Odessa Zara's

Ever thought about what it would be like to live in someone else’s body for a year? I stumbled across a social media post yesterday that posed this exact question: "Imagine you swapped bodies with your loved one and had to give it back in a year. What would you do?" Instantly, I knew I'd keep it as healthy as possible. Seeing my beloved one sick is the last thing I'd ever want. I'd feed it well, exercise regularly, and care for it like my grandma nurtures her garden. As I kept scrolling (procrastination at its finest, I should get back to work),  I found another post that struck a chord. Someone shared, "My therapist always refers to me in the third person, and it helps SO MUCH to forgive, love, and care for myself like I do for my loved ones." Wow, that hit home. Not just in terms of physical health, but mentally too. I tend to blame myself for every little failure. If I could see myself as another person, I wouldn't be so harsh. I mean, I always tr

I wondered: maybe, just maybe, being imperfect could actually make me a better counselor. I mean, aren't we all flawed? Maybe, just maybe, it's because, like Marco (from Attack on Titan) once said to Jean, understanding weakness makes you stronger in helping others. So here I am, flawed and all, juggling two roles as a volunteer peer counselor. Funny thing is, the more I help others, the more I realize I need help too. Take yesterday, for example. I sat down with someone struggling with time management, communication, and overthinking – all issues I battle myself. But being a peer counselor isn't about handing out answers; it's about guiding others to find their own solutions. And you know what? Sometimes, their solutions light a spark in me too. I've been in a slump for the last few months, but after that session, I found myself starting to tackle tasks like the motivated achiever I used to be – years ago. It really hit me when she said, "I planned my day but

While rummaging for a certification, memories flooded back to my school days—a time of achievements, certificates, trophies, and medals scattered around like confetti. Yet, a thought struck me: "Aren't these certificates just paper?" Not entirely wrong, but it feels a tad off. Past-me, the Zara of yesteryears, must be rolling her eyes. I find myself projecting the 'bad' present Zara onto those innocent past versions. In my mind, those Zaras didn't know a day off. Monday to Friday was all about school and tutoring, with olympiads and competitions filling every free moment. Weekends were dedicated to more olympiad classes or college exam tryouts. Present me, thought waking up at 5 AM and getting home at 10 PM was a feat. Yet, here I am questioning the purpose of all those certificates. How pitiful, am I? Those past Zaras would probably be furious with me. But the truth is, I am the one who assign meaning to them, or the one who let them gather dust. It's my

In the hustle and bustle of chasing dreams, I found myself tangled in the web of big aspirations. Picture this: I want to be this famous, best-selling author, but reality check– you can't go from zero to hero overnight . It hit me like a ton of bricks, realizing the path to success involves building a reader fanbase, winning the trust of publishers, and oh, yeah, actually writing something that matters. Somewhere along the line, I got lost in the chaos. The joy of writing, the raw love for crafting words that once consumed me, started fading into the background . All the noise about making money, fulfilling daily needs, and achieving something grand took over. It's like I need my psychologist tap me again on the shoulder and say, "Hey, stop wasting energy on the colossal stuff. It's a step-by-step game." And so, I'm taking a breather. It's a gentle reminder to embrace the process, to rediscover that spark, and not let the grind steal the happiness from wha

Alright, buckle up for my little tale of tackling life one moment at a time. So, there I am, staring at this idea of long-term planning, feeling like I'm supposed to have my whole life mapped out. But let's be honest, life's more like a crazy rollercoaster than a neatly laid-out road. So, I decided to ditch the marathon and embrace the sprint, well, more like a leisurely stroll for now. So, the plan? Day-to-day, maybe even hour-to-hour. It's like jotting down the random thoughts bouncing in my head, a brain dump if you will. It's wild how freeing it is to not stress about the grand plan. I mean, remember when we were babies? We didn't just pop up and start running marathons; we crawled, stumbled, and eventually took those wobbly first steps. That's my vibe right now – the messy, beautiful process of figuring things out. Sure, it might not be the textbook "ideal" way, but who's to say what's ideal anyway? Life's messy, and I'm here f

Sometimes, when I read about how "awesome" Zhafira Aqyla's mom or Maudy Ayunda's mom are, I can't help but think that maybe I could be more "awesome" if I had a mother like that. It makes me feel a bit bad, like I'm being ungrateful. But then I realize that it's okay to have those thoughts as long as I don't stop there and blame my own mother. The first thing I realized is that I, or we, can't choose our initial environment. We have no control over who our parents are or how they will raise us when we're young. It's true that we can't control certain things and that privileges exist. But that's not the real problem. The real problem lies in how we choose to perceive these uncontrollable situations and how we respond to them. My mother may not have the same level of formal education as Zhafira's mother. However, my mother is the one who supported her own mother and brothers. She's the one who bought me an encycloped