My childhood desk still faces the back of another house in Bogotá.

There’s no street, not a garden and specially not a romantic city view. Just an ugly brick wall, badly built and too close. Every time I opened the blinds, there it was. Brick. More brick.

So I stopped looking out.

I looked down. The desk was dark wood, almost black, with three drawers on the right and enough surface for whatever I needed that day: homework, drawing, writing, daydreaming, music. I drew for hours there. I hid things in the drawers and kept other things close: books, cables, art supplies, notebooks, small objects that made the room feel less alone.

The wall gave me nothing to follow, so I followed whatever was on the desk. I did not know it then, but that was the training. The room taught my eyes to stop searching outside and my hands to reach for what was near.

The Objects Within Reach

I get nostalgic thinking about the pen holders.

There was always one on my desk, even when everything else changed. Pens, pencils, brushes, erasers, markers, loose papers, notebooks, cables. Small things with no official place, but close enough to grab before the thought disappeared.

I did not know I was arranging an atmosphere. I just knew what I wanted near me. The pen holder made writing easier. The candle made me stay longer. The speaker changed the feeling of the room. The drawer let me hide things without losing them. The blank page gave me somewhere to begin before I had a plan.

That desk was not styled. It was used. It was made by what I kept, stained, stacked, lost, found, and refused to throw away. The objects worked like quiet instructions.

What the Desk Allowed

I remember how happy my first set of watercolors made me.

Before painting, I covered the desk with newspaper. I knew the mess was coming, and I accepted it before it happened. I spread the paper out, played music, opened the colors, dipped the brush in water, and waited to see what would happen.

The mess never stayed on the paper. Paint got on my hands, my clothes, the desk, the wall, even the curtain. Some of those stains are still there. Sorry, Mom. But also, thank you.

Most of the art was ugly. I drew eyes, strange faces, bodies with the wrong proportions, people I did not know. I drew what I saw and what I imagined. I copied images from books and then changed them because I did not know what I was doing, which was probably the best part.

Poetry worked the same way. I found strangers on YouTube talking about longing and heartbreak I had not lived yet, and I listened as if they were teaching me a language I would need later. Then I wrote letters to future people, people I had not met, because the feeling had to go somewhere. I think that is where writing started for me.

There was no final product in my mind. No audience. No portfolio. No strategy. No little voice asking how this could help me later. I was passing time with color, music, faces, and words.

The Room Kept the Evidence

Years later, I do not live there anymore.

The desk is still in Bogotá, but it is not messy in the same way. In the photo my mom sent me, it looks too clean. Almost untouched. The objects are still there, but they feel quieter now. A few books. A stuffed bear. Pen holders. Small traces of a girl who is no longer sitting in the chair.

I look at it and feel a knot in my throat.

Not because the desk is gone, but because it stayed. The stains are there. The drawers are there. The little hints I never meant to leave behind are there.

That may be one of the first things migration does. It turns ordinary rooms into archives. The wall, the curtain, the drawers, the forgotten objects. They keep the shape of your routines after the routines are gone.

I think about my mom walking into that room. I do not want to make the image bigger than it is. But I feel it. A room that still holds her daughter’s things without her daughter’s noise. A desk that still looks like mine, but no longer looks like I am about to come back to it.

The Desk That Asks Me to Prove

Now I have a desk in Georgia.

This one asks something different from me. It holds Post-its, notebooks, pens, pencils, markers, my desktop computer, my iPad, a speaker, a candle that never really leaves, and usually a warm cup of cinnamon or horchata tea nearby. There are books above me, technology around me, and too many cables, because adulthood is apparently held together by chargers.

Behind the computer, my awards and diplomas are half-hidden. Close enough to remind me I am capable. Hidden enough that I do not have to stare at them.

There is also a box of business cards. People I met. People I could reach out to. Tiny paper doors I keep meaning to open.

This desk helps me study. It helps me write and do the “serious” things. But it does not really help me draw.

There is not enough surface. The computer takes over. The lighting belongs more to the screen than to the hand. The objects around me carry pressure. Work. Study. Apply. Write. Answer. Plan. Prove.

The desk contains art supplies, but that is not the same as inviting art.

A space can hold the right objects and still ask for the wrong behavior. My Georgia desk has markers, paper, books, a candle, and music. Some of the same ingredients are there, but the screen sits at the center. The surface is tight. The light pulls me toward work. The diplomas and business cards whisper from the edges.

This desk does not say, “make a mess.” It says, “do something with yourself.”

I need that voice sometimes. I need the serious desk. I need the desk that helps me sit down, study, write, and build a life. But I also know what gets lost when every object around me starts asking for proof.

A Corner the Computer Cannot Swallow

My body knows the difference before I do.

At the Bogotá desk, my hand reached for paper. At the Georgia desk, it reaches for the mouse. One desk made it easy to open a book at random, stain the newspaper, draw a face, write the letter, follow the song, and let the afternoon disappear. The other helps me focus, produce, organize, study, remember what I have done, reach out, and build the next thing.

I do not want to recreate my childhood desk. I cannot go back to that room, that wall, that age, or that exact privacy. I do not need to. But I can learn from what that desk allowed.

It kept the tools close. It made room for mess. It let ugly art exist. It gave my feelings paper before they had language. It held the small objects that made me feel less alone.

My adult desk does not need to be prettier. It needs to be more honest.

I want a small surface the computer cannot take over, better light for the hand, paper within reach, watercolors visible, magazines, photos, textures, music, and maybe something from nature. A place where drawing does not have to compete with emails, credentials, or the quiet panic of all the things I should be doing.

A place where something can begin before it knows what it is for.

A desk is small, but it is not harmless. It can make a life feel like a list, or it can leave enough room for a thought to surprise you.

Then everything started happening fast. At first it was just emails about hygiene and safety procedures. Quarantine recommendations. I remember thinking, okay, this is probably temporary. Una semana. Maybe two. Nothing dramatic.

But the tone changed quickly. Global pandemic announced. Classes canceled. Campus closing.

The New York trip just disappeared. My friends started packing. One by one. Parents came with cars and boxes. Hallways that used to be loud and chaotic became quiet. You could hear luggage wheels echoing on the floor.

Until it was mostly international students and the ones that didn't have anywhere to go left. Campus became this strange, desert place. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just empty. Like the world had paused but we hadn’t.

I was still enrolled in the accelerated architecture program, which had already been demanding before the pandemic. Now it felt surreal. I was studying, working, and worrying all at once. For the first time since moving to the U.S., I wondered if I had miscalculated something. If I had underestimated how fragile everything could be.

I worked for the housing department at my college. I always had. Suddenly my job shifted. Instead of normal tasks, I was disinfecting surfaces and receiving dorm keys in the parking lot as people and their families came to move out. I would stand there, mask on, collecting keys while parents helped their kids carry everything home. I remember thinking, it must be nice to have someone come get you.

I just wanted to go home. But flights to Colombia were being canceled. Airports closing. Every day there was new bad news. The world felt like it was ending and my family was far away. There’s something deeply destabilizing about not knowing if you’ll see your people again.

I did not have a car. If I needed groceries, I walked or rode my bike about 45 minutes each way. Anxiety sat in my chest constantly.

I stayed on campus until the semester ended. Then I got another email. The dorms were going to be renovated. I had to move to the other side of campus. It was hot. I had no car. Just the few things I had accumulated over that year in the U.S. I carried my luggage back and forth in trips. Sweating. Tired. Slightly numb.

In the new dorm, I never fully unpacked. It felt safer to stay ready. Ready for what, I didn’t even know. But ready.

Around that same time, my parents’ work stopped. They are independent workers, and when everything shut down, so did their income. The financial support I had relied on suddenly felt uncertain. Tuition was no longer just expensive. It felt out of reach.

My grandmother also passed away. She was in Korea, and with borders closed, I could not say goodbye. Grief became something I carried quietly, between studio deadlines and disinfecting tables.

It felt like bad news kept piling up, and I was somewhere underneath it trying to breathe.

Soon after that, another reality hit. If I wanted to stay on campus for the next semester, I had to pay for it. A full semester. I didn’t have the money. And that’s when the panic became physical. A real, stomach-turning, can’t-breathe kind of panic.

Because it wasn’t just about missing New York anymore. It was about not having anywhere to go.

Part ll: The Asking - coming soon…

That distance becomes most noticeable in social life. The U.S. is one of the most individualistic cultures in the world, and that shapes everything from friendships to family life. People are polite and kind, but more reserved, especially compared to us Latinos. I remember constantly wondering if I was being mean, or if they were, if I was talking too much, asking too many questions, being too open. Eventually, I realized that no one was wrong, we were just playing by different rules, and adapting meant learning those rules without losing myself.

People here also tend to organize themselves into very specific groups. By majors, by race, by interests, by religion, by athletes, by nerds, by artsy people. Over the years, I moved through many of them: international students, religious groups, athletes, party people, artsy weird people, Latinos, Asians, fraternities, major-specific groups. I never fully fit into one box, and at first that made me feel like an outsider, until I slowly learned that not fully belonging anywhere was also its own kind of place.

That feeling showed up in very ordinary moments. Not knowing who to sit with in the cafeteria, not knowing what to do on a weekend, being in a group hangout where everyone is speaking a language you don’t understand. Walking what felt like endless distances to the grocery store or the bank because I didn’t have anyone to ask for a ride that day. I had incredible friends and people who helped me, but not all the time, and sometimes the most important things happen when no one is available, and that can feel deeply lonely.

For a long time, I thought that loneliness meant something was wrong with me. I didn’t know until later that loneliness here is actually a national conversation. Mental health felt more talked about in the U.S., and at the same time, I saw more isolation up close. It’s not that collectivist cultures mean happy and individualistic cultures mean lonely, it’s much more complicated than that, but arriving without a built-in support system makes everything feel heavier.

Another part of the adjustment was how planned everything feels. Back home, we hang out anywhere, a park, a bench, someone’s house, without much planning. Here, everything has a time and a place, and even friendship can feel scheduled. That structure can be efficient, but it also reinforces distance, especially when you’re still learning how to build connections from scratch.

Then there is consumerism. I wasn’t prepared for how intense it would feel to be constantly bombarded by advertising, endless highways filled with signs for lawyers, politicians, fast food, and products for problems you didn’t know you had. Walking into a store and seeing dozens of options for the same item sounds small, but it gets to you. You start buying things you don’t need, not because you truly want them, but because the environment is designed to keep you consuming.

That pressure exists beyond objects. There is a constant grind culture, work more, earn more, climb higher, bigger house, bigger car, bigger title. Even if you don’t consciously agree with it, it becomes background noise. At some point, I had to stop and ask myself whether what I was aiming for was actually mine, or simply absorbed from the culture around me.

Living here also changed how I relate to confidence. I learned that silence doesn’t always get you far, and that you have to name what you want and what you’ve done. That helped me professionally, but it also came with a cost. My warmth, my spontaneity, the way closeness is normal back home, had to be adjusted. Warmth can be read as flirting. Openness can feel like crossing a boundary. I learned to be more careful with how I showed myself. That part made me sad, but it also forced me to reflect.

At the same time, this experience pushed me inward. Being alone in a very individualistic culture made me ask questions I hadn’t asked before. Who am I when no one knows me? What do I actually want? What kind of life feels honest to me? It forced me to reflect deeply, and in that sense, it has been one of the experiences where I’ve learned the most about myself.

If you feel distant, confused, overstimulated, or out of place here, there is nothing wrong with you. You’re learning. You’re adjusting. You’re doing something that requires courage, leaving what’s familiar and figuring out who you are without it. Everyone around you is carrying their own story and their own struggles, even if it doesn’t always look like it.

Living here doesn’t give you answers, it takes away the familiar ones. It removes context, routine, and certainty, and asks you to build meaning from scratch. That process is uncomfortable, but it’s also honest.

If you’ve ever lived away from home or experienced culture shock, I’d love to hear about it. What was the hardest part for you?

I landed in Atlanta in the middle of winter, stepped onto a bus, and rode for 3 or 4 hours into rural Georgia. I remember the roads stretching endlessly, houses far apart, everything quiet in a way I had never experienced. I was excited, overwhelmed, and terrified at the same time. My thoughts raced the entire way.

I came on an F-1 visa, like many international students, though much of this applies no matter your visa type. What I didn’t know then is that most of my confusion during those first months wasn’t because I wasn’t capable. It was because no one had explained the system clearly.

This is the explanation I wish I’d been given. So if you’re an international student, newly arrived or about to be, this is for you.

1. Learn how the academic system works as early as possible

The U.S. academic system is flexible, but it’s rarely explained in plain language.

Most undergraduate degrees are structured around two parts: general education or core classes (English, math, science, humanities, social sciences) and major-specific classes. Most courses are worth 3 credits, some labs or intensive classes are 4 credits, and smaller classes like yoga or CPR are often 1–2 credits. To stay full-time, most undergraduate students take 12+ credits per semester. I usually took 16–18 credits.

The confusion begins when you don’t yet know what you want to study. I was undeclared, so I took classes that sounded interesting: yoga, CPR, geology, art, psychology. They weren’t useless, but many didn’t count toward my final degree. I only realized this later, when I transferred universities and saw which credits actually transferred.

Being undecided is normal. Being undecided without guidance can cost you time, money, or even an entire semester.

If I could go back, I would sit with an advisor during my first week and ask for a simple explanation of how the system works before choosing classes.

2. The syllabus is the most powerful academic tool you’ll receive

The syllabus is not just an outline. It’s the roadmap to your grade.

It includes grading breakdowns, deadlines, attendance rules, participation expectations, office hours, contact information, and often all important dates for the entire semester. I treated the syllabus like a contract and built my schedule around it.

Understanding what the professor values matters more than studying endlessly without direction. Many students work hard but miss points simply because they didn’t read carefully. Knowing how you’re evaluated changes everything.

3. Start strong academically. Momentum is real.

An international advisor once told me something that stayed with me: it’s easier to start with good grades than to recover from bad ones.

I took that seriously during my first semesters, and that early effort carried me through harder years. Maintaining a high GPA became manageable because I wasn’t constantly fixing mistakes from the beginning. I eventually graduated with a perfect GPA, not because I was exceptional, but because I understood how the system rewards consistency.

4. Classroom English and real-life English are not the same

I thought I spoke English well. Well…I didn’t.

Academic English and conversational English feel very different, especially when accents come into play. Confidence takes time, particularly if you’re shy. What helped me most was spending time with people whose native language was English.

I joined a campus organization where most members were American. Any student organization works. What matters is proximity. Pronunciation, rhythm, and confidence improve faster when English becomes part of your daily life.

I also spent time seeking Spanish-speaking friends because it felt familiar and safe. That comfort mattered. But I learned that growth required balance. Staying only where it feels easy can slow progress.

At first, I wrote essays in Spanish, translated them, and reread them over and over. Speaking felt intimidating. Over time, survival mode teaches you anyway. You gesture, you ask, you get things wrong, and slowly the language becomes yours.

5. Culture shock includes small, practical things no one mentions

Georgia didn’t look like the movies.

There were no small neighborhood shops, only huge stores like Walmart. Everything required a car. Even food felt confusing when there was no kitchen nearby. Later came the shock of banking systems, credit, and basic logistics that I’ll explain in another post.

Feeling disoriented doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision. It means you’re learning a new environment from scratch.

6. Advisors and older students will save you from unnecessary mistakes

Before every semester, I learned to explain what I wanted, what I had already taken, and where I was heading. University advisors help, but older students can be just as valuable. Informal guidance often fills the gaps official systems miss.

Asking questions early prevents problems later.

7. Scholarships exist, but no one hands them to you

I didn’t understand scholarships until years into my degree, during a financial crisis in the pandemic. When I asked for help, administrators and professors looked at my grades and told me I should have been applying long before.

I had only applied to general university scholarships and assumed that was the end of the road. It wasn’t. There are thousands of scholarships, many of them tied to academic performance. GPA matters because it reflects responsibility, consistency, and effort.

Applying for scholarships is a skill, and it can be learned. I’ll go deeper into this in future posts.

8. Paperwork will feel overwhelming, and that’s normal

Being an international student means learning a second language made of acronyms: F-1, CPT, OPT, RFE, taxes, forms, deadlines.

The fear of making a mistake is real. What helped me was asking questions constantly, saving everything, and keeping one calendar that I checked daily. You don’t need to understand everything at once. This knowledge builds step by step.

9. Loneliness appears quietly if you let it

There were moments when I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. International communities are diverse and enriching, but also challenging. Different cultures, values, and communication styles can feel isolating.

I learned to do things I would never have done back home. Sitting with strangers in the cafeteria. Knocking on my RA’s door and asking to talk. It felt awkward, but it worked.

Many people around you are just as lost, homesick, and uncertain as you are.

10. This experience will shape you more than you expect

If I could sit next to my 17-year-old self on that bus from the Atlanta airport, I would tell her that this was a brave decision. That curiosity and openness would carry her far. That the difficult moments would slowly build resilience she didn’t yet recognize.

This path is not easy, but it is deeply formative.

You don’t need to have everything figured out. You just need to keep moving forward.

I’ll be sharing reflections like this on the last Friday of every month, expanding on topics like GPA strategies, scholarships, studying effectively, banking, and navigating paperwork as an international student.

If you’re reading this and there’s something you wish someone had explained to you sooner, feel free to leave a comment below. I’d love to write about it.

You’re early, you’re learning, and you’re not alone anymore.

Lately I’ve been wondering what really scares me more: choosing wrong or not choosing at all. I think you already know the answer. It’s the not choosing. The frozen place. The paralysis. That has always been my enemy.

I can live with mistakes. I can survive regret. But I can’t survive staying in one spot while life keeps moving without me.

I’ve felt this fear for a long time. Maybe it started the night I sat at my desk, seventeen and overwhelmed, writing endless lists of possible majors, possible futures, possible lives. I had the whole world spread out in bullet points: architecture, psychology, literature, design, philosophy, everything. My skills in one column, my dreams in another. Pros and cons like a ritual. And I remember thinking that one choice would make everything else disappear.

I chose what I could with the information I had. Sometimes I joke that I messed up, that maybe I picked wrong. But the truth is that choice shaped me. It brought me here. It taught me how to think, how to see, how to build myself. I can’t regret that. Still, the fear stayed.

Maybe it’s because I grew up trying to earn A+ in everything as if there were a perfect path or a right answer or a golden route that would make everyone proud.

I don’t believe that anymore, but some small part of me still does. The part that wants to be the good daughter. The part that still wants some invisible teacher to nod in approval.

You know how I am. A mind that never stays still. Curious, scattered, ambitious. I fall in love with new projects faster than I can finish the old ones. I give everything I have to something, and then a brighter possibility appears, more interesting and more tempting, and I run after it like a bird I’ll never catch.

Sometimes I think that makes me flawed. Other times I think it makes me alive.

But I’m scared too. Scared that choosing one thing means losing parts of myself, my creativity, my identity, my freedom, my roots, my weird ideas, my curiosity that asks what if every five minutes.

I’m scared of losing the other Angies: the one who stayed in Bogotá, who did a master’s right away, who didn’t leave her ex, who lived closer to her family, who chose another country or another city or another version of home.

Sometimes I get stuck in those alternate lives for hours, as if staring at windows I can’t walk through. The past pulls me, the future pulls me, and I forget I’m here now, breathing.

I’m scared of the comfort zone too. When I stay there too long, I start decaying, numb, bored, restless, a little dead inside, like something huge is missing and I can’t name it.

But choosing one path doesn’t kill the others. It just moves them to another branch of the tree. Life isn’t a straight line. It’s branches and twists and loops. And not choosing is also a path, just one that keeps you hungry.

I’ve made so many choices that terrified me: moving to the United States alone, studying architecture and psychology, leaving people I loved, loving people I shouldn’t have loved, choosing again and again to stay, to grow, to try. Every one of those choices taught me something. Every one built me.

So I guess the real answer I will come back to when I’m scared again, is this:

I’m afraid because I still believe I could ruin my life with a single decision. But the truth is that I’ve never ruined anything by choosing. I’ve only ruined things by staying still.

When I choose one path, I gain something I forget I crave: depth, clarity, identity, momentum. I become someone who knows herself, not someone waiting for life to decide for her.

So maybe that’s why I’m writing this letter. To remind myself that the only wrong choice is not choosing at all.

With love,

Ms. Nobody

It’s been raining all day. I’ve been staring at the window, trying to believe time used to move slower. I hate that it’s getting cold, but I love the colors. There’s something comforting about walking through falling leaves y los vientos que acarician, even when everything else feels uncertain.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. Almost every night. Always something about high school, people I haven’t seen in years, the old feeling of being left out in my mind. People turning away, walking off. I wake up and try to decode it, como un rompecabezas que se volvió hobbie. Maybe it’s my brain trying to process rejection that never fully left.

I write the dreams down sometimes. In my notebook and in voice notes. Hoping that by capturing them, I’ll understand myself a little better. Maybe writing doesn’t slow time, but it helps me remember who I’ve been inside it.

I don’t hate people the way I used to. I used to carry this quiet anger toward everyone like they were distractions or threats. Now I mostly just want to understand them. I enjoy listening, guessing where their behavior comes from. It’s weirdly peaceful.

I’ve also stopped seeing “important people” as better or higher. Everyone I once thought had some kind of magic turns out they’re just random humans, too. Lost, insecure, dealing with family stuff, and pretending they know what they’re doing here on Earth. Status doesn’t impress me anymore. Kindness does.

It’s a calm phase of my life. Peaceful, maybe too peaceful. Sometimes that scares me, like something bad is about to happen. I’m learning to sit with that fear instead of running from it. I’m learning to breathe and relax. I am not in danger anymore.

Work feels strange these days. I’m grateful for it, but I can feel a comfort zone forming and that makes me nervous. He cultivado un cariño enorme a mi jefe y a mis coworkers. I want to push forward, but this little cozy space I’ve built is… nice.
The dilemma is real: comfort feels good, but growth needs friction.

My to-do list keeps growing… visa paperwork, side projects, less screen time, gym, therapy, learning, lo que se siente endless. I treat myself like a project that never ends. But lately I’m trying to go easier on myself. To stop punishing myself and feeling so guilty for not being perfect, productive, or “on” every single day. Still struggling with this.

I want to be more authentic, less scared. Say what I think instead of overanalyzing it for days. Stop trying to be the most put-together person in the room. I’m tired, but not miserable.

I don’t listen to music like I used to, but I’m dancing again sometimes. My brain replaced playlists with podcasts about psychology, finances, tech, history, productivity, anything that promises to fix me. I doubt they do. But I keep listening anyway.

This letter is just me trying to capture November 2025 before it passes. Because time is moving fast, and I don’t want to forget this version of me trying, failing, learning, laughing, existing. The seasong for collecting moments before they turn into memories.

Sunday has this universal feeling to it: rest, silence, nostalgia, anxiety, all mixed together. A pause that’s never long enough. It doesn’t move like the rest of the week. It stretches and lingers. It holds both peace and heaviness, the calm before Monday, the shadow of what’s coming.

In Latin America, Sunday is family. A full table covered in food that lasts the whole afternoon. Music somewhere in the background. Laughter. Maybe church in the morning, fútbol or movies on TV later. A day for togetherness, for catching up, for remembering you belong somewhere.

In parts of Africa, Sunday has rhythm. Choirs spill songs into the streets, kids wear their best clothes, markets close early, the smell of stews and spices fills the air. The whole day slows down, reminding people of rest and spirit.

In Asia, Sundays take different shapes. In some places, it’s temples and incense. In others, it’s shopping malls full of families, or quiet parks, or tea houses. For many, it’s the only real pause in a week that doesn’t stop.

Everywhere, Sunday shows something. It’s like a mirror reflecting who we are, what we care about, what stage of life we’re in.

To the child: cartoons and pancakes.

To the parent: errands and preparation.

To the worker: a breath, too short.

To the lonely: a silence, too long.

Sunday always carries something. Clean. Slow. Lazy. Sacred. Heavy. Beautiful.

Maybe that’s what Sunday really is: the reminder that life isn’t only about doing, but also about pausing. To rest. To reset. To listen to silence. To hold on to the people who matter. To sit with yourself for a minute.

And today, I can’t help wondering: what does Sunday mean to you? Is it heavy, light, sacred, lonely, joyful?

Because if we put all our Sundays together… yours, mine, the world’s, maybe we’d see that even in our differences, there’s a rhythm that connects us all.

He wakes up each morning and feels the weight of ten thousand clocks pressing on his chest. Not loud alarms, not urgent deadlines, just the quiet tick-tick-tick that never stops. Days blur into weeks, weeks into years, and somehow he’s still standing in the same place.

It’s not laziness. He’s not even resting. He’s exhausted from doing nothing, from spinning in circles inside his own head. Every idea collapses under the weight of doubt. Every step forward feels like sinking into mud.

Stuck in the past. Stuck in the future. Never fully here.

But Mr. Nobody wasn’t always like this. Something happened. A fracture. A turning. The kind of moment you don’t notice until years later, when you realize it never let you go.

In the next pages, we’ll begin to explore his story. Where it all started, and why he never escaped.

I wish you had been here with me last Friday.

I was sitting at the table of someone I once met as a stranger. At an art museum in Asheville, during an architecture conference. We started talking, and I don’t know how to explain it, but the connection was instant. It reminded me of the rare kind of people who make you feel at home away from home. The kind you don’t meet every day, but when you do, you know.

She invited me to her house for dinner last friday. Around her table were people twice my age, strangers with high positions and wealth that once would have intimidated me. At first, I shrank a little inside, but as we spoke, I saw them for what they were… human. Relatable, approachable, awkward in their own ways, laughing at bad jokes. Proof that no one is better or less than anyone else under any circumstance.

I carried more than food home from that night.

I carried some career lessons I want to keep close:

– You’ll figure it out. You’re still young. Don’t worry about it too much.

– We aren’t heroes or super-special people. At the end of the day we’re just human, with dreams and struggles. Be confident, but don’t get lost in ego. It’s a trap hard to escape :)

– Be authentic; your real self is what makes people trust you.

– Be more interested than interesting.

– Skills might be equal, but people choose to work with those they relate to, those they like.

– Relationships matter most. Surround yourself with people who inspire you, who push you, who you admire. And if they’re not in your life yet, look for them. They’re looking for you too.

– The only way to find your path is to keep experimenting. Jump if you need to. Change direction without apology.

– Brand yourself without looking like you’re branding yourself.

– Leadership is caring for people and their families. Genuinely.

They weren’t said like lessons, just fragments of conversation.

But sometimes these moments, sitting at a stranger’s table, learning how to belong where you don’t yet belong, are what shape us most.

Discomfort is the doorway. Connection is the gift waiting inside.

I thought of you that night. I know you and I have sat at our own dinner tables, talking late into the night, writing our dreams into the air like they might come true if we just said them out loud enough. This felt like one of those nights, except with strangers who didn’t know me.

I hope next time, you’ll be sitting beside me. Until then, I’ll keep sending you these little pieces of my life, so that even far away, you’ll feel like you were here.

Always,

Ms. Nobody

At parties, where people look past you while searching for someone prettier, someone easier, someone else. The music is loud, the drinks are overpriced, the flirting feels like performance. Conversations skim the surface. Some people leave with a stranger, some leave with friends, some just go home alone… ears still ringing. And you walk home realizing it was all an illusion. The same kind of illusion Sundays carry as they fade into Monday.

I’ve felt it online too. Jumping from one app to another, chasing connection with restless thumbs. Time passing. The sun going down. Me under the covers, hiding from the world. That shameful feeling creeping in. Seeing the unread messages from the people I care about most and not answering them. Starting the fight in my own head: Why am I like this? Why can’t I belong the way others do?

The emptiness grows. Everyone else seems to have their fixed groups, their traditions, their circles. And I’m here with an extra ticket in my hand, not even sure who to invite. I text someone out of desperation. No reply. Ghosted back. Maybe that’s karma, I tell myself.

And then comes the after. When the noise runs out. The party’s over, the apps feel dead, the night is too quiet. Everyone is asleep, except for me and the weight in my chest. My leg won’t stop shaking. My brain replays everything I said and everything I didn’t. Who I am. Who I’m not.

That’s when it hits me: It’s not the silence that hurts. It’s the noise without meaning. Loneliness comes from being surrounded and still unseen.

Silence is not the enemy. It’s uncomfortable because it shows us who we are without distractions. It forces us to sit with the questions we spend all week avoiding. It whispers the things we don’t want to admit: the masks we wear, the people we miss, the dreams we’ve buried.

Silence stings because it’s honest. It shows you the gap between who you are and who you pretend to be. It reminds you of childhood, when love didn’t have to be earned. When just existing was enough.

And maybe the most important lesson is this: Until you can face yourself in the silence, no amount of noise will ever make you feel less alone.

So now I wonder… when the noise fades, what do you hear?

1. The people you love will die. Parents, siblings, friends… some sooner than you think. You can’t be ready, but you can be present while they’re here.

2. Nobody has it figured out. Not your boss, not the girl on LinkedIn with the perfect resume, not the couple who seems in love. Everyone’s winging it, just at different levels of confidence.

3. Momentum is nice, but life will slam the brakes. Illness, heartbreak, unexpected bills. You’ll hate the pause, but slowing down doesn’t erase your progress.

4. Trust is not your default setting. It’s something people earn. I used to believe everyone had good intentions. Life taught me that some people don’t, and you often won’t see it coming.

5. Heal the old stories you carry about other women. Mine came from growing up mostly around men and feeling left out by girls my age. If you don’t heal that, you’ll keep meeting the same pattern in different faces.

6. When you love someone, don’t disappear into them. Keep your friends, your priorities, your life. The right person won’t want you to shrink to fit them.

7. You can’t change someone into who you wish they were. And if you think you need to, maybe they’re not your person.

8. Your salary doesn’t say much about your financial health. I’ve met people with high incomes and constant stress. Conscious money habits matter more than the number on your paycheck. And in most workplaces, the person getting paid the most isn’t the smartest or the hardest worker, they’re the most likable.

9. Networking isn’t just a career tip, it’s survival. Most opportunities come from people who know and trust you. Talk to strangers. Compliment them. Make the first move. Show genuine interest. Go to the event even if you feel shy. People usually like to be approached first.

10. Your definition of success will change. Mine used to be a corner office in a skyscraper in New York to travel, helping my family, and a life I actually like living.

11. Burnout is not a badge of honor. Rest before your body forces you to stop.

12. You can’t do it all at once. You’ll want to. I still do. But depth requires choosing what to water.

13. Writing will open doors you don’t even know exist yet. Keep the habit alive.

14. The period that comes after graduating from college feels strange. I’ve been a student my whole life, and a good one. Always in the honor roll and wining scholarships. Then graduation came and I was left asking, *Who am I without this?* That’s when the real studying started: figuring out what I actually enjoy, not just what I’m praised for.

15. Money is not evil. Wealth doesn’t make you bad. What matters is how you use it. Leverage it so it costs you less time, energy, and health to live well. Generosity is part of wealth.

16. Say “no” without apologizing. “No” is a full sentence. You don’t need a novel of excuses.

17. Rest is productive. Stop feeling guilty for taking it. You’re not a machine.

18. Dance. Even if you feel awkward. Especially if you feel awkward. It will connect you to your body and your joy.

19. Some things are worth the money: a trip you’ll remember for years, a gift for your loved ones, clothes that make you feel beautiful.

20. Healing can’t be rushed. If you’re heartbroken and need three months of low productivity to feel like a human again, take them. You have a lifetime to grind.

21. Be kinder to yourself than you think you deserve. That voice in your head that pushes you? It can also praise you.

22. Never forget where you come from. Bogotá, your family, the people who loved you before you had anything to offer. Stay grounded there.

23. Set boundaries even with the people you love most. You can be grateful and still protect your space.

24. Gratitude will change how you see your life. Look back at what you’ve survived and give yourself credit.

25. If you want to go, go. If you want to say it, say it. If you want to wear it, wear it. Life is short.

26. You are not better than anyone, and no one is better than you.

---

These are the ones I’ll be keeping close. Now I’m curious… what’s one lesson, truth, or piece of advice you’d add to the list?

I don’t know who you are yet. Maybe you’re thousands of miles away. Maybe you’ll pass by me on an ordinary afternoon and neither of us will notice… yet.

But I want to speak to you now. So that when you arrive, you know I wasn’t waiting from desperation. I was waiting from clarity. From the decision to never settle for crumbs again.

I’m not looking for a lifeline. I’m looking for a travel partner. Someone who has looked inward. Who knows how to apologize. Who doesn’t run from discomfort or hide behind silence. Someone who holds me like they’re carrying something sacred. And I’ll hold you the same.

I don’t need you to solve my life. I’ve already learned how to survive on my own. But I want you to walk with me. To watch me become. To be moved when I dance, when I write, when I simply exist. And I’ll be moved by you too.

I want to laugh so hard my stomach aches. I want sex with soul. I want long conversations. I want respect when we disagree. I want peace, even in silence.

I want us both to have dreams. And for neither of us to be a cage to the other, but wings.

And if one day love ends, I want us to end with honesty, not betrayal.

Because I will no longer stay where I’m not chosen. Because I’ve learned to let go. Because I don’t need to prove I’m worthy. Because now, I have myself.

And if you have yourself too, maybe we’ll find each other.

—Ms. Nobody

And then there are days I don’t want to move. Not out of laziness. Out of mental noise.
Because when everything feels important, nothing gets done.

I go through weeks where I’m being consistent. I’m eating well, working out, building momentum. And then, something happens. A breakup. A bad week. A piece of news I didn’t expect. Suddenly, I’m on the floor again. And getting back up feels like starting from zero.

What hurts most isn’t the fall. It’s how long it takes to come back. And how fast I forget that I’ve done it before.

Lately, I’ve felt that frustration more than ever. Because besides my goals, I also have to do the basics: sleep, cook, clean, work, pay bills. That alone takes most of the day. So when am I supposed to chase a better life?

And still, when I scroll and see someone glowing online—living in a beautiful home, clear skin, perfect body, always traveling, in love, surrounded by friends, building their dream life—I wonder if I’m already behind. If I’m the only one trying to hold it together while everyone else is becoming everything I thought I’d be by now.
Comparison feels inevitable these days.

There’s one thing that always helps me come back: writing.

I have a brain that doesn’t shut up. It wants to plan, fix, understand, prepare, organize. And if I don’t empty it on paper, it starts eating me alive.

Writing makes things less dramatic. When I write, I realize I’m not lost. I’m just overstimulated. I don’t need to figure it all out. I just need to start small.

Viktor Frankl said: “Those who have a why to live, can bear almost any how.” That line hit me hard.

Because I realized I didn’t really have a why. I had goals. I had pressure. But not a reason that could survive my worst days.

Now I’m trying to build one. Not a perfect vision board. Just a reason to keep showing up. To become someone my younger self would’ve looked up to. Someone who still showed up, even when she didn’t feel like it.

Things that actually help me come back

• Writing until the noise quiets down. No filter, no format. Just dumping thoughts onto paper until I can breathe again.

• Doing one thing that takes under five minutes. Folding one shirt. Drinking water. Going outside. I don’t wait to feel “ready.” I just move.

• Making a “Not Now” list. I write everything I think I should do, and cross out 90% of it. I circle one thing to keep.

• Asking, “What would my future self thank me for?” That’s usually enough to open my laptop or stand up off the floor.

• Creating a ritual before starting. One song. One candle. One blank doc. That’s it. Make the start gentle.

• Saying out loud: “I’m not failing. I’m just tired. But I still want this.”

I don’t have a magic fix. But I know this: It’s okay if you’ve been stuck. It’s okay if it takes time to return. What matters is that you do return.

Even if it’s slower. Even if no one sees it. There’s a version of you six months from now
who’s already thankful you didn’t quit this week.

🧭 Questions to come back to yourself

Answer one when you feel stuck.

• What am I feeling right now, and what triggered it?

• What’s draining me? What can I put down just for today?

• What’s one thing I could do in 5 minutes that would make me feel a little better?

• Which part of me needs softness, not discipline?

• What would my future self thank me for right now?

• What’s the smallest win I can claim today?

• Why did I start? Who do I want to become?

If this helped you, keep it close. If it reminded you of something real, come back to it.

You don’t need to fix your whole life today.
You just need to not disappear.

And starting again still counts.

-Ms. Nobody

Thanks for being here :)

Now I call him Mr. Nobody.

He’s the voice in my head that always interrupts the moment I want to begin. He doesn't shout. He negotiates. Redirects. Pretends to care.

He says:

• “Let’s watch one YouTube video first. It’s educational.”

• “Talk to ChatGPT, that’s productive, right?”

• “Wait, I need to clean first. A clean space = a clear mind.”

• “Let me open Instagram just for a sec.”

• “What do I even do with my life?”

• “Why try if no one will notice?”

• “Should I do this or that? What if I mess it up?”

• “I’m too cold. Or too hot. Or too hungry. Or too tired.”

He’s clever. He always has a reason.

He convinces me to research more, scroll more, clean more, nap more… before doing the thing I actually want to do. And it works, because part of me still believes I need to feel ready to begin.

But when Resistance shows up, I know it in my body. I feel sick. Sleepy. Heavy. Sad. Weak. Like I’m both frozen and melting. It’s not laziness. It’s fear wearing comfort clothes.

The day I realized this voice wasn’t me was the day everything shifted. I saw that my mind and my brain weren’t the same thing. That I could observe the voice instead of obeying it.

And some days, I win.

Like when I go to the gym. Mr. Nobody still talks. But I put on my clothes. I put on my headphones. And I go. Even when I don’t want to. Afterwards, I always feel clearer. Like I came back to myself.

Other days, I give in. I scroll. I make lists. I delay. And then I feel worse. Guilt shows up, wearing logic. I convince myself I’m just tired, or it wasn’t the right time, or maybe I’ll feel more inspired tomorrow. But the truth is, the longer I wait, the heavier I feel.

Sometimes I imagine my 10-year-old self watching all this. She wouldn’t yell. She’d say something like: "You’re doing great. Stop being so hard on yourself. We never imagined you’d make it this far and look this good." And she’s right.

Because the truth I avoid when I let Resistance win is this: I am capable. I have what I need. The energy. The ideas. The drive. The story.

But sometimes I worry that if I actually finish what I want to make, I’ll lose myself. I’ll forget where I come from. I’ll get shiny and distant and unfamiliar. Like success would mean erasing the version of me that struggled.

But that’s not real. That’s just Mr. Nobody again.

So now, I’m drawing him. Giving him shape in my sketchbook. Because the more I pull him out of my head and onto the page, the less power he has. And the more I remember: I don’t need to feel perfect to show up. I just need to begin.

What does your resistance voice sound like? I’d love to hear it.

-Ms. Nobody

So I made this:

A post-work playbook for the three moods I often find myself stuck in:

• Anxious & Restless

• Tired & Numb

• Overstimulated & Sad

It’s not about productivity. It’s about presence. It’s meant to meet you where you are and gently walk you back to yourself.

If You’re Anxious & Restless

Your mind’s racing. Your body’s buzzing. You want to do something—anything—but you can’t focus.

Why this happens:

Your nervous system’s in fight-or-flight. Stress hormones are high. You’re mentally chasing tasks even after clocking out. Your body thinks you’re still “on.”

Try 1–2 of these:

• Leave your phone inside. Take a 5-minute walk. Movement resets your nervous system.

• Make tea like a ritual. Boil. Pour. Breathe. Let slowness lead.

• Set a timer for 10 minutes and clean a surface. One drawer. One sink. It tricks your brain into action.

• Try box breathing: inhale 4, hold 4, exhale 4, hold 4. Repeat. Your heart rate will follow.

• Put on one song and stretch for 5min. Nothing fancy.

• Write down 5 things that are not your problem today.

• Put your headphones on, play a favorite track, and dance just your arms.

• Search for a class near you (salsa, pottery, self-defense, whatever). Sign up. Just one.

• Watch a stand-up comedy and let yourself laugh.

• Try a “productive fake task” like organizing files, deleting 10 photos, or fixing a button.

• Cook something from your culture, or one you miss.

Optional mood booster:

→ Write down three things you wish you could do right now, and do one tiny version. (e.g., if you want to paint, just open your sketchbook. That’s it.)

If You’re Tired & Numb

You feel like a blank page. You’re not sad. You’re not okay either. You’re just… gone.

Why it happens:

Your brain is depleted, not just from working, but from constant input. Decision fatigue, emotional detachment, and a lack of meaningful stimulation leave you in a fog. You need softness. Something quiet to hold onto.

• Lie on the floor and breathe. Set a timer. Just five minutes. Do nothing, intentionally.

• Eat something warm, without distractions. Even if it’s just toast. Taste matters.

• Color in silence. Mandalas. Borders. Doodles. Repetitive, calming focus.

• Massage your hands, slowly. With lotion. With intention. You deserve softness.

• Name five things you can hear. Re-ground yourself.

• Play music from your childhood. Let memory do the work.

• Watch a short foreign film or nature doc. 20 mins. Just enough to remember the world’s bigger.

• Make a list of places you want to visit. Or people you miss. Or meals you loved.

• Try yoga nidra meditation. It resets your nervous system without effort.

• Take a shower in the dark with soft music playing.

• Call someone who brings you peace. No updates required.

• Write a letter you won’t send.

• Clip your nails, do a face mask, brush your hair, slowly.

If You’re Overstimulated & Sad

The world feels too loud. You’re drained, but not sleepy. You don’t want to be alone but can’t be around people either.

Why it happens:

Your senses are overloaded. Too much light, sound, pressure. You’ve absorbed more than you had space to process. Now your system is shutting the doors to protect you.

Try:

• Turn off all sounds. Put your phone in a drawer.

• Go to a bookstore, library, cafe, or church even if you’re not religious. Just sit.

• Cry in the shower. Or in the car. Or to a voice memo.

• Sketch how your day felt. Not how it looked. Shapes, colors, scribbles.

• Write “I feel...” ten times. Finish each line.

• Cuddle your pet. Or a pillow. Or someone who doesn’t need words from you.

• Take a walk during or after sunset. Observe only the shadows.

• Read poetry out loud even badly. Let rhythm soothe.

• Put your hands in cold water for 30 seconds. It helps reset your nervous system.

Bonus: More Ideas

• Clean your work backpack. You know there’s chaos in there.

• Sit on a park bench with a notebook. Sketch what you hear.

• Ride public transport or drive with no destination. Just watch people.

• Ask a stranger for a song recommendation. Then listen to it on your walk.

• Buy one fruit you’ve never tried before.

• Find a meetup or free event near you, even if you go alone.

• Take photos of your city or town. Save them. Archive your view.

• Print a photo you love and put it somewhere visible.

• Write your favorite song lyric on your mirror.

• Interview your grandma or mom. Even if just with 3 questions.

• Dance to a childhood song with your curtains closed.

• Write a message to your 10-year-old self, then your 80-year-old self.

Final note

This is not a fix. It’s not a cure. It’s a soft, messy attempt to stay human. To not forget yourself in the blur of deadlines, traffic, and algorithmic noise. You don’t need to do all of it. Just pick one. Just for today. And if today you can’t. Come back tomorrow. That’s what this is here for.

-Ms. Nobody

What’s your go-to ritual after work when you’re feeling off? Drop it in the comments. Someone else might need it too.

His name is Mr. Nobody.
He’s the version of me that got stuck.
The one who thought too much, felt too much, planned too much and never moved.

He’s brilliant, but buried.
A perfectionist with paralyzed hands.
A man who knew everything but did nothing with it.
He plays piano in a room no one hears. He lost touch with everyone, including himself.
No friends. No voice. No time left, or so he tells himself.

He lived in fear. In regret. In silence.
He said "I would prefer not to." until life stopped asking.

He’s what it looks like to die while still breathing.
And I know him too well.

This is my alter ego.
The part of me that gets swallowed by time and thought and fear and ghosts of unlived lives.

But I’m not here to mourn him. I’m here to resurrect him. Page by page. Line by line. One unfinished sentence at a time.

This is Page 01 of a new project—personal, visual, existential.
Mr. Nobody is what happens when you leave yourself behind for too long.
And I’m bringing him back so I don’t become him.

You’ll see more of him soon. He’s got a lot to say…

If you’ve ever felt like time passed without you… this is for you.

-Ms. Nobody

I write about the shit we usually avoid: heartbreak, unemployment, burnout, identity crisis, starting over, loneliness, self-doubt, growing up and still feeling lost. I write about the parts of life that don’t look good on LinkedIn or Instagram. I don’t write for likes. I write to stay human, to make sense of this chapter, to slow down, and to tell the truth even when it’s not pretty. Especially then.

I’m interested in inner work, money with meaning, relationships that make you question who you are and who you’re becoming. I’m drawn to the mess of leaving home, missing home, and redefining home. I’m interested in routines that fall apart, beliefs that evolve, and the raw process of starting over at 25, 28, 32, 56... because starting over isn’t failure, it’s a phase. I’m especially interested in what makes people keep going even when they’re tired, unsure, or quietly hurting, and in what happens when we stop pretending and start telling the truth.

I’m not interested in shallow self-help that pretends to have it all figured out. I’m not interested in shiny advice from people who’ve never struggled, or content that talks at you, not with you. I’m not here for perfection, optimization, or hustle without soul. I’m tired of empty words and masked vulnerability. I’m not trying to be another voice online telling you how to be better. I’m just trying to be better. And sometimes that starts with being honest about how bad it feels first.

I’m writing for the ones who are in between lives… in between jobs, cities, relationships, identities. For the people who feel behind but are actually just in a deeper process. The ones walking and carving their own path. I’m writing for those who think too much, feel too much, try too hard, and still feel like it’s not enough. Creatives. Ambitious souls. Immigrants. Multipotentialites. People who question everything.

I’m writing for the people rebuilding, quietly, slowly, with shaky hands and indestructible hope. I’m writing for people who want to feel free, not just look successful. So, if you’ve ever cried in a bathroom at work, ghosted your group chat, canceled plans even though you were lonely, or stared at the ceiling wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to figure it all out, this space is for you.

If you’re new here, hi, I’m Angie. This Substack is where I show up as Ms. Nobody. Not because I have no identity, but because I’m still becoming. Because I believe that sometimes, the most honest version of us is the one without the resume. The one that’s not performing. Just writing and feeling…

And if you’re also writing, or healing, or rebuilding, I’d love to hear from you. Even if it’s one word. Even if it’s just “same.” What do you write about or think about all the time but haven’t said out loud yet? What are you tired of pretending to care about? What chapter are you quietly living right now?

Drop it in the comments. Or keep it to yourself. Either way, you’re not alone. We’re figuring it out. Slowly, maybe. But still moving.

Ms. Nobody
(aka Angie)

They say one of the first steps in building wealth is defining your rich life. Not in a billionaire, yacht-party, private island kind of way. But in a way that actually makes it worth it. Because what’s the point of chasing "more" if you don’t know what more even means? So I sat with it. I thought about it. And this is what I saw:

Morning, On My Terms

I wake up early, but on my own. No alarms yelling. Just soft light slipping through the curtains and my cats already starting their day. Marley Jazz curled at my feet. Toño Blues watching birds like it's the morning news. Breakfast is being made. Maybe by me. Maybe by a chef. It’s healthy, colorful, and actually enjoyable. I eat outside on my balcony, barefoot, wearing something soft. The view is always different... sometimes trees, sometimes city, sometimes ocean. But always mine. Always earned.

Some mornings I write. Others, I sketch or paint. I move slow, but with rhythm and direction. I shower, take care of my skin, and put on an outfit that makes me feel sharp and confident. Just for me. No rush. Just presence. Then I move. Gym, dance, run, yoga... depending on where I am or what my body needs.

Work and Education, People I Respect

I don’t work to survive. I work because I want to. My days are filled with creative, strategic projects that excite me. I collaborate with smart, curious people I really like. I build tools, businesses, brands, and ideas that help others and pay me well. Some days I teach. Some days I design. Some days I write. My work flows across platforms, cities, and time zones, but it never feels like a trap. It feels like mine.

I learn forever. I'm enrolled in a grad school -once again- I once only dreamed of. I take classes just because I want to. Philosophy, design, psychology, technology. I stay learning. I want to be deeply educated, wildly creative, and humble as hell. No pretending to be passionate about things I don’t care about.

Freedom, Movement, and Meaning

I live in multiple cities across the world. Each one holds a different version of me. I move between them with ease. From Medellín to Bali, Lisbon to Tokyo, Bogota to NY, I wake up knowing I chose to be here. Each space feels intentional. My spaces are not huge mansions, but perfectly designed (by me) sanctuaries at my fav places. Books I love. Clothes I wear. Instruments I play. Texture. Light. Music. Comfort.

I climb mountains and skyscrapers. I want to see the world from above. I sit in libraries in Paris, Seoul, Oaxaca, Mexico. I collect cultural and meaningful pieces that remind me to the places I visited. I cry in museums. I feel everything.

I experience music in all its forms. I dance in clubs. On boats. Barefoot in my kitchen. I go to jazz bars and festivals in the jungle. Music is always near. I travel with friends. I visit family. I surprise people I love. I take my parents on the trips they once dreamed of, because now I can. Weekends are spent on rooftops or in nature. I host dinners. I collaborate with artists. I create new traditions.

Body, Beauty, and Presence

I am unbelievably beautiful. Not because I’m perfect, but because I care. Not for approval, but because I want to feel good. I take care of my skin, my hair, my posture, my energy. My body moves well because I train it. I get massages. I go to therapy. I say no when I need to, and I mean it. I show up with intention. People compliment my light. My aura. My softness and strength.

Why I Want Wealth

It’s not about the number in my bank account. It’s about what that number allows me to do. Help my parents retire. Give my loved ones, pets, and future dog, the good life. Learn endlessly. Live freely. Build something meaningful that gives back to my community and beyond.

Money is just a tool. A way to unlock time, space, and choice. It lets me design a life I don’t need to escape from. It protects my peace and expands my impact. It helps me keep becoming more of myself.

And When I Forget...

This is a living vision. A first attempt at putting it into words. I'm aiming high on purpose because life is full of surprises, and more than once, I’ve ended up somewhere I never expected... in the best way. So why not see how far it can really go?

I lose track sometimes. I compare. I scroll too much. I shut down. But then I reread this. And I come back. This is about building something that feels right. And I’m not here to live small. I’m here to experience everything.

Your Turn…

• What does your rich life look like?

• What makes you feel rich right now, even if your bank account says otherwise?

• What would I do with my time if I never had to worry about money again?

• Who am I when I’m not trying to prove anything?

• What do I envy in others and what does that tell me?

• What values do I want to shape every decision I make — even the small ones?
  (e.g., freedom, creativity, adventure, beauty, peace, growth)

• What kind of community would I build if I had the resources? And who would I invite in first?

Write it down. Keep it close. Revisit it when you forget.

Let’s stop building lives that only look good online. Let’s build lives we’re actually proud to live.

P.S. (I’d love to read what your rich life looks like, whether it’s a few words or a full post!)

The truth is, I’m lonely. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in a quiet, invisible, almost logical way. The kind of loneliness that slips in when you’re doing all the “right” things: working hard, staying busy, chasing goals. You think if you keep moving, it won’t catch you. But it does. It finds you in rooms full of people where no one really sees you. It finds you when you achieve something and no one truly gets it. It finds you when you’re smiling in conversations that feel like background noise.

It’s been growing slowly. I first noticed it when I moved away from home at 17. First time leaving my country, my language, my family. I had to build a life from scratch in a place where nothing felt familiar. I survived by becoming busy. I was the girl who worked hard, got the scholarships, showed up early, studied late, smiled always. But at night, when everything got quiet, I’d feel the sense of not belonging. The effort of constantly translating myself just to be understood. To be enough.

People say I’m “deep,” but I don’t want to be deep, I just want to be understood. I want real connection, not performance. I’m tired of adjusting my energy to fit in. I try to show up: I go to events, smile, pretend I’m not out of place, but sometimes I leave anyway, because being with people can feel lonelier than being alone. Lately, I don’t know who to talk to. Everyone around me is kind, fun, present. But I feel far away, stuck between memories and plans. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve outgrown the people around me or if I just never really fit in to begin with. And that thought makes me feel ungrateful. Arrogant. Wrong.

Some days, I wonder if I’m the problem. Maybe I’ve become too distant, too selective, too intense. I think about the people I’ve lost: good friends, great conversations, safe spaces I didn’t know how to maintain. The boyfriends I pushed away. The mentors I ghosted because I didn’t feel “successful enough” to update them. I miss them more than I say. I feel guilt for having what I once prayed for: a degree, a job, a partner, and still feeling empty. I chase this version of the future so hard that I forget I’m allowed to be human now. I have this drive to prove something, to be someone, to show the people who doubted me that I was always worth betting on. But sometimes, the higher I aim, the more alone I feel.

Yes, I’ve achieved things that should make me proud. But success can feel like a solo sport. I’ve learned to clap for myself quietly, because sharing my wins felt like bragging, or worse, like triggering someone else's insecurity. I’ve seen how people’s smiles fade when you talk about something you worked hard for. I’ve heard the “You’re so lucky,” comments that erase years of effort and sacrifice. I’ve learned to stay small, to celebrate in silence even when part of me wants to scream, I did this and it matters.

Right now, loneliness is sitting next to me. It smells like the burnt wick of this candle. It sounds like the soft jazz I’ve been looping all week, trying to fill the silence. It feels like this quiet ache in my chest that nobody notices.

I don’t have a solution. I’m not writing this to offer advice or hope. I’m writing this because maybe someone else feels the same. Maybe someone else is tired of pretending they’re fine. Someone else is building a life that looks good from the outside but feels empty in the middle. And I just want to say: I see you. I feel it too. Maybe it doesn’t need to be fixed tonight. Tonight, I’m just letting it be.

—Ms. Nobody

It wasn’t until I landed in Atlanta, GA that it hit me. An immigration officer with a thick Southern accent asked me something, and I couldn’t understand a word. My voice started shaking. I wanted to cry. He must’ve noticed, because he smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid, I don’t bite.” I passed immigration and ran straight to the bathroom to cry quietly in a stall. That was the first time I really asked myself: What tf did I just do!!??

Atlanta’s airport, the busiest in the world, felt like a labyrinth. I didn’t know a single soul in the country, my English was basic at best, and somehow I had to figure out how to take the train and three buses to get to my new college, which was 3 hours away. Somehow, I made it. Eyes wide open. Cold, dark winter landscape. Nothing like the movies. Not glamorous. Just…empty. I was scared. I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

I arrived on campus and met my first friend, a Korean guy with a warm smile who helped carry my only suitcase. We didn’t speak much, but actions spoke louder. Years later, he visited my hometown. We’re still friends…I remember my dorm was bare. No pillow, no blanket. Just a mattress and a suitcase full of clothes and letters from home. I made a pillow out of sweaters. The next day, my RA, a kind American girl, checked my room and silently handed me a pillow. Just like that. That one gesture stayed with me. And that’s how I survived all those years: with the help of strangers, even when i didnt ask.

Eventually, something changed. I found my people. Other international students who were lost, scared, figuring it out like me. We shared meals, parties, prayers, Walmart shuttles, hiking trips. I met friends from places I’d only seen on maps: Korea, India, China, Sweden, Egypt, Italy, Brazil, etc. We built a little world out of our differences. College became one of the most enriching experiences of my life. My world expanded without needing to travel far. I learned about other cultures, foods, ways of living. I became an RA. A leader. I joined clubs, volunteered, even fell in love for the first time…

But it wasn’t all highlight reels. I vividly remember the countless crying sessions alone in my room. Desperate. Homesick. Sharing space with roommates from hell. Sleeping on hallway couches. Questioning if I belonged. I dealt with financial stress, cultural confusion, and the identity crisis of being an immigrant, caught between gratitude and exhaustion. It was hard and beautiful. It was survival.

And now, years later, I’m writing this because someone out there is about to go through what I went through. Someone is about to get on a plane alone. Arrive in a country where they don’t understand the accent. Step into a cold dorm with no pillow and no plan. And I want that person to know: you’re not alone. It won’t be easy. But you will build something, piece by piece.

This is just the first letter about my experience as immigrant-in-the-making in the U.S. I’ll be writing more soon: how I graduated with a perfect GPA, won multiple scholarships as an F1 student while working multiple jobs on campus. Also about what I’d do differently if I could go back. I’ll share what worked, what didn’t, what broke me, what built me. I’m not here to pretend I have it all figured out. But if anything I’ve lived can make your path feel a little less lonely, then it’s worth saying out loud.

—Ms. Nobody