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I used to believe I had to deserve  rest—only after acing the test, finishing the list, pleasing everyone. But exhaustion doesn’t wait for permission. Now I rest because I’m alive, not because I’m finished. The world still spins when I take a nap. And that’s strangely comforting.

I used to treat independence like a trophy. I’d smile and say, “I’m fine,” even when I was cracking.Then one day, I wasn’t fine, and a friend stayed anyway. No advice. No fixing. Just presence. It hit me that letting someone help doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means you’re human enough to accept connection.Now , when I’m struggling, I remind myself: even sunflowers turn toward the light. So why shouldn’t I?

Scrolling can feel like self-sabotage dressed up as self-care. One photo, one highlight reel, and suddenly I’m questioning my own timeline.It ’s like walking through a maze of mirrors—every reflection warped, every “should” disguised as inspiration. So I started asking one grounding question before I scroll: Am I here to connect or compare? If it’s the second, I close the app. I go outside. I remember that sunsets don’t compete with each other; they just shine when it’s their

Being a first-generation student sometimes feels like living in two realities. One is bright—the pride of doing what no woman in my family has done before. The other is shadowed by guilt: What if I mess this up? Every test, every application feels like it carries generations on its back. The turning point came during college essay season. I wrote a line that surprised me: “Maybe success isn’t about being the first; maybe it’s about making sure I’m not the last.” That sentence