Wellness

I used to forget to drink water. Not in a cute, “oops, too busy” kind of way—more like, I’d go the whole day and realize my lips felt like paper, my head was pounding, and the only liquid I’d consumed was a triple-shot latte. Twice.

It usually hits around 3:17 p.m. Not quite late enough to call it a day, but far enough from lunch that your blood sugar is playing tricks. The to-do list is still staring back at you, and your brain feels like it’s swimming through molasses.

A few months ago, I found myself doing the thing I promised I wouldn’t do again: stress-scrolling through texts, trying to come up with a believable reason to cancel plans I made two weeks ago and no longer had the energy for. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my friends. I did—and do. They’re the kind of people who bring snacks to your house when you’re sad, who remember your cat’s birthday, who know when you need a hug and when you just need silence.

A few years ago, I sat with my grandfather as he casually recited a poem from memory. Not a short one—a Robert Frost poem. He was 87. No notes, no hesitation, just pure mental clarity. “The brain’s a muscle too,” he told me, tapping his temple with a grin, “You either use it, or you lose it.”

I used to tell myself I was just “a night owl.” That my best ideas came alive at midnight, that scrolling until 2 a.m. was my creative recharge. But if I’m honest, most of those nights weren’t filled with inspiration—they were filled with Netflix replays, endless swiping, and a stubborn refusal to close the laptop. Morning me hated it. Nighttime me didn’t care.

A few months ago, I opened my fridge late at night to find a half-filled container of rice from dinner. Normally, I would have sighed, considered tossing it, and then shoved it back behind the almond milk until I forgot about it. But I had just stumbled across an intriguing detail from a nutrition seminar: chilled rice doesn’t behave the same way as freshly cooked rice inside your body.

I used to think productivity was the gold standard of a good day. If I could end the night with a to-do list peppered with checkmarks, I’d feel accomplished—maybe even smug. But if I had a slow day? One where my most ambitious achievement was making coffee and… not much else? That used to feel like failure.

The first time I saw the “glass skin” trend take over my feed, I was mesmerized. Dewy, translucent, almost surreal skin that looked like it had been dipped in moonlight. It was everywhere—YouTube tutorials, skincare launches, step-by-step routines with ten or more products all promising that coveted glow. I was hooked.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. Just an afternoon at my desk, glancing from my screen to the window, and realizing that the trees outside looked a little… softer. Not poetic soft—blurry soft. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, looked again. Still fuzzy.

Let’s get one thing straight: I love a good wellness glow-up as much as the next girl. I’ve pinned the oat milk matcha shots. I’ve followed the 10-step skincare routines. I’ve saved the color-coded morning checklists with soft girl sunrise vibes.

On some days, the world feels like a weight we can scarcely hold. It's a feeling as universal as breathing yet deeply personal in its complexity. Imagine standing on a shoreline, watching the waves—sometimes they soothe, other times they overwhelm. We all have our ways of riding the swells, and on the most challenging days, a reliable self-care ritual can feel like a life raft.

I didn’t start moving my body because I wanted to “get fit.” That phrase, frankly, felt too vague and too loaded. Like most people, I’ve had a complicated relationship with exercise—peppered with a mix of gym class flashbacks, false starts, and a few expensive memberships I mostly donated to via automatic payments.