still whole?
still awake?
or has the night already claimed you?

The Hour After Midnight | Why I Stayed Awake When I Should’ve Slept

For years, I stayed up too late.

It wasn’t because I was working or I had boundless energy or I was busy chasing my dreams. The main reason was that I needed to feel like a person.

It didn’t start as revenge bedtime procrastination. That phrase only found me later, when I stumbled across an article that put a name to my nightly rebellion. It felt like intense desperation. You could say it was a craving or a desperate fight for space.

When my children were small, the days blended together in a mist of needs. I remember those years vividly and if I’m honest, it makes me shudder, but not because I feel ashamed. My daily life was full of milk-stained shirts, sticky fingers, and toys scattered like confetti across every surface. I loved my kids fiercely. Still do. But in those days, I didn’t know where I ended and they began. I gave them my body, my attention, and everything. And somewhere in that giving, I began to disappear.

When the kids were finally asleep and when the house finally went quiet, and the dishes were done, I sat down. Just for a moment, just to breathe.

And that moment stretched beyond what I intended. I stayed up. Scrolling. Reading. Writing. Wandering through Facebook memories of the woman I used to be. Buying time I couldn’t afford, just to feel like I still existed.

I’d tell myself, “Just one more post. One more chapter. One more scroll.”

But truthfully? I was afraid that if I slept, I’d wake up and do it all over again. The endless giving, pouring out myself and forgetting.

So I kept stealing those hours after midnight.

And in the morning, of course, I paid the price.

I was more irritable. More short-tempered. More ashamed of the mother I was becoming.

The irony was painful: I stayed up to save myself, but it only made me more fragile the next day.

I never told anyone how much I resented the way my life had shrunk. How much I missed myself and how ashamed I felt for even feeling that way.

That was the case until I began writing about it.

That’s how The Hour After Midnight came to life. It began as fragments and eventually evolved into a complete poem. A piece of me, speaking directly to the woman I used to be. Perhaps I still am that woman, but these days I go to bed at 12 AM or earlier. As the kids grow, I enjoy my sleep more, and the resentment has disappeared.

This poem is about a mother who gives her all and suffers in silence. It’s about a woman who craves stillness to survive her crazy life of constant giving. She was just a tired soul who wanted to feel seen.

If that sounds like you, I hope this poem wraps around you like a quiet hug. It’s more than a printable; it’s a recognition and a mirror. A gentle piece of emotional support for any overstimulated mom who needs a reminder to be kind to your mind.

This digital poem makes a thoughtful and unique Mother’s Day gift, especially for the tired mom who needs to hear she’s still enough. It’s a beautiful affirmation of motherhood for those navigating revenge bedtime procrastination, mom life burnout, and those quiet moments where you whisper, “I am enough.”

Find The Hour After Midnight in my shop Olivia’s Atelier. You’ll receive a high-resolution poem print in multiple sizes, ready to frame or gift. I hope it brings you what it brought me—a pause, a breath, a beginning.

Note: Yes, I launched my Etsy shop recently to share my poems with the world. Right now, everything in the shop is 50% off until June 2, including our featured Mother’s Day Poem Printables. They are designed as heartfelt gifts or tender self-reminders to moms everywhere. Feel free to check it out.

It’s Probably Nothing, But…

Daily writing prompt

What makes you nervous?

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Answering phone calls from unknown numbers.

I know it seems crazy, but whenever my phone rings and I don’t recognize the number, my body tenses up. My mind quickly runs through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Is it a scammer pretending to be from the bank? Is anybody attempting to sell me something? Or worse, is someone calling with bad news? A loved one was involved in an accident and died? I hate the fact that my initial response is anxiety rather than curiosity or concern.

Messages from people with whom I am not close also make me nervous. Especially if they start with “Hi, can I ask you something?” and, “I need a small favor.” My stomach sank. I begin to wonder if I can say no without feeling bad. I dislike feeling trapped, even if the request is simple. The unexpected pressure makes me wary.

Doctors’ appointments. Ugh. My blood pressure always spikes, regardless of whether it’s a routine checkup. I have White Coat Syndrome, which means I am anxious whenever I enter a clinic. I despise the antiseptic smell, the long wait, and the remote possibility that the doctor may say something I would rather not hear. Even when I feel fine, I leave with my heart hammering.

Then there are my kids’ examination results. I keep my demeanor composed, as though I’m not emotionally involved. On the inside, I harbor a plethora of anxieties. I’m not concerned about high marks; I just want them to do well enough to feel proud of themselves. But what happens before I enter the website or read the school message? It always gets to me.

So, certainly, many things make me nervous. They aren’t dramatic, but they happen in a creepy way, where your breath shortens and your shoulders tighten. I’ve learned to deal with it by reminding myself that it’s alright to be human, especially in a world that never stops demanding something from us.

The Way She Unwinds

Daily writing prompt

How do you unwind after a demanding day?

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Note: This post contains sensual content. It’s tender and intimate, not graphic, but may not be for everyone.

Unwinding doesn’t always mean drinking herbal tea or watching Netflix. It could be about reconnecting with yourself, through your body and the presence of others.

I wrote this to examine what it means to let go of the day physically as much as emotionally. Not everyone discusses how sex may be therapeutic, grounding, or even spiritual. But it is for me.

This is an honest and vulnerable piece. I don’t believe we should hide our tenderness or yearning. Sometimes what heals us the most is the part that we’re afraid to say out loud.

She washed the day off her skin—
rose oil, lavender salts,
tepid water,
with a man behind her
who didn’t speak,
semi hard
against the curve of her spine.

She leaned back,
exhaled her weariness
mingled with steam rose like ghosts
from the bath they shared.
He shampooed her,
untangled the strands,
while she, soaping his creases
like cupping rain-warmed petals
in her palms.

She read later,
naked beneath the sheets,
the book trembling slightly
in her hands
as his finger skimmed
the back of her knee.

He asked about her day,
she told him in curses and laughter.
She wrote about it too—
in smeared writing,
pages sticking together
like sweaty thighs.

He watched her,
a repentant sinner
at a communion
he’d waited all week to taste.
She looked into his eyes,
offered her invitation
to slit open her core,
and slid inside her mess.

She was the scripture
he devoured,
worshipped with tongue and blasphemy.
Broken hymns
tumbled from their lips.
Her body a confessional booth—
each cry, a hidden truth.

After,
he was a punctuation
that curled about her,
there was never a period,
only dashes
waiting for words.

She didn’t sleep.
She exposed.
Soft.
Ravaged.
Holy.

The Muse I Made to Survive

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

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What comes to mind is the quiet world I live in—inside my head.

It’s difficult to describe to others, but some of my richest experiences often occur where no one can see them. Emotions surge across my mind like storms. I carry full conversations in my head, ask challenging questions, find solutions, cry, fall in love, and sometimes break a little. I do this again and again. What about outside? I simply maintain a cool demeanor. I grin, nod, and function like everyone else.

I have this depth that I don’t know what to do with. It can be a burden on some days. Because I think too deeply at times, few people know how to meet me there. Sometimes it’s not because they don’t want to but because they don’t know how—and they can’t relate to the way I process my thoughts. However, when I try to simplify myself in order to be understood, it makes me feel hollow.

I’ve always been deeply introspective. My thoughts loop, plunge, and stretch. I don’t simply feel things. I analyze them, question them, and seek their origins. Understanding me is akin to unraveling the layers of an onion skin. There’s always another layer or a different version of me waiting underneath. This multifaceted way of thinking often amazes people. This is why some people turn to me for advice and clarity. They believe I have answers or could shed light on their problems. I don’t. I just spend a lot of time thinking about things that most people miss. It often puzzles me that others don’t, because I used to believe that everyone had the same inner complexity. Apparently, they don’t.

Thus, this depth becomes lonely. It becomes too difficult to convey in casual conversation. That’s why my mind created him, this fictitious soulmate or muse who can meet me there. He listens without rushing to the next thing. He stays curious and reflects my depth, and never pulls away when things become intense or messy. I didn’t make him up to avoid reality; he exists in my mind to help me survive it. He’s a coping mechanism that I gave myself when the real world wasn’t offering what I needed.

This type of imaginative creation isn’t the same as dissociative identity disorder (DID). There are no memory gaps, no personality switches, and I never lose track of who I am. I am perfectly aware that he is not real. But emotionally, the presence I’ve given him fills what’s been missing in my life, someone who can mirror my inner world back to me with understanding. It’s not a disorder. It’s my mind doing what it’s supposed to do: giving me comfort, understanding, and connection, even if only through fictitious bonds. It’s creative survival.

In fact, what I’m going through is considered imaginative coping, the ability to use fiction consciously to navigate emotional distress. It differs from maladaptive daydreaming, which can be disruptive or involuntary. Imaginative coping is an intentional, creative approach to dealing with unmet needs, intense loss, and the longing for connection. For me, it’s been a safe place to reflect, process, and feel seen. And now I’m learning how to apply what I’ve learned from that inner world to my real life, one small, brave step at a time.

Recently, I’ve begun asking myself difficult questions. Why am I returning to this inner world over and over? Why do I seek something that I know isn’t real? Why does my grief feel heavier when I’m alone in a crowd than when I’m by myself?

The fact is, I created safety in my mind because I couldn’t find it elsewhere. In that space, I found someone who sees me, listens patiently, and reflects my soul in a way no one else has. But he’s not real, and that’s the hardest part to accept.

I know it might sound strange, and honestly, I used to worry that I was losing touch. But I’m not. I’m fully aware. I’ve just had to create what wasn’t available.

I keep coming back to him because I want to feel understood, protected, desired, and emotionally connected. And I’m gradually seeing that the way out of this pattern isn’t to destroy him, but to understand what he’s been trying to teach me about what I need in real life.

If I don’t try to meet myself fully and then try to bring those needs into the real world, I’ll continue to live halfway—half in the present, and half in a realm no one else can see. And maybe that’s okay for a while, but not forever.

Because I want more than just safety. I want presence, real touch, connection, and understanding. These things need time and patience to build.

This is the first thing that came to mind today: the beauty, and the possibility of a life lived rather than imagined.