Childhood, Unplugged

Daily writing prompt

Do you remember life before the internet?

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.

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?

It’s Probably Nothing, But…

Daily writing prompt

What makes you nervous?

View all responses

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?

View all responses

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.

View all responses

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.

A Stranger In the Rain

Daily writing prompt

Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.

View all responses

That evening it was pouring. The rain was unremarkable. It was a consistent, calm deluge that dulled the bustling city. Everything seemed muted: the buildings, the street signs, and the people walking by with their umbrellas slanted against the wind. The pavement glistened under headlights and puddles reflected fragments of neon from signs overhead. The air smelled like coffee, wet concrete, and something faintly sweet, perhaps caramel from the cafe I frequented. It was a little corner cafe with fogged-up windows, dim lighting, and jazz playing softly in the background. It was a place that usually smelled of freshly ground beans and spices.

Image source

I was there, like I usually am. I sat by the window with my notepad open and a blue pen in my fingers. I wasn’t writing, though. I was simply watching the rain blur the world outside. It was one of those times when the silence felt thicker than normal, and you began to hear the sound of your breathing.

Then he walked in.

I noticed the rain on his jacket first. He brushed it off at the door and ran a hand over his damp hair. He had short, tidy hair. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A fluidity in his movements, a stillness that felt almost magnetic. Like he belonged in every room without having to announce it. Was he special? Perhaps not. All I could say was he knew how to take up space without drawing attention. He looked around and saw me. I shifted my gaze to the rivulets of rain on the glass.

He sat a few tables away, ordered a coffee, and glanced out the window just like I did. I returned to my notepad, pretending not to notice him. I could sense him. He was handsome—strong jaw, deep-set brown eyes, tall, clean-shaven, with strong hands and long fingers that lightly tapped against his cup. There was something else, but I let that thought slide.

He didn’t talk to anyone. He slowly sipped from his cup. At one point our eyes met briefly.

And deep down, I knew that this moment, this stranger, meant something. Not in a romantic sense, but as if some quiet part of me recognized something familiar. I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was, but I felt silly for believing so.

When I got up to leave, I could feel his eyes on me. The bell above the door chimed as I stepped into the rain.

At home, I realized I had forgotten my pen. I shrugged it off at first. It was just a pen. He was just a man.

But still that encounter stayed with me. I couldn’t explain the strange pull it had on me. It reminded me that even in a foreign city where no one knows me, the world can still offer surprises. That maybe connections, even with strangers, don’t always require explanation. Some moments just are.

And maybe that was the positive part. I didn’t feel less lonely. It simply reminded me that I’m still capable of feeling something real. Even if it begins and ends only in my mind.

The Decision to Be More

There was never a single moment, or a major insight on the days leading to New Year’s, or on a birthday, or a milestone achieved. It was a slow, emerging truth I quit resisting.

I am aging. And that is not a tragedy.

For years, I lamented the softness of my skin and the changing lines of a face I no longer recognized in photographs. I missed the firmness, glow, and smoothness of youth, which wrapped around me like a second skin. I yearned for the girl who moved through the world without realizing the burden she would one day bear.

But now that I’m nearing 50, I see her differently.

I no longer see myself as a lesser version. I am more.

At this age, I have increased knowledge and become more present. I’m more accepting of my flaws. This kind of self-acceptance in midlife didn’t happen overnight: it bloomed slowly, from the roots of every hardship, every choice, every shift in perspective.

With age comes experience, and with experience comes wisdom. These aren’t simply intellectual ideas; they are embodied experiences that influence my creativity. My writing and art are richer today because I’ve lived rather than just relied on techniques. I don’t just write from theory or imagination but from the scars and marvels of real life. I write from the experiences of heartbreaks, little delights, and the gentle discoveries that only time can teach.

As a woman approaching 50, I’ve learned that aging gracefully doesn’t mean staying youthful. It’s about honoring the life I’ve carried. My body has carried life, birthed babies, nursed them through illness, and made room for love, grief, and exhaustion. My skin has experienced both pleasure and suffering. My heart is shattered yet still pulses with hope. I’ve been silent and loud, scared and bold, gentle and hard.

The decision that altered everything wasn’t about reclaiming lost youth but about releasing the need to chase it.

Now, I wear my years like a well-worn sweater: tattered at the edges, stretched in spots, but warm, treasured, and wholly mine.

I struggle with fatigue and aches. Occasionally, I wish I could turn back time. But then I recall what I’ve gained: clarity, discernment, and self-compassion. I’ve gained a deeper, braver love for my body, my truth, and my desires. This is what aging and self-growth look like: forgiving the past versions of myself while stepping fully into this one.

If I’m lucky, I’ll live another 20 to 40 years. Perhaps less. But I no longer pursue time; I walk alongside it.

That was the decision: to embrace aging rather than shy away from it.

And I’ve never felt more alive.

Evaporating No More

I never want to visit a place where I have to shrink to be accepted, loved, or tolerated. In this place, softness is seen as a warning sign, silence is misconstrued for compliance, and each mouthful feels like restraint.

I used to be there. It wasn’t a city with a name, but in living rooms where truth was unwelcome, in church pews filled with shame, in beds where I learned to sleep with absence and call it comfort.

Sometimes the cruelest places aren’t found on any map but rather built slowly by unspoken words, frozen stares, and the way someone you love says, “don’t make it a big deal” when your soul is tearing at the seams.

I never want to visit a place that demands me to chop myself into pieces to fit their platter.

I’d rather walk naked through misunderstanding than hide behind lies for others’ comfort.

Give me the wilderness—raw, shivering, and divine. In locations where no one speaks my language but still listens, where stray cats welcome me, and even the wind doesn’t ask for explanations.

I’ve spent too long evaporating, like breath against cold glass.

Never again.

Not for love.

Not for survival.

Not even for home.

Where My Joy Lives

Daily writing prompt

What are 5 everyday things that bring you happiness?

View all responses

Big and pivotal moments are not the only ways to experience happiness. It can show up in mundane things too. It can be spontaneous, simple, and unassuming. They call it happiness in the little things or the ones that you find in the folds of your daily life. Small, mundane happiness, such as this, is usually the one that matters even more.

Here are five everyday things that bring me happiness.

1) The peaceful moment after everyone leaves

It’s not the early morning rush that I love, but the peace that follows. If you are raising a family, you might be able to relate to this experience. My anxiety starts early in the day. I wake up at 5:30am before waking up my kids to get ready for school. I spend the first 30 minutes after waking up preparing breakfast for everyone and packing lunch for my husband. Everything is always in a rush. Once the kids have gone to school and my husband is off to work, the house slips into silence. I can finally sit with my breakfast. Sometimes planning the day, other times just flipping through a few pages of a book or writing down whatever is on my mind. It’s a moment that belongs only to me. And that peacefulness feels like an exhale I didn’t know I was holding.

2. Writing something true

Writing is a way for me to make sense of my world. It’s a place where I feel safe to untangle my thoughts and pour out things as honestly as I can. Writing is undoubtedly one of the things that brings me complete happiness. It is even more profound when the words come from somewhere deeper—more honest and vulnerable. Whether it’s a poem, a story, or a blog post, writing gives shape to things I can’t always say aloud.

3) Walking among greenery

I live in the suburb where trees and parks are abundant. There’s something about being surrounded by green that softens everything inside me. I walk slowly, letting my thoughts drift, and the tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying begins to dissolve. Nature has always been a balm and a way for me to come back to myself.

4) Beautiful sentences in a book

I’m a voracious reader. Up until today, 12 April, I’ve finished reading seven books for this month. There is something about books and reading that’s so addictive. You know those lines that stop you mid-read? They are so breathtaking in their truth; they make you close the book for a second and just breathe them in. I live for those moments. It feels like someone is finally giving names to things I’ve felt but never said. I love underlining those sentences and returning to them later to savor them again.

5) Meaningful connection

We all thrive on meaningful connections. For me, it’s not about having long conversations, but those rare moments when someone truly sees me. Whether it’s with a friend, a reader, or someone who understands me without the need for explanation, those moments are truly meaningful to me. Those connections fill me up in ways that surface talk never could.

These things may seem small, but they truly anchor me. They remind me that even on ordinary days, there’s still so much beauty to be grateful for.