Category: boyhood interrupted..

it’s mother’s day. i’m alone in a café, somewhere between flashcards and caffeine, studying for one of the hardest finals of my life. the place is full but feels hollow. i hear clinking mugs, low music, and conversations that blur into each other… but all i can really hear is my own heart, pounding in my chest like it’s trying to remind me of something i’m trying not to feel.

i call her this morning. “happy mother’s day, madre. thank you for everything.” i meant it. i always mean it. she created me, raised me, poured every ounce of herself into me and my siblings. she didn’t get the luxury of becoming her own person slowly she had to grow up fast and give fast. and she gave everything. that kind of sacrifice lives in the air between us, unspoken but understood. she’s my mom. she’s my best friend. and i think…i hope…i’m hers too.

we talk like best friends. we tease each other. we call about random life updates. i can hear the love in her voice when she tells me she’s proud of me especially when she tells me she prays and hopes im okay every single time, and i hold on to those words like a lifeline. but beneath it all, there’s this ache…this space i can’t fill with words, not even the pretty ones i use to cover up the truth. there’s a version of me she doesn’t know. a version she might not want to know. and it breaks me.

i’ve never told her.

she knows me better than anyone. better than i know myself, sometimes. but not in this way. not in this truth. that silence is the loudest thing in my life.

i take a break from studying and scroll through tiktok. mother’s day content is everywhere. surprise visits, old photo montages, mothers and daughters slow dancing in wedding dresses. and for a moment, i smile, because i get it. i have that kind of love with her. or at least i did. but the more i scroll, the harder it gets to breathe.

slipping through my fingers plays… and there she is again, this mother dancing at her daughter’s wedding, tears in her eyes, her hands trembling as she lets go. i watch, and my throat tightens like a fist. my nose starts running, eyes watering, and i can’t stop it. i try to blink the tears away, but they come anyway. my chest caves in. my face breaks. and suddenly i’m crying in the middle of a café.

i rush out.

why am i crying? i have a good relationship with my mom. we’re close. we love each other. right?

but then it hits me…i might never have that moment.

not because i don’t want it. god, i want it more than anything. but because there’s a wall between us built out of all the things we don’t say. and when i picture telling her, really telling her, i don’t see hugs and tears and soft music. i see heartbreak. i see fear. i see the way her voice changes when she talks about “those people,” and i realize…she doesn’t know that i’m one of them.

she’s told me before. they both have. what they think. how they’d react. and i know that the moment i speak my truth, i might lose her. i might lose the only person who has been there through everything. from the moment i existed to now.

she’s seen me as a baby, as a boy full of questions, as a teenager breaking and rebuilding under the weight of expectations. she’s the reason i survived some of the darkest parts of my life. she was there when i stopped eating. when i said i was “fine.” when i wasn’t.

i wrote about that once. the ache of wanting to be seen for all that i am, not just the version i’ve polished for survival. i’ve written about how i keep returning to the little boy i once was, the one who wanted to be loved without condition, without shame. and on days like today, i feel like that boy again. small. afraid. desperate for softness.

it’s terrifying…how quickly love can turn into loss when you put your whole self on the line.

i imagine telling her. i rehearse it in my head. i imagine her face, the silence that would follow, the way i might have to hold myself together while she falls apart. i imagine the sound of her slipping through my fingers. not because i want to let go, but because the truth might push her away.

and i don’t know how to survive that.

everything else in my life, i’ve fought through. school. work. loneliness. identity. all of it. but this? this is different. this is the hardest thing i’ve ever carried. and there’s no flashcard for this moment. no lecture, no textbook, no office hours.

just me. and her. and the weight of a thousand things we’ve never said.

i love her. i love her more than words can say. but today, that love feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire.

if she ever reads this—maybe one day—i hope she knows i never wanted to keep this from her. i just didn’t want to lose her.

but maybe the real heartbreak is knowing i already feel like i have.

it’s 10 p.m. and i’m lying in bed, music playing low in my ears, half-ignoring the stack of studying waiting for me. my screen lights up on tiktok, with a quote that stops me mid-scroll:

“sex is the closest you’ll ever get to someone’s soul and people turned it into a hobby.”

and it hit me because it’s true. and it’s terrifying.
in my experience as a gay man, it feels like intimacy has been stripped of its meaning and repackaged as casual convenience. i can’t count the number of times a date turned into a hookup, and that was it. that was all. you go in with hope for something more, maybe a real connection, a conversation that lasts beyond a night, but it ends in silence, maybe a follow on instagram, maybe not even that.

and it’s not just me. i’ve talked to friends, seen the patterns, watched as vulnerability gets replaced with performance. the expectation now is that sex is the default, not the result of something deeper. why is that? why have we made something so intimate so… casual?

i think part of it is that hookups feel safer.
dating, real dating, is scary. putting your heart on the table is terrifying. a hookup though? it’s simple. it’s safer. you don’t have to talk about your childhood trauma or the fact that you haven’t felt truly seen in years.

for a lot of queer people, especially, this is also about catching up.
our teenage years weren’t filled with crushes, proms, or awkward first kisses. we were hiding. now in our 20s, we’re trying to explore and figure out what we like, who we are. and often the only place that feels available is the surface-level kind of intimacy.

and yeah, we’re more open about sex now, which is a good thing.
but we’re still not really talking about what it means. we’re not having conversations about the loneliness that follows, or how easy it is to confuse feeling desired with feeling loved.

i’ve woken up the next day feeling more alone, not less. like my body had been close to someone’s, but my soul hadn’t. and that’s the part that aches.

we crave connection. we want to be wanted. but in a world where marketing is designed to make us feel not enough, how can we believe we’re worthy of genuine love?

because it’s not just products they’re selling anymore. it’s beauty standards. it’s bodies that don’t feel real. it’s curated lives we compare ourselves to endlessly. and in the gay community especially, with its layers of hypersexualization and performative masculinity, it can feel like you either keep up or disappear.
so we chase a moment of feeling seen.

even if it only lasts a few hours. even if we know it’ll leave us emptier.

and maybe that’s the ultimate dissatisfaction

we’re looking for things we’ll never find because we’re looking for them in the wrong places.

i don’t have a perfect answer

i’m still figuring it out too. but maybe it starts with honesty. with naming what hurts. with unlearning the belief that our worth is tied to how many people want us or how many nights we can forget ourselves.

because you deserve more. i deserve more. we all do.

if you successfully manage to read through all of this, thanks for being here. this post is part of a larger journey i’m on, one about my identity, healing, queerness, and figuring out how to move through a world that keeps telling us we’re not enough. if you’ve felt this too, or just want to talk, my dms are open. luv u <3

(play “party 4 u” while reading.)

1: getting ready (a.k.a. the delusion stage)

there’s a special kind of silence before a frat party. it’s not peace. it’s preparation.

it’s war.

i’m in front of the mirror, tightest skims top on, black, duh. gold chain catching the room light just right. baggy jeans sitting low. lip gloss, but just a little. enough to look like i didn’t try, even though i absolutely did.

my friends are yelling about uber. someone’s pregaming with tequila, vodka and bad decisions. i’m scrolling through his story again.

he’s already there. of course he is.

my hands are already shaking and i haven’t even had a sip.

2: the party (a.k.a. the scene of the crime, again)

we walk in like we own the place. but i’m only there for one reason.
and the second i see him, my heart drops.

it’s that rush. that brutal, beautiful panic. like a rollercoaster you weren’t ready for.

my chest tightens. i stop breathing for a second.
everything around me goes quiet.

he’s there. white tee. jawline sharp. talking to someone else, of course. smiling. looking too good to be this emotionally unavailable.

i try to look unfazed, like i didn’t just spend an hour getting ready hoping i’d run into him.

but my hands say otherwise. they’re trembling around my cup.
we make eye contact. i smile—soft, careful, practiced.

he nods. doesn’t walk over.

and that’s when charli hits:

“i only threw this party for you…” not literally but in my head..

and god, it feels like she wrote it for this moment. for me. for every time i thought maybe this time he’d choose me.

3: the descent (a.k.a. the emotional soft launch into sadness i flirt with a boy i don’t care about. i laugh too loud. i drink too fast.)

i say “i’m fine” to my best friend when she asks if i’m okay.
he leaves before midnight. doesn’t say bye. i pretend i didn’t notice.

but i always notice.

everyone’s dancing. i’m dancing too.

but only from the neck down.

inside, i’m just replaying every almost-love story that ended at a frat party.

every night i thought this could be something, and it wasn’t.
because no one in college wants to be something. they just want to feel something.

fast. shallow. disposable.

i’m trying to unlearn the idea that being wanted is the same as being valued.

but it’s hard when hookup culture hands out attention like candy and calls it intimacy.

4: the walk home (ft. oversized shirt & oversized sadness)

it’s cold. i’m quiet. my friends are yelling about getting food. i’m nodding, half-listening.

my lip gloss is gone. my skims top smells like beer and disappointment.

i open my phone. no texts. not that i expected one.
charli’s still in my ears. whispering every unspoken thing i was too scared to say.

i know i deserve more.

i do.

but i also know this feeling—this ache—is the only consistent thing about college dating.

so i do what i always do.

walk home. lie about how fun the night was.

tell myself i won’t fall for the next boy who looks at me like i’m magic and treats me like i’m a phase.

(i probably will.)

5: the afterthought

i didn’t throw the party.

but i still showed up like i did.

dressed like i did.

hoped like i did.

so yeah, maybe i only threw this party for him.

but maybe next time, i’ll throw one for me.

with no expectations.

no ache.

no heartbreak in a gold chain.

just me, music, and people who text back.

i’m scrolling on tiktok on some random day, not expecting anything more than the usual mindless entertainment. but video after video, i see people soaking up the sun, dancing, laughing with friends, sipping coffee on balconies, captioning their moments with the same phrase:

“almost forgot that this is the point.”

at first, it doesn’t hit. it’s just another trend, i think.

but then i step outside. the sun kisses my semi-tan skin, and the crisp air fills my lungs like it was made just for me. i walk to class, music humming in my ears. the kind that makes the world feel cinematic. everything feels aligned.

i’m alone, but not lonely. i love the solitude, the simple joy of existing in my own company. the weather is perfect, the soundtrack of my life is flowing beautifully, and for once, the stress of school feels like background noise instead of a weight.
life is beautiful. i smile. i carry on.

the next day, we celebrate one of my closest friends. we take a boat ride, laugh under the sky, talk about everything and nothing, soaking in joy like it’s endless. and again, that thought returns:
wow. i’m high on life. this is it.

no alcohol, no substances (maybe some eddies) — just joy, pure and electric. a reminder that life doesn’t always need fixing. sometimes, it’s just meant to be felt.

but then — like a sudden gust of wind pushing dark clouds over a blue sky — the light shifts.

i wake up. i get ready for class. but something’s off.

the weather is gloomy. the sun is gone. and worse, i’m deep in my head.

the highs of yesterday feel distant.

life feels… flat.

i’m restless, lonely. i find myself craving connection, aching for something undefined — maybe a man, maybe meaning, maybe both.

the music? it doesn’t hit the same.

the little things that made me smile yesterday now irritate me.
and worst of all? i’m tired. not physically. just… tired. even though i just woke up.

i try to rationalize. i tell myself it’s just the weather, the stress, the to-do lists. but deep down, i know that’s not it.
so i sit with myself. i reflect.

and i realize — it’s not the weather, or the music, or even the loneliness.

it’s me. it’s the way my mind sometimes searches for reasons to be unhappy, to feel off. it’s like i’m creating shadows in a room full of light.

why do i do that?

why do we do that?

and what does that say about those tiktok videos — about “the point”?

now, i’m sitting in a coffee shop, my warm drink in hand, watching the cold world blur past the window.

still a little confused. still deep in thought. but also… grounded.
maybe the point isn’t just the highs — the sun, the music, the boat rides.

maybe the point is this, too.

the stillness. the quiet. the uncomfortable questioning. the days when you’re tired for no reason, but you show up anyway.
maybe this is also living.

maybe the point is remembering that every part of life — the light, the dark, the “meh” — is still life. and that’s kind of beautiful, too.

you know what’s really sad? realizing you’ll never be good enough for anyone. maybe it’s just the way i care too much about how people perceive me. maybe i analyze every word, every glance, every shift in energy a little too deeply. but what can i say? i’m an overthinker. always have been, always will be.

sometimes i wonder if we were all just born to be judged. like no matter how good you look, how well you’re doing, how much fun you’re having. someone, somewhere, will always find a reason to dim your light. maybe it’s projection. maybe they don’t even realize they’re doing it. maybe misery really does love company.

the more i tried to please people, the more i realized—it’s a losing game. you can be kind, keep your head down, mind your business, and still… people will talk. people will decide who you are for you. and sometimes i find myself wondering: if you spend your whole life trying to be good enough for everyone else, when do you ever get to be good enough for you?

let me take you back for a second. middle school. i got a b in english. one grade. my teacher pulled me aside and told me my english would never be good enough. that one comment? it lit something in me. i started studying for hours, obsessing over every paper, every test. i made honor roll every quarter after that. i was determined to prove her wrong. and i did.

but then, when people finally stopped questioning my intelligence, they started questioning something else: my sexuality. and just like that, a new challenge was born. a new thing to “fix,” to defend, to prove didn’t matter. and maybe that’s the most exhausting part of it all—when one fire dies down, another one sparks up. it’s a cycle. a carousel of proving and surviving. and at some point, you start to ask: will it ever stop?

eventually, i realized the environment i was in wasn’t meant for people like me. so i transferred to the best school in the area. i tried again. a new version of me, still obsessed with being the “best version” of myself. this time, the people were supportive. but was i being supportive of myself? probably not.

i tried to play the part. blend in. keep up with the pace. but i could feel it—this subtle, gnawing feeling that i was different. i acted different. i sounded different. i hated it. i hated my voice. i hated my body. i hated the way i didn’t feel like everyone else around me.
then the world stopped. quarantine hit. and i was left with the one person i had been trying to avoid for years—myself. no distractions, no performances, no audience. just me, in my room, facing everything i had pushed down for so long. it was… brutal. i cried. i laughed. i mourned the version of me i had built for everyone else.

but slowly—like turning pages in a book—i started to discover who i really was. i started leaning into the weirdness, the softness, the strength. social media showed me i wasn’t the only one. i saw people living their truth and not apologizing for it. everyone’s story was different, but the feeling was the same: we weren’t broken—we were just different.

and maybe what’s broken is the world around us. a world that teaches you to mold yourself into a version that’s palatable, pretty, predictable. a world that scoffs at authenticity because it scares people. but why should we apologize for being real?
fast forward to now. i go to uc berkeley. a place people never expected me to end up—not because i wasn’t smart enough, but because of how i presented myself. instead of being happy for me, people are now commenting on the way i look, the way i act, how “gay” i seem. and it’s like… damn. they’re just never gonna be happy. there’s always going to be something to pick at. something to criticize. another box i’ll never quite fit in.

and as much as that stings—because let’s be real, it does sting—i’m actually pretty proud of who i am. i’m content. i’m doing well. i’ve made peace with the fact that their approval is no longer my goal. i don’t need everyone to clap for me. i just need to clap for myself. and i do.

so if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like the world just doesn’t get you, i hope this serves as a reminder: your story is valid. your identity is not a problem to be solved. and even if they never say it—you’re doing great.

i wouldn’t trade my story for anything. because even if the world screams that i’m not good enough, i know what i’ve been through. i know who i’ve become. and that will always be enough for me.

because the more i tried to fit in, the more i realized that wasn’t the goal. the real goal? finding yourself. loving yourself. and knowing that your adversity doesn’t define you—but it does shape you.

and let’s be honest—if you can’t name at least one moment that changed you to your core, then we probably won’t see eye to eye. some people just lack empathy. and no matter how well you dress it up, no amount of self-help books, therapy appointments, or morning affirmations can change that.

so i guess the question is… when will being different stop being something to prove—and just be something to celebrate?

there’s always that one thing—the quiet storm brewing beneath the surface, the flaw in the foundation that you learn to live with until, one day, it cracks. for some, it’s an old heartbreak, a fear of failure, a past they can’t outrun. for me? it’s the fact that I’m gay and my family doesn’t know.

i’ve never been my true self around them. somewhere along the way, i just accepted it as fact—like the way we accept the bay area’s unpredictable weather or the inevitability of a midterm crisis. masking became second nature, slipping into a version of myself that felt palatable, easier, safer.

but the thing about suppression is that it doesn’t just sit there quietly. it piles up, layer after layer, like laundry you keep meaning to do but just shove deeper into the closet. and then, one day, something so small, so insignificant, topples the whole thing over.

it happened on a trip with my friends. we were laughing, joking, being our unfiltered selves. and then, without thinking, I said it out loud:

“at least you can be yourself around your parents. i could never show my mother my true personality.”

silence. a realization. a tidal wave of emotions. before I knew it, i was closing the blinds, locking myself in the bathroom, breaking down in the most cliché movie-scene kind of way. i didn’t even see it coming. one second, i was laughing, the next, i was drowning.

luckily, my friend saved me. she’s also part of the lgbtq community, and she knew—intimately—what this kind of pain feels like. she didn’t panic, didn’t fumble for the right words. she just knew what to say. like a breath of fresh air, she grounded me before I could spiral further.

and yet, as comforting as that was, the question still lingered: Will I ever be able to tell my parents? probably not. will I always have these unexpected emotional crash-outs because of it? most likely. will it affect my life in ways I can’t even predict yet? absolutely.

i shouldn’t have to worry about things like this. i shouldn’t have to weigh my truth against my sense of security. sometimes, i catch myself wishing for an easier life—a “normal” life, whatever that means. one where being myself didn’t come with a footnote of fear.

but then I remember: normal has never been my brand. and maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.

i couldn’t help but wonder… was I a Berkeley student, or just another cog in the silicon valley machine?

there I was, sitting in class, talking about the culture of uc berkeley—particularly its intimidatingly selective clubs and hyper-competitive departments. it’s a place where getting into a club sometimes feels more impossible than getting into the actual university. where the line between networking and socializing is blurrier than my vision after a few too many at a frat party.
And then, of course, there’s tech. tech is to berkeley what overpriced oat milk lattes are to san francisco: omnipresent, unavoidable, and somehow still an acquired taste.

so many students walk onto campus dreaming of majoring in something completely different—english, environmental science, maybe even … art history. but by sophomore year, they traded in their copies of vogue for leetcode. the gravitational pull of computer science and data science is so strong here, you’d think apple itself was funding student orientation. one minute, you’re sketching in your journal, and the next, you’re debating whether to take CS 61A or just sell your soul directly to a cs recruiter.
FOMO is real. and at berkeley, it’s coded in python.

it’s shocking how many people conform to the same trajectory, simply because it’s what everyone else is doing. original thought? rare. a student majoring in CS who’s actually passionate about it? even rarer.

but then my professor asked an interesting question: is berkeley just a silicon valley pipeline? or does it have its own identity outside of tech?

i thought about it. if I had gone to school somewhere else—somewhere without the looming shadow of google internships and venture capital dreams—would I still be me? would I still feel the pressure to optimize, monetize, and disrupt? or would I just be vibing, majoring in something obscure, making zines, and embracing the slowness of life?

of course, Berkeley is so much more than just tech. this is the birthplace of the free speech movement, the epicenter of student activism, a hub for social change. civil rights, anti-war protests, lgbtq+ movements—berkeley’s history is filled with moments that have reshaped society. the culture here isn’t just about coding and consulting; it’s about questioning the status quo, fighting for justice, and making noise when things aren’t right.
We are products of our environments, but that doesn’t mean we can’t resist them. just because berkeley pushes a certain narrative doesn’t mean we have to accept it. we can break the cycle. we can write our own scripts.

or, at the very least, we can pretend to be passionate about coding while secretly dreaming of a life filled with art, culture, and maybe even a little bit of chaos.

there’s something truly magical about finding someone who makes you feel like you deserve everything good in the world. someone you can be unapologetically yourself with. it’s healing in ways words can’t fully capture. the past heartbreaks, the failed situationships, the doubts all start to dissolve, like waves pulling away from the shore.

but here’s the catch. the problem isn’t them. It’s me.
why? just why? even when i think I’ve found the man of my dreams, somehow, i make him disappear. am i the problem? do I sabotage the good before it even has a chance to grow? i keep searching for cracks in men where none exist, convincing myself there must be something wrong. and the worst part? these men have been nothing but good to me. Successful, kind, and treating me like i’m their world. not just one, but the ones before him too.
so, I ask myself. why am I like this?

is it a generational curse, an echo of my father’s choices? he cheated on my mother countless times. i’ve read, i’ve watched, i’ve heard. tiktok, therapists, conversations with friends all saying that when a parent cheats, it often manifests in the child in one way or another. what if that’s me? what if i’ve convinced myself, subconsciously, that this is all I deserve? or worse, that love is meant to be unstable, so when it finally feels secure, I panic?
maybe it’s my insecurities, my fears, my self-doubt. all projected onto these men who have done nothing wrong. and yet, I push them away as if my heart is wired to reject the very thing it craves.
or maybe, just maybe, it’s the universe stepping in. a quiet whisper telling me that this isn’t the right love, not yet.

psychologists say that when people experience genuine love for the first time, they can feel overwhelmed. If you’ve only known chaos, peace can feel foreign, almost like a threat. not because you don’t want love, but because your mind has convinced you it’s too good to be true.

so here I am, caught in the in-between. trying to unlearn, to accept, to believe that love isn’t always meant to be painful. that maybe, just maybe, i deserve something real.

and when that love comes, i hope i’m ready to hold onto it. i hope this new man is different. that he will change my perspective, my world, my love life. I need this. but either way, i am grateful. grateful for every lesson, for every experience that has taught me more about myself and what I truly want and need.
let this next chapter be different. Let love, for once, feel like home.

i couldn’t quite place the feeling. that kind of weighty emptiness that creeps in when everything on the surface seems fine. my to-do list was clear, my assignments finished early (for once), and I figured, why not? maybe what I needed was a little indulgence, a small luxury to remind myself that I exist outside of deadlines and responsibilities.

so, I walked into a nail salon, feeling hollow but hopeful, expecting nothing more than a fresh coat of polish. what I got instead was a conversation that felt like a warm embrace.

she was warm and kind, the nail technician who greeted me. We started with the usual small talk. my upcoming trip, the excuse for the pampering session. soon, the conversation deepened. she told me I had a nice smile, that I looked put together, and I laughed, saying I tried to maintain a positive attitude because I knew how much of a difference a little kindness could make in someone’s day. “you have a good heart,” she said. and wow, I needed to hear that.

she told me about her life, how she started her business with her sister, never looked back, and now had two sons she wouldn’t trade for the world. i told her i wanted to be a doctor, to help people, to make an impact. “your parents must be very proud,” she said. and without thinking, i responded, “i hope so.”
she caught that hesitation. “why do you say you hope so?”
and suddenly, there it was. the part of me I wasn’t sure I was ready to share. I told her about how I wasn’t out to my parents, how wearing nail polish might not be something they’d celebrate, how their love sometimes felt conditional, wrapped in tradition and expectations. she listened, really listened, and then she said something I’ll never forget.

“they love you, even if they don’t know how to show it yet. parents want to protect us, but sometimes they don’t realize that protecting us also means letting us be who we are. one day, they’ll come around.”

she told me about her own son, about the fears she once had for him, and how, over time, love won out over worry. and I sat there, letting her words settle, feeling seen in a way I hadn’t in a long time.

at one point, she noticed how every time she complimented me, I found a way to counter it with something negative. I brushed off praise like it was an inconvenience, deflecting the kind words with self-doubt. finally, she stopped, looked at me, and said:
“you’re beautiful, inside and out. And the only person who sees your flaws the way you do is you, because you’re the one looking for them.”

i don’t know what it was about her, but she reminded me of my mother. the kind of mother I needed in that moment. the open, accepting kind. the kind who sees you, even when you’re struggling to see yourself.

i walked into that salon hoping for a distraction. i walked out feeling lighter, reminded that sometimes, the universe puts people in your path exactly when you need them.
and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of nail polish can be the finishing touch on something much deeper than self-care. It can be a small, beautiful act of self-acceptance.

Before college, my life was on repeat. Same routine, same places, same everything. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exciting either. Every day felt like a copy of the last, and I didn’t even realize how stagnant I had become.

Then, college happened.

I met this guy who’s a bit older, but when we talked, it was like looking into a mirror. We were sitting, reflecting, watching a view, and he told me about when he moved to California from Miami. He had no car, no real sense of direction, and no choice but to put himself out there. Staying in his tiny studio apartment wasn’t an option, so he pushed himself to go out, meet people, and try new things. That’s how he learned the most valuable lessons in navigating life, people, and all the unpredictable obstacles that come with it.

That conversation hit me hard.

I didn’t even notice it, but I do the same thing every single day. Not because I love my routine, but because it’s comfortable. And truthfully, sometimes, it feels lonely. My space is nice, but it’s not where I want to spend all my time. I want to go on walks, see my friends, and experience life beyond my four walls.

And that’s exactly what Berkeley is giving me. The push to step outside my comfort zone. Without even realizing it, I’m learning, growing, and building experiences that will shape me in ways I can’t even measure yet.

One day, I’ll look back and think, Wow, I accomplished so much. I never wasted a day.

So, thank you, Berkeley. You’re not just giving me an education. You’re giving me a personality.