What the fuck.

I don’t think that sentence has fully registered in my body yet. It feels like something I say out loud for dramatic effect, like a line I’m rehearsing rather than a reality I’m about to live through. Two weeks feels both impossibly far away and uncomfortably close — like I’m standing at the edge of something I’ve been walking toward for years without ever really thinking about what happens when I get there.

Lately, I’ve been taking inventory of the person I was when I first stepped onto campus. Not in a dramatic, “who was she?” kind of way, but in these quiet, almost accidental moments — catching glimpses of her in old photos, in the way I used to think, in the things I thought I wanted.

I think about her untouched black hair, the sage green moving boxes stacked neatly in my dorm room, the way her face was softer, rounder, less defined by everything that would come next. I think about how carefully she had planned everything: the outfits, the classes, the version of herself she was determined to become. She walked onto campus believing that everything was about to fall into place.

That her six-year unrequited love would finally see her differently. That she would effortlessly find her people. That she would grow into someone she could be proud of without ever having to question how she got there.

And then I look at myself now — damaged red box-dyed hair, sharper cheekbones, a little more tired and jaded, a little more sure.

And I wonder if she would even recognize me.

Or worse, if she would be disappointed.

Because in so many ways, we are nothing alike. She believed in things I no longer trust. I’ve learned things she never would have imagined needing to know. And if you put us in the same room, I think we’d argue — about love, about ambition, about what it means to be “on track.”

And yet, somehow, we are the same person, which is maybe the strangest part of all.

What’s strange, though, is that I’m not anxious. And that part really scares me.

I think I’ve spent so long equating panic with passion — convincing myself that overthinking meant I cared, that emotional chaos meant something was real. So now, in the absence of that, I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling. For a second, I thought maybe I had become nonchalant. But even that doesn’t feel right.1

Because if I’m being honest, I don’t think I care less; I care differently.

And maybe that’s one of the biggest things college has taught me. Not branch prediction or priority queues2, but how to redefine the things I thought I understood so clearly.

Especially love.

Toward the latter half of my college years, I found myself trying to understand what love actually meant to me. And while the reason I started questioning it wasn’t my favorite, it forced me to realize how narrow my definition had been. I used to think love was something distant, something to chase, something that only counted if it was romantic and reciprocated exactly as I imagined.

But over time, I started to see it differently. As the Patron Saint of Women in Their Twenties, Dolly Alderton, has proclaimed, I realized that love had been around me the entire time — in my friendships, in the quiet consistency of the people who stayed, in the small moments that didn’t demand anything from me except presence. The void I thought I had been trying to fill wasn’t really a void at all. I just hadn’t learned how to recognize what was already there.

And that shift didn’t just apply to love3. It applied to who I thought I was supposed to become.

Before I even stepped onto campus, I had already written out what my college experience was supposed to look like: a fresh start, getting deeply involved in everything I cared about, becoming best friends with my roommate, having perfect grades, building a full and exciting life, and, of course, finding someone who made all of it feel complete. My life felt like a checklist of milestones I needed to complete — not necessarily because they fulfilled me in the moment, but because I had decided, years ago, that they would define success.

And the more I deviated from that plan, the more lost I felt. It was like I had created a version of myself that I felt obligated to become, and when reality didn’t match up, I didn’t know how to recognize who I was without it. It felt like I was failing some invisible contract I had made with my younger self.

But looking back now, I realize something important: I was never that far off.

I just didn’t understand that the path between who I was and who I wanted to be was never meant to be linear — or even clearly defined. Because at its core, all I ever wanted was to find myself.

And I think I’m finally starting to understand that this idea of “finding” myself was never about arriving somewhere final. It’s about becoming. It’s about allowing myself to change, to evolve, to contradict past versions of who I thought I was.

So instead of trying to define everything — love, success, identity — I’m learning to keep all of my definitions as drafts. Not fixed truths. Not final answers. Just working versions of myself that are allowed to grow alongside me.

And when I look at my life now, I can actually see what that growth has given me.

I know what I value. Not in a vague, aspirational way, but in the way I choose how I spend my time, who I surround myself with, and what I’m willing to walk away from. I’ve learned that the most important relationships in my life aren’t the ones I have to prove myself in — they’re the ones that feel steady, mutual, and real. The ones that don’t make me question whether I belong there.

I’ve become more sure of myself, even if that certainty is quieter than I expected. It’s not loud or performative — it doesn’t look like having all the answers. It looks like trusting my own judgment, even when things don’t work out the way I hoped. It looks like knowing that I’ll be okay regardless.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing validation in the places I thought I needed it most. I don’t measure my worth through grades the way I used to. I don’t look for it in the eyes of someone unsure about me. I don’t feel the need to convince people to stay.

And maybe the most surreal part of all of this is that I ended up exactly where I once thought I never could.

I have my dream job.

A version of me, not too long ago, genuinely believed I wasn’t smart enough to get here. That I was somehow faking my way through everything, waiting to be exposed. And yet, here I am — not because I suddenly became someone else, but because I kept showing up as myself, even when I doubted that it would be enough.

I think that’s what this whole process of becoming has taught me.

That I was never lacking — I was just learning.

I graduate from college in two weeks.

And for the first time, I don’t think that’s something to be afraid of.

Because I’m not a finished product.

I’m just a really promising draft — one that I finally trust myself to keep writing.

-xoxo, Amanda

i long to be loved --
yet freeze at the thought of touch
because all i have learned
is how warmth can make you
malleable.

i don’t recall every single time
i have lost my teeth
but one particular instance --

crimson pooled
dripping from my toddler-sized mouth
like a steady
               man
                   -made 
                          wa
                              ter
                                   fall

after that,
i stopped speaking my mind.

so i told myself i hated hugs.

when the kids on the playground
embraced the world with open arms
i stayed inside
studying hesitation

wondering why i lived
so timid and terrified
of letting someone into my bubble
even for a game
of patty cake


it was in high school when i was told
to be touched is to be loved

and i knew something was wrong --
but who challenges authority
when she insists she’s on your side?

and how was i to know that
           the ambulance game
           the suggestive glances
           the “accidentally” lifted skirt
           and sexually-charged comments
were all just
                                                                        “signs he liked me”?

i remembered --
this is why i don’t speak up.

*

i don’t think i heard “sexy” again
until my twenties

two slices of
“you are so beautiful”
sandwiching

    “slut”
  “whore”
“sick fuck”

a hand on my throat --
bruises beyond my own vision --

that kept me full
long enough to convince myself
this is love.

but if this is love,
why am i wincing at the aftertaste

running my tongue
along the backs of my teeth --
making sure
they’re still there?

*

i became emaciated after that
wishing i could start over
and not see my last meal
in every one of my reflections

i just wanted to be held;
is that so bad to ask?

so i linger in my mother’s arms
just a little longer

until i have to let go
and run my tongue along my teeth again --

                counting
                                             what’s left
                          of someone 
                   who still
        longs
to be loved.

-xoxo, Amanda

Looking back at this makes me so grateful for my three English teachers in high school — such influential figures that made me the writer I am today. I should probably email them.

Confession: I’m a musician that cannot read sheet music.

Now, please don’t call TMZ or CNN, but the music staff - both treble and bass - is a foreign concept to me, despite my near-decade of musicianship. In my mind, the C’s meddled with the D#’s and the E’s, creating one incoherent pointillistic piece on the six lines that span the page. Any transposed piece of music was absolute madness.

This insecurity was brought to the center of my attention only recently when a driving instructor accused me of being a “sell-out” and “fraud musician” for my illiteracy. Understanding sheet music was the equivalent of being able to read the alphabet, and I did myself a disservice by neglecting this seemingly-crucial factor towards musical success. Her words soon incited chaos in my mind as I drowned in self-doubt, struggling to discern the voice in my head screaming “You’re not a real musician!” from my own.

But as the storm settled, I was met with a new path amid the madness: pattern and perspective. I realized I was a musician. Only, I was an unconventional one.

If anything, music was what drove me into this different view. While most children spent their earliest years expanding their vocabulary through reading and immersing themselves in Sesame Street and Barney, my gateway to the English language was through the karaoke machine. My ABCs were derived from the lyrics of ABBA, Billy Joel, and the Carpenters as I babbled along to classics with my parents and crafted a lyrical lexicon.

The middle school jazz band introduced me to the flute, drums, and trumpet. My musical illiteracy didn’t pose any roadblocks but rather detours from my final destination. I decided to learn these instruments my way, which typically involved thinking if I put these fingers on these two buttons and my pinky finger on this one knob shaped like a kidney, I’ll play the correct note, rather than simply studying the treble staff and learning which finger positions corresponded to the correct notes.

I’ll admit that this process is unnecessarily lengthy, but the odd finger formations made each note inked on the ivory page less daunting. I committed countless hours to harness these pattern-recognizing skills. Shapes and sounds I learned from the guitar aided me in understanding the piano in under an hour and the ukulele in less than 30 minutes - two tasks completed without a single page of sheet music in sight.

Beyond the strings and keys, the pattern-seeking methods and musical practices echoed into other ventures. I looked for simple shapes in forms when drawing, recognized similar stitches in knitting, and sought out similarities when baking to craft recipes. I treated public speaking as a performance, finding comfort in my background. Establishing a podcast appeared to be formidable until I drew parallels with songwriting - each script told a story, and editing audios simply felt like producing another song. Even my love for coding can be traced back to my musical beginnings, using recognizable structures, phrases, and colors to write and run programs. In any instance, I approached uncertainty by finding the familiar.

If Anderson Cooper ever requested a statement on my greatest scandal, I would like to leave him with this: Each of us have benchmarks that determine the authenticity of an artisan. In my mind, a real musician creates art they are passionate about while exploring and expressing themselves. The way someone’s eyes light up when discovering a new melody is a stronger indicator than their ability to read one of Beethoven’s symphonies. And though I have yet to correctly identify where B flat lies on the music staff, my persistence pushes me to pursue future endeavors from a novel standpoint.

I look back at my driving instructor, and despite her discourtesy, I thank her. Her uninformed criticisms helped me realize that my passions and purpose lie beyond the music stand.

-xoxo, Amanda

As our resident situationship veteran, benched from the dating game for the foreseeable future, I can’t really say much about how that trope plays out beyond my Kindle. But I’ll admit: I’ve developed crushes on friends before. One of the more notable instances was when I met someone and was instantly infatuated, convinced they felt the same (you can probably tell by my tone that they didn’t1). I still tried my best, sending out subliminal signals that hit like flares in an empty ocean, only to realize we were better off as friends. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way about anyone.

And by no means is this any disrespect to that person — if anything, it’s a compliment. But as legend has it, I found myself revisiting those feelings a few years later, wondering if now, with a stronger foundation, things might be different. Everyone around me swore there was something there — some even said I was an idiot for not “seeing the signs.”

Yet deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Because while limbo can be exhausting, the idea of losing a friendship that grounded me felt worse.

So I often wonder: when do we know it’s right to ruin a friendship?

I don’t have an answer in that context. But I think I’ve learned something else.

Like every girl in her twenties who’s read Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love2, I’ve come to see friendship as one of the purest forms of love. Each one of my friends adds color to my life in their own way — one acts as my voice of reason, another reminds me of the importance of warmth, and another teaches me self-respect and standards. I take pride in the people I love; they reflect the kind of love I strive to give myself.

But no, this isn’t a story about falling in love with one of my best friends.
It’s about what happens when love accidentally wedges itself between two.

When I started seeing someone a while back, it complicated one of my closest friendships. I had met him through her — one of my best friends, who happened to be one of his, too. They were close in that easy, long-standing way where jokes flowed effortlessly, and silence didn’t feel awkward. From the start, she told me she’d never take sides if anything went wrong, but I could tell she hoped I’d be happy.

And when things fell apart, I think we both tried to act like it hadn’t changed anything — but it had.

She didn’t do anything wrong. She wasn’t disloyal or careless or unkind. She was just still his friend, and I didn’t know how to exist near that without hurting. I wanted to trust her, but part of me was scared she understood him in a way I couldn’t. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I let that fear turn into resentment. Convinced she cared more about him than me, I distanced myself — telling myself it was self-preservation when really, it was grief.

We still saw each other at parties, birthdays, the occasional dinner — both pretending things were normal, both quietly grieving what wasn’t. It’s a strange kind of loss: mourning a friendship that technically still exists, but feels unreachable because of everything unsaid.

For months, we danced around it. I’d see her name light up my phone and feel my chest tighten. I’d ignore her messages after being overwhelmed by internal conflict and then feel guilty for days. My other friends were angry on my behalf, but deep down, I knew anger couldn’t fix this. I think she knew that, too.

About a year later, she finally texted me: Should I just leave you alone? It makes me sad that it feels like I lost one of my closest friends.

That message broke something open in me.

I realized she wasn’t the villain in this story — neither of us was. We were just two people trying to navigate the fallout of something neither of us chose. So I told her everything: how I had resented her without fully understanding why, how I had projected my hurt onto her, and most importantly, how I still missed what we had before all of it.

It was terrifying to say everything out loud — all the ugly, unfiltered feelings I’d buried — but there was something freeing about being seen without being judged. Somewhere in that messy honesty, we found our way back. Not quite to what we were — but somewhere new. Something steadier. Softer. Realer.

Now, when I think about her, I feel nothing but absolute love and gratitude. It takes a rare kind of love to still choose someone after they’ve shut you out. To hold space for your pain while tending to their own. To forgive you, even when you haven’t yet forgiven yourself.

We’ve both grown since we first met in our first year at university. We’ve learned how to communicate better, how to give each other grace, how to hold both truth and tenderness in the same breath. I’ve realized she’s one of the reasons I learned to see my worth again — because she’s always seen it, even when I couldn’t. She reminds me that love isn’t always fireworks or grand confessions. Sometimes, it’s this quiet understanding. It’s showing up again after the storm, looking at each other, and saying, I still care. Let’s try again.

So maybe the question isn’t when is it worth it to ruin the friendship?
Maybe it’s what kind of friendship is strong enough to survive being ruined?

Because sometimes, ruin isn’t destruction. It’s transformation. It’s proof that even through the fractures, something real can still grow.

And maybe that’s the kind of love worth keeping — the one that rebuilds, the one that forgives, the one that stays.

-xoxo, Amanda

there’s this clear vase in my living room
filled with some silver potpourri from Michael’s
that smells like sandalwood
                                                                                                   and maybe a little like regret

thinking about how it used to hold
a bounty of burgundy flowers
too heavy, too alive for late fall,
like it shouldn’t have existed,
but it did,
                                                                                          and somehow that makes it worse.

i keep thinking about the color lately
	  how red means love,
	  and burgundy feels like what’s left
	  after it burns out,
		    like an aftertaste of something sweet
		    you can’t name
                                                                                                     does that even make sense?


ethereal

ephemeral


i used to think they were interchangeable
maybe they are
maybe this was one of them
                                                                                                           i just don’t know which.


and honestly,
                                                                                     what the fuck did that mean anyway?



and why does it still feel like
proof of something
i can’t explain.

-xoxo, Amanda

I’m going to tell you something personal, and you have to promise not to judge me, okay?

My love for writing started when I was eleven years old, typing One Direction self-insert fanfiction on Google Docs.

It sounds cute until you’re face-to-face with my archives — folders upon folders of stories about One Direction playing for the New England Patriots, Harry Styles becoming president, and my eleven-year-old self inventing an aging machine to make myself ten years older (my brilliant solution to the inconvenient age gap1 between Niall Horan and me).

Elementary-school Amanda had trouble fitting in (the classic Asian kid in a white town predicament). The kids who mocked my fading accent or questioned what was in my Hello Kitty lunchbox made me hyperaware of how different I was. But the moment I logged onto the family desktop, I could let all of that go.

The blinking cursor became my portal into another world — one where I wasn’t invisible, where Niall Horan and Ashton Irwin actually fought over me, where love was uncomplicated and always waiting at the end of the chapter. It was my way of writing myself into belonging.

It goes without saying that my life’s purpose between 2010 and 2015 was to be a fangirl. I learned how to love through the lyrics of One Direction songs — through the way Harry and Zayn would sing about devotion so earnestly, like it was something that could fix you. Loving a pop star with millions of other people somehow made me feel less lonely.

But even after One Direction’s tragic end in early 20162, I never really stopped being a fangirl. I pivoted to My Chemical Romance reblogs on Tumblr, spent hours watching danisnotonfire on YouTube, and, inevitably, came back full circle to Harry Styles after his debut album.

And now, more than a decade later, I’ve found myself doing it again — absolutely obsessed with a Canadian actor named Hudson Williams, watching (and re-watching) everything he’s ever done like I’m studying for an exam that doesn’t exist.

My initial reaction was pure horror: what the fuck. I thought I’d outgrown this.

But falling back into fandom felt like returning to my childhood bedroom and realizing that everything — the posters, the delusion, the hope — had been waiting for me all along.

Over the years, I’ve realized that my fangirl era left me with one defining trait: devotion.

As a veteran of many fan wars in my prime, I understood what it meant to love something so fiercely that other people couldn’t understand it. Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, or maybe because I just feel deeply, but I’ve never known how to love quietly. I love so loudly it’s obnoxious.

And when you learn love through obsession — the kind that aches precisely because you know nothing could ever come from it — you start to see how that translates into real life.

Loving from a distance was safe. There was no rejection, no risk, no vulnerability. I could pour everything I had into people who would never look back — and that was fine, because it meant I’d never have to see what they thought of me up close.

It’s cute, looking back on the posters and iPod Touch wallpapers, but it also explains why, even now, the kind of love I chase always seems out of reach. I used to blame bad taste in men, but it’s deeper than that: I think part of me learned that love only feels real when it’s unreciprocated.

A while ago, I had a crush on this guy in an indie band — the kind of person who seemed effortlessly cool, magnetic without trying. Every time we talked, I felt painfully aware of myself, convinced that I was awkward and clumsy and that he could see right through my act. I’d write in my journal, calling myself an “oaf” for fumbling conversations, overanalyzing every interaction until I could barely remember what had actually been said.

I put him on a pedestal so high that even he couldn’t reach it3.

And then, one day, I realized he was just a guy. Not a symbol, not a savior — just a guy who plays music and sometimes forgets to text back.

I laughed at how quickly my brain had turned him into a character. But that’s what I’ve always done — built versions of people in my head, filling in the blanks with what I hope is there. I’ve been in love with potential more times than I’ve been in love with people.

In an age where everyone wants to be seen as real, it’s funny how easy it is to fall for the idea of someone instead. We crave connection, but curate every inch of ourselves. Maybe that’s why we fall so hard for illusions: they never have to disappoint us.

I’m trying to unlearn that now. I’m trying to let people be messy and complicated and human — not the fantasy versions I keep projecting onto them.

And maybe the key isn’t to stop caring, but to care differently. To take that obsessive, devoted, fangirl energy and direct it toward something that will actually stay.

Because maybe I was never meant to stop being a fangirl — maybe I was just meant to become my own.

-xoxo, Amanda

who decides when we’re ready?
how do we even know?
is there such a thing as ready enough,
or do we just leap
and hope the ground appears?

i’m my parents’ eldest daughter –
the first child of two immigrants;
	my father’s projections,
	my mother’s anxieties,
stitched into me like a quilt
of lessons they learned too late.

for years, i called home
to ask for permission, not advice.
every phone call was a council meeting
where i searched for certainty
and got only
		        “it’s up to you.”

maybe there’s an answer key somewhere,
because all i’ve ever known
is how costly
one mistake can be.

my cousin wasn’t ready to be a mother at nineteen,
and i wasn’t ready for college then, either – 
but that’s the thing about readiness:
you still have to do it anyway.

i live a life drawn in pencil,
outlined by other people’s pasts.
each story, a warning:
	     don’t turn left here.
	     don’t stay out too late when it’s dark.
the only risk i take
		                    is walking the path i already know.

sometimes i forget i’m twenty-two.

maybe because i’ve been rehearsing
adulthood since i was seven,
still searching in the mirror
for that bright twinkle i used to have –
before i learned how heavy
being careful is.

no one decides if we’re ready.
the universe doesn’t wait for permission.
so maybe readiness
isn’t a feeling at all –
			                                                                        just the quiet courage
			                                                                        to begin.

-xoxo, Amanda

I keep telling myself I’ll get better at it — that I’ll stop shying away from being seen so completely. But gazes make me uneasy. They carry too much: the ghosts of exes, friends, desires, expectations. And no matter how hard I try to hold them, I end up feeling distorted — like a picture that never fully develops, the details lost in the light.

I envy my past self the way I envy other people.

I long to return to the girl who laughed without worrying about how she looked doing it. She believed timing was divine, not some elaborate joke, and didn’t yet know what it meant to feel disposable. I miss her — not necessarily because she was happier, but because she hadn’t yet learned to hide. Sometimes I convince myself she’s still here, buried under the noise of wanting too much, loving too hard, and being seen too little. But most days, I struggle to find her in my own reflection.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to become someone else’s idea of you.

The muse. The remedy. The ego-boost. The almost. The “dream girl”. The pretty story.

People fall in love with outlines — the shimmer of potential, the version of you that neatly folds itself into their favorite narrative. And you start performing it without realizing. I’ve been adored for my softness until it starts asking for care in return. I’ve been admired for my insight until it stops being charming and starts being inconvenient.

It’s a strange kind of loneliness — this disenchantment of being loved for the feeling you give someone, not the person you are. I keep wondering if people like the idea of me more than the reality: the messy, anxious, fiercely tender person who still flinches at her reflection some days. Maybe that’s the risk of living openly — that people will mistake your honesty for performance, your vulnerability for depth they can consume.

But I try to understand: people can only meet me at the depth they’ve met themselves, and their inability to see me clearly doesn’t mean I’m invisible. I remind myself that being chosen isn’t the same as being worthy — that I already am, even when no one’s watching.

Sometimes, the hardest part of healing is learning to look yourself in the eye and not look away.

In my last semester of college, I’ve caught myself walking to class and realizing I’ve spent the whole time inside my head — rehashing, replaying, rehearsing conversations that may never happen. I forget to live in real-time — to notice the way the light dances through the academic quad, the sound of my friends laughing in the kitchen, the quiet, ordinary joy of being alive and still becoming. Presence still feels like another language, but I’m finally learning the basics: to slow down, to breathe, to listen.

I have found that growth isn’t about becoming unshakeable — maybe it’s about forgiving the versions of yourself that kept hiding to be loved. Finding grace in being misunderstood. Trusting that you are not an unfinished draft in someone else’s story.

You are the whole thing — revisions and all.

It’s been almost a year since I started this blog — this little archive of heartbreaks, healings, and half-baked thoughts. At times, I feel I started writing because I wanted to be seen. But now I think I write because it helps me see: my patterns, my growth, the small moments that keep me going.

Maybe the goal was never to be fully understood — only to be real.

-xoxo, Amanda

I remember thinking time had bent in our favor — like maybe this was what it felt like when the universe finally rooted for you. Two weeks later, he decided we weren’t compatible.

It’s strange how someone can fold themselves so neatly into your life and then leave without a trace, except for the hollow question of whether you imagined it all.

The Paradox of Modern Intimacy

Why do people today imitate emotional depth so convincingly before quietly disappearing? When did vulnerability turn from something we build into something we brand? Modern dating has made emotional awareness its own performance — people play the part of being evolved while dodging the real discomfort of intimacy.

As Sabrina Carpenter said, “It is what it is, and it’s predictable,1” which has become my guiding mantra as I enter my final semester in the college dating pool. It starts the same every time: the multi-platform pursuit, the instant spark, the banter that makes you feel seen. Then comes a withdrawal — slower, subtler, but just as sharp: a few missed texts, a shift in tone, a gaze that lands colder than before, and the inevitable “I’ve just been so busy.” When the ending arrives, it’s wrapped in softness — never a fight, never cruelty, just quiet detachment dressed as maturity.

Two Case Studies in Emotional Performance

I’ve dated both ends of this strange spectrum.

One end was cinematic — the kind that felt scripted in the best way. Late-night talks, confessions under soft light, dialogue that was stripped straight from the silver screen. He knew how to set a scene, how to build intensity, how to say the right things at the right time. With him, vulnerability was performance art — moving enough to feel real, polished enough to stay safe. He could narrate emotion beautifully, but when it came time to live it — to sit in the quiet, uncertain parts — the credits rolled.

The other end was quieter, steadier, more careful. He noticed everything, asked thoughtful questions, spoke about communication as if it were a class he’d already aced. There was a precision to the way he felt — almost mathematical — as if connection could be predicted, measured, and managed. Maybe that’s why he disappeared when the variables got messy; his kind of intimacy was rational, polite, and avoidant in equal measure.

Two versions of the same ache: one romanticized connection, while the other rationalized it. One loved the rush of intensity, the other the illusion of control. Both seemed fluent in vulnerability, but neither spoke it natively. They performed closeness beautifully, until it required something unscripted — something imperfect, real, and alive.

I used to think vulnerability was something you could hear in a voice, a confession, or the silence between texts. But lately I’ve realized that in modern dating, it isn’t always something people feel — it’s something they perform.

The Vocabulary of Vulnerability

We’ve mastered the language of openness — boundaries, healing, communication, self-awareness — so fluently that it’s easy to mistake articulation for sincerity. People know how to sound emotionally intelligent without being emotionally available. We share struggles, quote bell hooks2, apologize for our attachment styles, yet when real connection asks for discomfort — consistency, accountability, the slow work of showing up — the curtain falls.

That’s what I mean by performative vulnerability: the gap between saying we’re ready for intimacy and actually staying when it gets hard. It’s synthetic softness, curated self-awareness, and the way we use vulnerability to look safe while keeping ourselves untouched.

Maybe it’s not entirely our fault — we’ve grown up in an age where self-awareness is currency. Everyone knows their attachment style, their love language, their “boundaries.” We bake therapy talk into everyday conversation, hoping that naming our patterns will somehow heal them. We project softness online, caption heartbreak with poetic detachment, and call it growth.

But somewhere along the way, we started mistaking articulation for transformation — believing that if we can explain our feelings, we’ve already processed them. In college, it’s even easier to hide inside that awareness; everyone’s busy, ambitious, half-healing from something. Ghosting is frowned upon, so we fade politely. We give reasons that sound mature: “timing,” “compatibility,” “not being in the right headspace.” They’re true enough to sound kind, but vague enough to keep us untouched.

This culture thrives because it’s safe. It lets us feel connected without being accountable, introspective without being intimate. It’s easier to narrate our emotions than to live through them — easier to talk about honesty than to practice it when someone asks, “Are you losing interest?”

It isn’t just emotions we rehearse; it’s kindness too.

Practiced Niceness: The Soft Performance

People know how to act like good partners — thoughtful, attentive, emotionally literate — but sometimes that niceness feels scripted, like they’re following some WikiHow article on “How to be the Best Boyfriend.” A friend of mine was in a similar situation, and our stories began to blur: the compliments, the check-ins, the charm. It wasn’t that they liked us; they liked who they got to be with us.3

I call this performative niceness — kindness as self-validation rather than care. When that’s what fuels connection, the ending always feels eerily tidy. Because when the act ends, you’re not just mourning the person; you’re mourning the illusion that kindness ever guaranteed sincerity.

Aftermath: The Polite Rejection

The aftermath of this kind of connection is quiet, but it lingers. It doesn’t explode like heartbreak; it dissolves like confusion. You replay every conversation, every glance, trying to find the moment when warmth became obligation, when the story you were writing together stopped being mutual.

What hurts most isn’t even the ending — it’s the uncertainty of whether it was ever real to begin with. When someone performs closeness so well, you start to question your own perception: Did I imagine it? Did I push too hard? Was I too much? That’s the cruelty of polite rejection — it’s sanitized and reasonable. You can’t even get angry; you can only feel small.

Friends will tell you it’s normal, that it’s just the nature of dating. They’ll say he handled it respectfully, and maybe he did. But respect without empathy isn’t kindness — it’s damage control. You’re left holding your half of a connection, trying to understand why honesty only came after you asked for it.

I’ve realized that what we call “closure” in modern dating is often just the other person’s comfort disguised as maturity. They get to explain; you get to absorb. You thank them for transparency while quietly unraveling from it.

Relearning Vulnerability: When The Curtains Close

I don’t want to stop being open — I just want it to mean something again. I want vulnerability to feel less like branding and more like courage — the kind that doesn’t need an audience.

Real vulnerability isn’t in the confession; it’s in the follow-through. It’s the text you answer even when it’s awkward, the curiosity you keep when things feel uncertain, the courage to say, “I don’t know what this is yet, but I want to find out.” That’s the kind of honesty I want to practice — not polished, not performative, just present.

And maybe that’s what all these almost-relationships have been teaching me: not that I’m hard to love, but that I don’t need to translate myself for people who mistake eloquence for intimacy.

I’m learning that love isn’t found in the people who sound ready — it’s in the ones who stay when the script runs out.

-xoxo, Amanda

There’s this one version of me who’s always lived in my head: the dream girl.
While she’s not flawless or unbothered, she’s grounded, curious, and at peace in her own company.

For a long time, I thought she existed somewhere outside of me — in another girl’s story, in another girl’s timeline. But lately, I’ve realized she’s been here the whole time; she was just waiting for me to finally notice her.

So, in true rom-com fashion, here’s my five-step guide to becoming your own dream girl (written by someone who still spirals, but now does it with better playlists and a stronger sense of self).

Step One: Learn to Belong to Yourself Again

After a rough, yet transformative year marked by heartbreak, doubt, and learning to like myself again, I had to relearn what it meant to come home to me.

Not in the “take bubble baths and buy yourself flowers” kind of way (though I still do that sometimes), but in the quiet moments — walking back to the quaint yellow apartment I share with my best friends after a long day in the lab, sipping a lukewarm Earl Grey at my desk, humming to Laufey in my headphones.

Somewhere between the exhaustion and the tiny victories, I found comfort in my own company. I stopped waiting for validation from someone else’s gaze and started trusting the way I move through the world — intentional, tender, still learning.

I learned how to sit with the version of myself who didn’t feel chosen and remind her she still belonged somewhere: with me.

Belonging to yourself is different from loving yourself — love can waver; belonging doesn’t.

It’s making peace with who you are when no one’s watching. It’s showing up in your own life even when it feels small. It’s cooking dinner alone without feeling lonely, walking home to that new album you’ve been meaning to listen to, and realizing you’re not rushing to get anywhere but here.

It’s the steady promise that even when everything changes, you’re still yours.

When I stopped outsourcing my worth to other people’s attention, I found something steadier than confidence: I found self-trust.

And that, I think, is where the dream girl starts.

Step Two: Become the Girl You Used to Envy

I used to envy girls who seemed effortlessly sure of themselves — the ones who looked like they came out of the womb with a 50-year plan.

Now I realize they probably just kept showing up, even when it was hard.

This year, I’ve poured that energy into my work. The girl who once doubted if she could survive Intro to Computer Science now writes code for robots (which still feels a little insane to say out loud). I’ve learned to speak up in meetings, to back myself even when my voice shakes, to find meaning in the logic of things when life feels messy.

Being the dream girl isn’t about being admired. It’s about being aligned.

She’s career-driven without guilt, decisive without apology, and grounded in who she’s becoming.

The dream girl doesn’t just dream — she builds.
She drafts, debugs, and delivers.

Step Three: Let Your Insecurities Sit in the Passenger Seat

Even with all that growth, rejection still hurts. A lot.

When someone ends things after two dates with a vague “we’re not the most compatible,” it’s hard not to translate that into “you’re not enough.” I wish I could say self-love makes you immune to that, but it doesn’t. It just helps you recover faster and carry yourself with this graceful resilience.

Some days, I still spiral — replaying conversations, reanalyzing texts, wondering what I did wrong or why I wasn’t enough to be chosen. But instead of letting that voice drive, I let her ride shotgun. I let her talk, I let her cry, and then I remind her that she’s still worthy, still soft, still here.

Maybe the dream girl isn’t the one everyone stays for.

Maybe she’s the one who stays gentle — even when it hurts.

Step Four: Relearn How to Be Loved

For most of my life, I thought love meant being chosen. Now, I think it means being known.

And I am — by my best friends who cackle with me in the kitchen after long days, by the distant connections that reach out every once in a while with “this made me think of you,” by my family who still texts “we’re proud of you” when I land another milestone.

Love is everywhere — in the laughter over dinner, in the soft “text me when you get home,” in the hugs that linger just long enough. I used to miss it because I was too busy looking for it in one person.

The dream girl doesn’t chase love. She grows it — in her friendships, her passions, and the quiet pride of knowing she’s showing up for her people.

I used to want someone to see me the way I see the people I love.
Now, I realize I already do.

Step Five: Fall in Love with the Process

The dream girl isn’t a destination — she’s a process, unfolding gently.

She’s the girl who celebrates baby steps, who forgives herself for backslides, who learns that growth doesn’t always look like glowing. Sometimes it just looks like surviving.

There are still days when I doubt myself — when I think maybe I’m missing something, maybe I’m still too much or not enough. I write this piece only moments after filling my journal with questions on why I feel utterly impossible to love.

But then I remember: I’ve survived every heartbreak, built a life that feels like mine, and found pure joy in the quiet corners I used to overlook.

And maybe that’s what becoming your own dream girl really means: learning that healing isn’t a highlight reel, it’s a rhythm.

I’m not the dream girl because everyone wants me.
I’m the dream girl because I finally want me — the career-driven, emotionally literate, slightly dramatic, endlessly hopeful version of me.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like more than enough.

Author’s Note:
If you’re reading this and still feel like you’re in the middle of the mess, you’re not behind.

You’re just becoming.

Keep taking baby steps. You’ll look back one day and realize you’ve already turned into everything you used to hope for.

Here’s to the dream girls — the ones still becoming, still trying, still loving themselves a little better every day.

-xoxo, Amanda

December 7, 2024

Before I get into it, let me pose a rhetorical question: Can you ever really be sure of someone when you’re still in the honeymoon phase?

After our conversation, I feel like I’m at a crossroads — I want this to work out, but it suddenly feels like he’s beginning to regret me. Before I spiral, I have to remind myself of something simple: I need to do what’s best for me, not the relationship.

Where we left things is a kind of pause — we agreed to take it slow. But to do that, I need boundaries. I still don’t get “wanting to do the boyfriend things without putting a label on it” — that feels like a paradox. If he wants closeness without commitment, that’s fine, but I can’t be expected to offer the full version of myself in return. No promise has been made, and I owe him nothing beyond honesty.

There are plenty of things to be afraid of. Should I take his hesitation as a sign that he sees no future but doesn’t know how to say it? Should I worry about his tendency to back away when things get real? Maybe he’s scared of people getting too close — or maybe I’m scared of that, too. Either way, it’s his responsibility to communicate, not something for me to decode.

As for me, the goal is clear: stand by my needs and keep my self-respect intact. And if that means being more guarded, I will be. I’m proceeding with caution.

Yikes… There is some clear denial here…

December 7, 2025

I am surprising myself with how I am handling it. Sure, it does make me a little sad about what we could have been and how I believed, for once, that we could have been a wonderful match, but I am basing this potential off of all this knowledge about myself and such little knowledge I have about him. The fact that it ended now shows me that it would have ended eventually. I guess it’s all quite hurtful to hear, but I barely got to know him — a stable and secure relationship is built on moving steadily and seeing how a potential partner could fit into the wonderful life I have built for myself, this beautiful and bountiful garden of love from all these relationships that have grown with me.

Part of me wishes we could be friends, but part of having self-respect means knowing when to walk away, even if that leaves many things unresolved. I know that I would get more closure from protecting my peace and being in control of myself, rather than hearing the reasons behind an ending I ultimately had no say in. Seeing how this ended tells me everything I need to know. (I also don’t think I can revert to being friends with someone I didn’t initially meet in a platonic context, but that’s just me.)

But despite the little cracks in my heart once again, I am feeling so much more whole than I have in a year. I am grateful for this because, while it didn’t work out and I wasn’t given a fair shot, I have gotten to unlearn the hurt and shame of last year’s heartbreak and am reminded that I will always have myself at the very least. I am someone with an abundant heart and a soul of sparkling gold that values vulnerability, communication, and growth. Someday, I’ll meet someone who can match that.

But first, I need to be secure in myself and heal all those anxious wounds I have accumulated over these 22 years. Love is never wasted, and I am so glad I get to share that with so many people, including myself.

Growth is steady. It often feels invisible until you step back and realize how far you’ve come.
At least for me, that’s the case.

-xoxo, Amanda

At one point, I thought I’d major in Psychology. Psychoanalyzing the people who wronged my friends in the cafeteria was my favorite pastime, and I was (admittedly) right about 99% of my character analyses on people I’d only observed once. I thought I had some sixth sense for reading people, but really, I just had empathy and a vivid imagination.

I built my own dataset through people-watching and absorbing rants — learning how insecurity and fear drive us to hurt others, or ourselves. It gave me confidence in my intuition, in my ability to see people.

But after declaring my major, I quickly realized: logic doesn’t apply to love.

My mom often says, “You’re so smart, except when it comes to relationships.”
She’s not wrong.

Some of my greatest hits include: a six-year situationship, a middle school boyfriend who now only dates women that look like his mom, a man who could win a John Lennon lookalike contest, a creepy a cappella guy, a ginger bassist, and Satan himself (a film major, of course). These stories have become my go-to party icebreakers, earning laughs and concerned looks alike. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the real punchline is that romantic endeavors simply don’t work out for me.

They say the college “canon event” — the short-lived situationship with an emotionally unavailable man — changes you forever. I used to think that was dramatic. Until it happened to me.

He was everything at once: charming, attentive, emotionally articulate — until he wasn’t. After weeks of intense love bombing, meeting my friends and family, and promising permanence, he ended it out of nowhere on a random Tuesday. I remember sitting on the floor, re-reading his messages over and over, trying to find logic in a choice that was pure chaos.

It broke something in me — or maybe it revealed something that was already cracked. I started this blog in the aftermath, documenting my attempt to rebuild. Every day was a small war against the intrusive thoughts whispering that I wasn’t enough and undeserving of the love I longed for. Healing wasn’t cinematic; it was brutal, repetitive, and quiet. But I kept showing up. For myself. For the people who loved me. For the version of me who still believed love could be good.

Months later, I met someone new. And it was terrifying.

Every entry in my journal that month circled back to the same thought: I don’t recognize my heart anymore. It felt guarded, foreign, and a little defective. I’d done so much work to heal, but I was scared of repeating old mistakes — of hurting someone the way I’d been hurt.

So, I did what any logical, emotionally stunted engineer would do: I treated it like a research problem. I cross-referenced data, running background checks through LinkedIn (to confirm he wasn’t another film major). I asked mutual friends for their assessments. I studied his Instagram activity like it was part of my capstone project.

Insane? Maybe. But this time, I wanted to be sure I liked him for who he was, not just because he liked me.

Outwardly, I played it cool. I repeated my favorite affirmation — what’s meant for me will never pass me — like it was code I was trying to debug. But inside, my inner lover girl wouldn’t stop whispering, what if this is something?

And for a while, it was.

The story unfolded like a hopeless romantic’s fever dream: effortless banter, real emotional connection, a meet-cute that felt natural. He held my hand in public, introduced me to his friends, said all the right things. These were gestures I’d begged for in the past — proof I wasn’t something to hide. So I let myself believe, maybe this time it’s different.

But I was still scared. I tiptoed around vulnerability, terrified that too much of me would scare him away. I told myself to go slow, to stay cautious, to assess my feelings, to not overthink. My heart felt calm around him, thoughts were clear and I was present, but I know stable relationships take time. This was something I needed to learn.

Yet the overthinking came anyway — every pause between texts, every quiet moment turned into a test I couldn’t pass.

Then, suddenly, the messages slowed down. A few days of silence turned into weeks of uncertainty. My anxiety and intuition blurred together until I couldn’t tell them apart. Still, I clung to hope. I told myself finals were coming, that he was just busy, that I was reading too much into it.

But I wasn’t.

A few days after Thanksgiving break, I reached out — one last time. And after prying it out of him like pulling teeth, he said what I already knew: he’d lost interest.

On the exact same day the last one ended.

It’s hard not to see patterns where pain repeats itself. Hard not to think, what if the common denominator is me?

I tried not to take it personally. I told myself that he had just realized I wasn’t who he thought I was, that timing is everything, that some people just aren’t meant to stay. I thanked him for his honesty and wished him well — even though it shattered me to do it. I wished I had been given more of a chance to show what a relationship with me could be like, and that I had so much love to give.

“I really really liked him,” I would choke between sobs. “I really wanted this to work out.”

But the thing I regretted the most last time was not walking away immediately after I heard the line “I think we should just be friends.” And I knew better now, knowing that another conversation would only work in their favor, not mine. So I gained the courage to walk away, because there was only so much pride I had left.

I cried until my ribs hurt. I screamed into my pillow. I begged the universe to stop making lessons out of me.

But eventually, the sobs quieted.

And in that silence, I noticed something new — a small, steady peace that wasn’t there before. It still hurts. My eyes are puffy, and my heart feels like a bruised fruit. But beneath the ache, there’s ease.

Because this time, I know I’ll be okay.

Maybe the light in my eyes has dimmed again, but it’s not gone. And I know now that heartbreak isn’t regression — it’s just another iteration. Another dataset to learn from. Another reminder that I can rebuild, again and again.

Maybe this is what growth looks like — heartbreak that doesn’t destroy you, just reshapes you.
Maybe the pattern isn’t the problem.
Maybe it’s the proof that I’m still brave enough to try.

-xoxo, Amanda

That was, until I got to college and met Zoe.

Zoe was my freshman-year roommate, brought together by fate (a.k.a. the random roommate questionnaire Tufts made us fill out upon matriculation) and kept together by our shared birthday, favorite color, interests, humor, height, brain, heart — you name it. Now, we’re housemates by choice, so clearly we did something right.

Our first meeting was on opposite sides of the country, strung together by the wonders of FaceTime. Admittedly, I was nervous, asking myself what I could possibly have in common with a white girl from Arizona. But after chatting about how Thor: Ragnarok is the best Marvel movie, sage green is the best color, and how we needed to try some good Thai restaurants once we moved in, I realized instantly that I had made my very first college friend.

Towards the end of freshman year, our similarities sabotaged us. We both wanted to live together again, but didn’t ask — each worried about making the other uncomfortable if they wanted to say no. We regret that to this day. The goodbye at the end of the year was perhaps the most dramatic I’ve ever had: standing opposite each other in our now half-empty dorm room, holding back tears and trying to prolong the time we had before parting ways. At the beginning of sophomore year, we promised each other we would live together for the rest of college.

It would be a crime and a disservice not to say Zoe is my best friend. Even on the days when I want to isolate from the world, I find comfort spending time with her — listening to her say extremely stupid things that make absolutely no sense, and laughing until our lungs give out. I talk about her more than I talk about myself at times, partially because she entertains me with her spontaneity and quirks, but mostly because I love her so much.

Here are just a few things Zoe has done that I love sharing:

• Went on a crazed rampage to find me a Labubu after I said I wanted one, but couldn’t get one — she drove to Connecticut and back from Medford in one day during rush hour just to pick it up from the SoNo Collection mall.

• Unpromptedly crossed paths with me at the MoMA in New York on the weekend of our birthday in freshman year — this began the theory that we were the same person.

• Freaked out with me when I met my favorite comedian, Kyle Mooney, as if it were the biggest moment of her life.

• Hallucinated chickens and was frightened of the eggs in our fridge for at least a week.

• When asked to name five Rolling Stones songs, she instantly said “Welcome to the Black Parade.”

• Brought me on the most amazing New York City trip I could ever ask for, where the only direction she had was to “do whatever she loves doing” (which ended up being everything I love doing).

• Joined me on countless spontaneous adventures and never questioned why we were going on them.

The perks of having someone exactly like you are that it reinforces the truth that the love you long for — and the love you put out into the world — exists.

At my lowest, when I had my heart gutted by someone who presented himself as “the one,” Zoe reminded me of the love I already have, even oceans away in Scotland. And when she returned after a semester abroad, she helped me pick up all my broken pieces and rebuild myself from the ground up. She showed me the love I had been begging for from others without me ever needing to ask — buying me my favorite flowers and pick-me-ups, and knowing exactly how to help me out of a dark, depressive rut. I mean it wholeheartedly when I say that my standard for all relationships is Zoe, which is an incredibly high bar to reach (ironic, because she is 4’11”).

I see many parts of myself in her: her drive, her ambition, her selflessness, her empathy, her wittiness, her unapologetic laugh. I see myself in her when she describes her dreams of becoming a doctor and her desire to push herself to the best of her ability. I see myself in her when she does everything in her power to help the people she loves, even if it means putting herself second. And lately, I have been seeing myself in her when she is hard on herself, disappointed for not meeting her high self-expectations, and wishing she had done more to prove herself. In moments like these, I’m initially taken aback by how harsh she is — tearing herself down time and again and struggling to see how amazing, strong, and capable she is. But then I realize: this is exactly how she feels when I am hard on myself.

That’s when I realized the greatest gift she’s ever given me — putting the really cool Kaweco fountain pen she got me for my birthday at number two — is that she helped me love myself more. Because if Zoe and I are identical people, and I adore her with all my heart and being, how could I possibly not love myself, too? (For my Computer Science/Discrete Math people: think law of transitivity.)

Having Zoe as my best friend has made me the richest person in the world, and I fear that nothing else could ever top it. I’d like to think I’m realistic about the future, though I genuinely struggle to picture one without her playing a pivotal role in my life (which is why I’m begging her to live with me post-grad and have already claimed her as my maid of honor).

But maybe that’s what soulmates are for — not just to make life bearable, but to make it overflowing.

To remind you that love doesn’t only live in romance, but in laughter, in niche SNL references, in late-night Dairy Delight runs, in someone knowing exactly what kind of chocolate croissants to buy from Whole Foods when your world feels small.

And for that, I rest my case: Zoe is my soulmate.

-xoxo, Amanda

“When all you wanted was to be wanted; wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now…”

Note: I thought about this video the other day on my drive home from work and realized it still applies to me now, going into my senior year of college…

January 8, 2022

“Fifteen” by Taylor Swift is my coming-of-age anthem - a song that I screamed into my Toys R Us microphone at 5 and one that I cannot get past the bridge without tearing up at 18.

I first heard this song in the back of my parents’ Honda CR-V, latching onto each lyric as if it were a promise, a first-day-of-high-school American dream in the key of G that my 5-year-old self saw as ideal. Like most kindergarteners, I lacked any concrete idea of what I wanted to be - maybe a musician? Or the President of the United States? I had no clue, I just knew I couldn’t wait to be fifteen and have it all figured out.

Frankly, I was disappointed come freshman year - there weren’t any football games or first dates that Taylor swore would be there, I wasn’t dating a member of One Direction, and I still didn’t know who I was supposed to be. Nothing went according to plan… But I actually am glad it worked out that way.

Instead of dwelling on what could have been, I seized what could be. I was driven by passion and possibility and owed it to all versions of myself to pursue them. I embraced all facets of my identity to enrich my perspective and continue to approach life unconventionally as a creative, comedian, engineer, filmmaker, boba-enthusiast, explorer, Filipino, friend, sister, daughter, individual. I celebrated my creativity, curiosity, and confusion - flying far beyond my personal limits and welcoming the unknown with open arms.

That’s when I realized fifteen wasn’t just an age - it was the curiosity and openness in the mind and heart to accept change and uncertainty and use it to flourish beyond your expectations. College is where I can best continue my pursuit of diving into the unexpected and coming back with a stronger understanding of myself and my surroundings each time.

But regardless of what point I’m at in life, I’m forever fifteen - anxious, yet enthralled to see what’s in store and always looking forward to that very first day every single day.

-xoxo, Amanda

I’ll say it when I mishear someone, when I accidentally bump into someone on the street, when something bad has happened to someone else, when I sense a slight change in someone’s tone, when I am just flat-out wrong, or even when I know I’m not. “Sorry” became my go-to reflex — a knee-jerk reaction to discomfort, disapproval, or even silence — making me lose sight of its true meaning.

I used to think I wanted an apology from everyone who ever hurt me. I believed hearing how guilty and regretful they were for causing me pain, intentional or not, would finally bring me peace. But with a heart like mine, I had probably already forgiven them long before they even realized they were sorry.

So when I started thinking about what it really means to “give myself grace,” I realized I’ve been neglecting someone this whole time:

My inner child.

There are so many ways I’ve let her down — this little girl who just believed in the pureness of love.

I wavered her belief. I put her in harm’s way. I tried to convince her that maybe love just wasn’t meant for her. But that’s impossible now, because I finally understand she’s the part of me that still hasn’t let go.

So, little Amanda, I’m sorry:

• For making you think that you are unlovable, simply because some people have trouble seeing your worth.

• For giving parts of you that you can never get back to people who weren’t ready to hold them.

• For shutting down at the idea of love just to protect yourself from the fact that you were wrong.

• For denying you the joy of feeling love every single day—from the sun, from your family and friends, from yourself.

• For trusting too easily, believing empty words dressed up as forever.

• For giving so many chances to people who were bored, unsure, or selfish.

• For forgetting to cherish the love you do have, all because you were chasing the kind that keeps leaving.

• For mistaking being noticed for being loved, when real love is about being seen.

And most importantly:

• For struggling to love yourself for so long, letting fear and insecurity paint your portrait instead of realizing those marks were brushstrokes on a masterpiece.

I’m still unlearning, growing into someone who doesn’t confuse self-sacrifice with kindness; someone who knows that setting boundaries is a form of love, too.

So, this is my apology, not to the people who hurt me, or even the ones who never apologized back.

This is for the one I hurt the most: the one who stayed with me through all of it.

I’m sorry I didn’t protect you when I should have. But I promise to now.

I promise to treat you like you’re worth the love you always gave so freely. I promise to speak gently. To let you rest. To hold your hand when it feels like no one else will.

I promise that softness will no longer be the thing we hide.

Maybe I’ll never get the apology I waited for. But maybe I don’t need it anymore.

Turns out, the person I needed to hear it from was me.

And now that I’ve heard it, I can finally begin again.

-xoxo, Amanda

“Persist and resist the temptation to ask you, ‘If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?’”

April 8, 2025

The tempting door of “what if?” is always met with the brooding reality of “nothing will change the outcome.”

Recently, the thought of whether we would be together and if we would be happy plagues my mind again, though I know damn well that the answer to both is no. If things were different, then they would be — and they aren’t.

This is what was meant to be.

Of course, I want to think of the “what if” — it’s the romanticized version of reality where I get what I want. Who wouldn’t want to stay in their happy place? Maybe it helps that it also validates how much I cared — I feel like such an idiot sometimes for caring about this as much as I do; for seeing couples and immediately thinking, “that could have been us” and replaying all the late nights in my room where I, aversive to closeness, laid an inch away from this now-foreign face, blabbling and feeling so small, yet so safe.

I want to be as strong as I tell everyone I am, the version of me that receives the “I am so proud of you,” but these thoughts always find me at my loneliest.

Maybe I need to remember what I have learned from all this — how much self-respect and self-love I have gained that, frankly, would not have happened if not for this heartache. Maybe I should remember how low I felt when it ended — this dejected, discarded emptiness that plagued me for months and left me in a trance.

Maybe I am holding on because I haven’t found better yet.

It’s okay to care — we had something, I guess. If it is on my mind, then clearly it matters to me. But caring is simply part of who I am — that does not mean this was special and that I won’t find it again. I’ll always have me; this was never my loss.

I am strong enough to let this go.

I have to let you go.

And now, I will let our memories go too.

- xoxo, Amanda

And maybe that was for the best. Because that spring, my world had already started shrinking.

The spring semester of my junior year was a battle. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind — more like an everyday ache. It was the slow burn of healing while your ex-situationship debuts a new personality in public, gunning for Asian Bachelor before your tired eyes, and looks at you like you’re nothing and never were, which shatters you again and again and again. It was writing code for a process scheduler for your Operating Systems course while wondering when, exactly, the dazzling heart you were known for got so jaded. It was losing the sharp spark in your eyes because you’d spent too long dulling it down from staring at walls, trying to feel anything other than numb.

On day eight of my ceiling-staring slump, after two hours of wondering why I still wasn’t getting over it, my mom told me to go outside, even if just for five minutes.

I dragged myself out of bed, passed the mirror (where I caught a glimpse of rage-flushed cheeks and salt-swollen eyes), and stepped into the sun. Instantly, the golden glow seeped through my cracked skin as if I were built to photosynthesize. But the true green manifested within me as I envied the sky — this cerulean expanse so clear and easy, while my mind felt stormy and stuck.

Deep breaths in and out help regulate the heart and stay grounded, I reminded myself. Using all the remaining energy I could muster, I slowly lifted my head to take in the view around me, a “king of the hill” seat on my patio that overlooked my backyard. Across from the shed sat my dad’s garden, a chorus of blooms — lilies, irises, peonies, daisies — each confident in its corner of color. But toward the back, there was an empty patch of soil, untouched since I was last out here in November.

Back in the fall, when life felt tangled, thrilling, and a little too much, my dad asked what new flowers we should add. I exclaimed, without thinking: bluebonnets. Something about them struck me, maybe because I had pictured them in the back of my mind growing up, and never really had a name for them until now. Or maybe because they felt like hope: resilient, striking, and a little out of place here, like me.

My mom hesitated. “They might not grow in this type of climate,” she said. I insisted anyway. I needed something bold to believe in.

Around the time of finals week, my dad called, breaking the news that these blooms weren’t apt for the New England soil. “They won’t grow without a greenhouse,” he said. “But it’s okay, we’ll find something better.” He meant it kindly. But it landed like a quiet letting go.

I had pinned so many hopes to those bluebonnets, picturing how well they would look with the rest of the garden, how their tall clusters of blue blossoms would complement the fuchsias and violets. But some things simply don’t take root, no matter how much light you give them.

And then I remembered the last flowers I’d asked to grow there: the sunflowers.

I used to be obsessed with them, as if they were a person — like a boy who only seemed to exist in the summer.

Every year, he’d return like clockwork — tanner, taller, still smiling like he knew I’d been waiting (and I was). I let him slip back into my life as easily as he’d left it, instantly forgiving him of the constant cold shoulders and unreplied messages because winter seems to bring out the worst in us. It was always small things: sharing AirPods to listen to music together, saving a seat beside him at every dinner table, laughing at things no one else found funny. There was warmth, life, and for a while, just wanting it felt like enough.

For six years, I loved him from a distance, quietly and stubbornly like the persistent stalks and unwithering leaves crowned by the sunflower. I thought if I just stayed, if I just kept blooming in his direction, he’d eventually turn around and see me. But he never stayed long, as his perennial cycle seemed to end once the chills of September hit the Northeast. He was never unkind, just this inconsistent warmth I mistook for something permanent.

It was the kind of love that lives in the margins, thriving in late-night ponderings under the cool summer sky or on spontaneous trips into the city when no one else was watching. The kind of love that glows golden, makes the skies blush, and flickers out before fall. It was August, but a month is not forever.

After my first year of college, I came home for break expecting that familiar comfort, but the garden felt different. The sunflowers were gone. My dad had given them to our neighbor. Her marigolds welcomed them like old friends.

Still, I kept seeing them everywhere: in the yellow paint of my childhood bedroom, in bright bursts along Newbury Street, in every laugh that reminded me of how I used to feel when he was near. I thought I’d never get over it. I thought I’d always carry that yellow with me, like pollen I couldn’t wash off. Yet, somehow, it faded.

But the garden didn’t wilt without them. And neither did I. Over time, the yellows faded and other colors bloomed in their place. Now, when I see the sunflowers in the neighbor’s yard — tall and radiant, reaching toward a sun that isn’t mine — I don’t ache the way I used to. Instead, I traded my furrowed brow for a soft smile because they are exactly where they belong, even if it meant being without me.

Sometimes I miss them. I miss him. Or maybe I just miss the girl who believed that loving someone softly for six summers could make them stay.

But the garden moved on. And so did I.

I turned back to the empty patch. It still hadn’t bloomed. I wondered what my dad had planted instead of the bluebonnets and why it was taking so damn long.

Then I noticed something: the rest of the garden didn’t seem to mind. If anything, it felt like they were rooting for it — like they were saying, you’ll bloom when you’re ready.

And I realized: we never rush flowers to bloom. Because we can’t. Instead, we trust the timing. We let the seasons pass. And when they finally bloom, we understand — they needed the wait to become what they were meant to be.

That was the first time in months I really cried. Not from heartbreak, or fear, or grief — but from release. Like something inside me had finally caught up.

Change is inevitable. But growth is intentional.

Change is the only thing we can count on. The only power we truly have is in choosing what we carry with us and what we leave behind. Some people, some dreams, aren’t meant to grow in our garden forever. Some were never ours to tend. Others were — until they no longer fed the soil.

And maybe that’s the lesson: we get to evolve. We get to replant. We get to let go of what no longer serves us — and make space for the beauty and vibrance that will.

I still think about the bluebonnets from time to time, but remember they weren’t mine to keep. Even without seeing their full beauty, they taught me I could truly love deeply again — even after the sunflowers.

Wiping away my tears, I walked back inside. My dad was in the kitchen.

“What did you plant instead of the bluebonnets?” I asked.

He smiled. “Garden roses — your favorites.”

I smiled too.

Maybe that patch wasn’t meant for something wild or wistful, but rather for something enduring. Something soft, but with thorns. Something that survives change and comes back stronger each time.

Maybe it wasn’t just meant to grow flowers.

Maybe it was meant to grow me.

-xoxo, Amanda

The shopkeeper, a kind woman in her mid-to-late 50s, approached us and informed us that rose quartz brings good luck and protection in love—a fact I had already familiarized myself with through countless TikToks and over-commercialized stands at Boston flea markets. I turned to my mother, who looked positively enlightened by this new information, as she announced to the woman (and frankly, the whole shop), “Oh, good luck in LOVE? She REALLY needs that. Badly.”

Because it was Lunar New Year, and because it’s “good to help those in need,” the shopkeeper gave us the bangle at a discounted price.

I laughed off my mom’s public declaration of my romantic misfortune, but deep down, I wondered if she was right.

Had love somehow skipped over me?

My parents named me Amanda because they liked the meaning: “worthy of love.” The idea of love followed me everywhere I went — putting hearts next to my name at the end of letters, rummaging through the Valentine’s Day section of the local TJ Maxx for room decor, solely watching rom-coms, and filling any silent void with the most sickeningly sweet love song I could find (I am a Libra). But when I completed 21 orbits around the sun and found that I had yet to have romantically held hands with another person, this definition became some mocking tune that would play in the back of my mind and feed into all my insecurities. I couldn’t help but wonder: what the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t love find me?

Ironically enough, the wish I blew my birthday candles out to found its way into my life mere weeks later (a detail I can now share because it “came true”). And when it did, it hit me like a whirlwind — no slow build, no hesitation, just an all-consuming, head-spinning, heart-racing plunge. A rom-com projecting itself onto life’s big screen. The kind of connection that made my pulse skip before the first date and left me in a giggling mess after. The kind that came with “just because” flowers, relentless compliments, memorized mannerisms, stolen glances that felt like confessions, late-night talks that never ran out of words, and moments where nothing needed to be said or done other than softened gazes and calling me pretty. The kind that had me skipping down sidewalks to love songs, believing — just for a moment — that maybe I had finally found my happy ending.

I let myself believe I had finally found it — only to watch it slip into something I knew all too well: a situationship.

I was dumped on the first day of reading period, right before finals week (A little word of advice: Don’t do this! It’s really mean.). Afterward, I’d sit through my study sessions like a ghost, nodding along, highlighting notes, pretending I was absorbing information — only to go back to my room and stare blankly at the ceiling while playing “White Horse” by Taylor Swift, feeling nothing but the weight of my shattered heart in my chest and the dull ache in my stomach. It was like something had been scooped out of me, leaving behind this strange, hollow space I didn’t know how to fill.

The worst part? My brain refused to let it go. It clung to every moment, obsessively replaying the abrupt way things ended, prodding at my insecurities like an open wound. What if I wasn’t ready for a relationship? What did I do wrong that I didn’t catch? Why is it so easy to leave me? Why is it so hard to love me? The questions sank deeper and deeper, like they were trying to carve out an answer I’d never find. Because if this kept happening — if love always slipped through my fingers — then maybe the problem wasn’t all them. Maybe it was me.

Then I thought back to the first book I read that year, Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton. Many things she shared served as an “a-ha!” moment for me, but nothing stood out more than when she wrote:

"All this time, I had been led to believe that my value in a relationship was my sexuality, which was why I always behaved like a sort of cartoon nymphomaniac. I hadn’t ever thought that a man could love me in the same way my friends love me; that I could love a man with the same commitment and care with which I love them."

My friend Anna brought up a similar sentiment while I was reading this book, sharing that her friends are the reason she has high standards in a partner. She summed up Alderton’s ideas quite simply: “If my friends can do it, then why shouldn’t my partner be able to?”

And that’s when I felt something click.

I thought about my friends and how they’ve shown up for me. Anupriya and Arielle listened to me rant about the same situations over and over and over and over and over again and made sure I felt understood and validated like they were hearing it for the first time. Anna bought me coffee whenever I was having a rough day as a pick-me-up. Josh walked across campus past midnight despite an injury to keep me company until I stopped crying. Keanna remembered my phone number and all my favorite things despite not seeing each other for four years. The list goes on and on.

If my friends could love me so fiercely and show up in the ways I needed most, then why should I accept anything less from a partner?

I soon realized that I had been defining love all wrong. I had been assessing love through the lens of loss and longing, feeding into my insecurity about not having a partner and wondering why I wasn’t receiving a specific type of love. For far too long, I was asking “What am I missing?” when I should’ve been asking “What more could I ever want?”

I had spent so much time mourning the love I lost that I failed to acknowledge the love I never had to chase — the kind that never needed convincing, that showed up for me time and time again, that saw me as someone worth keeping around. The kind of love that allowed me to choose myself because I understood that I am worthy of love.

Looking back, I realized that for so long, my heartache, whether from romance or friendships, stemmed from this quiet desperation for people to see me, to recognize how great I was. But somewhere in the wreckage of this relationship, something unexpected happened: I started seeing it for myself. Not because of the situationship, or any relationship, but because I finally understood that everything he liked about me, everything anyone had ever liked about me, was already there. I didn’t have to change or perform or prove my worth to be adored. The things that made me me—my quirks, my humor, my abundant way of caring—had been mine all along.

And maybe, in the weirdest, most roundabout way, that was the best thing to come out of all of this.

There was never a question of why it was so easy to leave me, because it simply wasn’t true. People have stayed for me. People have chosen me. And not because they pitied me, but because they love me — not despite my flaws, but with them.

Sometimes, growth isn’t about constantly changing to improve. Sometimes, it’s about sitting back and appreciating how far you’ve come.

During a 4 a.m. post-breakup spiral, Zoe texted me, “The more I got to know you, the more I realized you are someone that needs to be in my life forever. Obviously, it’s a different situation, but the point is: I cannot fathom how he didn’t realize how good he had it.”

For so long, I convinced myself that love was something I had to earn, something I needed to prove myself worthy of. But love had been around me all along. In my friends, who have the most concrete idea of what an “Amanda thing” was. In my mother, who dragged me to church every Sunday because she believed that faith would keep me safe. In the shopkeeper, who saw a girl longing for love and gave her something to hold onto (at a discounted price!).

And in myself — someone who, for the first time, is learning that love was never something to chase—it was always mine.

As I watch the days creep closer to February 14th, I look down at my left wrist, the rose quartz bangle cool against my skin. It no longer feels like a plea to the universe, a lucky charm to summon something I thought was missing. Instead, it’s a quiet reminder of everything I already have.

Love didn’t forget me. It was here all along.

-xoxo, Amanda

Hi there! Welcome to Lyrical Love Letters, an ode to being a girl navigating her 20s with as much grace as she can muster—while marveling at (and sometimes cringing at) the mess she makes along the way.

Currently, I am venturing through the vast realms of being 21, a milestone birthday that I prepared for by playing “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac on a loop for at least three hours. Being in your 20s is a whirlwind, and I hope to make sense of the chaos through writing.

What are my credentials? Here are a few that come to mind:

• Whenever I reunite with my hometown friends after a long semester up in Medford, MA, I am always met with the question, “Oh dear, Amanda, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” (and rightfully so).

• I dreamed of becoming a musician, lawyer, or journalist and now I am… a Computer Engineer.

• I am a Filipino-American who grew up in suburban Southeastern Massachusetts (not diverse in the slightest).

• I have a slightly unhealthy habit of parodying any and everything I go through, which makes for an entertaining story.

• I’m constantly growing and evolving — the growing pains and my tendency to romanticize life are inevitable.

• I am a rom-com fanatic. Hopeless romantic at fault. Libra sun, if that means anything to you.

• I was emo in middle school.

• I had/have a One Direction phase and wrote fan fiction.

• I am a professional over-thinker — one of the best in the business.

• There are many interesting characters in my life.

• I think of my life as a “shitcom” and organize different phases into seasons, meaning I know how to tell a story.

• I have been told that I am hilarious.

• I am, without a doubt, a bit delusional.

Admittedly, I’m still unsure what this blog will entail, topic-wise. But perhaps life’s spontaneity will ironically serve as my guiding compass. What I can guarantee is an honest and vulnerable collection of my lived and observed experiences. I believe transparency and truthfulness are essential to any budding relationship, and if we’re committing to this, the last thing I want to be is an unreliable narrator of my own life.

So here’s to the start of our new connection — a chronicle of letters written in adoration of the banal yet bewitching feats of growing up. I hope you’ll find something here that resonates with you.

- xoxo, Amanda