but never warned of swallowed words—how I love you, and you hurt me, could cling beneath the ribs, long after their expiration date.

They’d say that wet hair in the winter would make us sick, but never explained how the chill of loneliness can linger.

They said with softness, ‘I love you to the moon and back’, but never shared how far love could travel without ever leaving.

We were told it was illegal to keep the overhead light on while driving.

maybe that’s why we sometimes try to dim our own light, make it more comfortable for others.

They said carrots will help see in the dark, but never told us what to eat when we can’t see a future.

It was always joked that making silly faces would freeze that way, but never explained how a smile can also become muscle memory.

They warned that picking at scabs would leave scars, but never taught how to heal wounds that lie deeper, beneath the skin.

It was known that holding a buttercup beneath your chin
could prove you liked butter,

but never told us that happiness could be as simple as a golden glow on a summer’s day.

now I know that gum dissolves,
wet hair does not summon sickness,
and the overhead light was merely distracting,

but I still throw away my gum, dry my hair before bed, and keep the light off while driving.

I hold buttercups to my chin and believe that love can travel impossible distances.

Maybe growing up isn’t changing everything we’ve been told and once believed, but letting them become gentle reminders of what shaped us. It also means learning some of these lessons on our own, as we’re no longer protected by these little white lies. We may have to weed out some that don’t serve us, but others are remnants of a whimsical way of thinking.

And maybe some stories aren't meant to be outgrown. Maybe some little beliefs

They're meant to remind us that the world once felt a little larger than reason could explain. Where little yellow flowers hold so much knowledge and nightvision is promised if we eat our vegetables.

Every time I buy a bundle, I tell myself I’ll eat them all this time. I’ll put them in yogurt, make fruit smoothies, and remember them before the brown spots take over like a fast-spreading pox.

I rarely do.

Eventually, they end up in the fruit dish, growing softer by the day. Brown freckles become dark bruises. The peels collapse in on themselves. At some point, they stop looking like fruit and start looking like a venomous arachnid that’s somehow infiltrated my kitchen.

Most people would throw them away.

I hold on to hope that they can have a second life. That their inevitable demise can ultimately amount to something beautiful, if I carve out enough time and patience to resurrect them.

So, I make banana bread.

It’s built on the idea that something past its prime isn’t finished yet. That if you mix it with enough butter, vanilla, and a little bit of faith, maybe it can be saved. Maybe the thing you almost gave up on just needs time to evolve into something new.

I think that’s why I have such a hard time letting things go.

I like potential. I like unfinished stories and the prospect of a future. I like believing that anything is possible with enough time, care, and—when all else fails—chocolate chips.

Hope has always been my favorite ingredient. Sometimes it’s blind faith and other times it’s following a recipe to a T, but I always come back to the kitchen even after disastrous outcomes.

I’ve been burned, I have burned others, and I have caught a cookie or two on fire. I’ve been impatient, opened the oven too early. Forgotten timers. Added too much of one ingredient and not enough of another.

But the Goldilocks moment of a perfect loaf makes it all worth it. Every now and then, the pieces come together. The butter is the right temperature. The center bakes through. The crust is golden. And for one brief, glorious moment, the whole kitchen smells like proof that trying again wasn’t foolish after all.

I wish people were more like bananas.

But you can’t rescue every ending with cinnamon and walnuts. Expiration dates are real. And some things simply aren’t asking to be saved; they’re asking to be appreciated for what they were.

I think that’s the part I struggle with most. I like believing that time can soften sharp edges. That enough effort will amount to something better, and if I just hold on a little longer, I’ll eventually pull something beautiful out of the oven.

Sometimes that’s true. Sometimes it isn’t.

The older I get, the more I realize there’s a difference between investing in potential and pouring into a fantasy that may never evolve.

Banana bread only works because every ingredient agrees to participate. The butter melts. The eggs bind. The flour gives structure. Baking soda rises. Even the bananas surrender to becoming something new.

But not everyone in our life is open to changing. People have agency. They decide whether to grow, stay the same, or meet you halfway. No amount of patience can transform someone who has no desire to change. And some things simply reach their natural end. It’s plausible that some stories were only ever meant to be memories.

I still believe some things can become shaped into something sweeter with time. I just don’t think that’s the only measure of a beautiful ending anymore.

Banana bread isn’t about rescuing bananas. It’s about accepting that they’re never going to be yellow bananas again, but they can become an equally sweet alternative. Sometimes life (and baking) is about learning when to let go and when to embrace change. Sometimes fruit reaches the end of its life, and there is nothing left to make of it. No amount of wishful thinking can turn a rotting apple into pie. Unfortunately, there’s no recipe book to tell us when hope is the right ingredient or when it’s disguising a refusal to move on.

I will probably continue to get it all wrong at times. Hang on to something longer than I should, throw away something before realizing it had potential. But I don’t want the fear of disappointment to lure me away from a chance at a sweeter future.

Not every banana gets turned into bread.

Not every story follows a recipe to a perfect ending.

But believing in second chances is always worth the risk.

Those people on RedBull jumping off of crazy ski jumps to land on a designated, tiiiiny little square that will keep them from breaking their neck and dying. Or the adrenaline junkies who jump off a cliff 50 feet to land on a giant ocean of water. The college Dean who’s job is to speak in front of thousands of people at graduation.

Guess what. They’re still afraid.

It’s part of human nature to be afraid. It’s part of human nature to be hesitant. It’s what keeps us alive. It’s a survival tactic.

You stand on the edge of that cliff looking out at what’s in front of you. Of course you’re going to be afraid. All you see is the deep blue ocean water.

But once you take that leap all you feel is the sense of flying, and everything else goes away. You take that leap and your dopamine dumps into your body all at once, then without even knowing what shifted, you’re smiling and laughing your butt off because “you did what?!” Yes. You jumped off a cliff 10 feet in the air. You fell in love with someone you actually like. You rode a bike for the first time since you got injured. And guess what. One day you may jump off a cliff 20 feet in the air. Or even 40 feet.

To worry about what’s to come keeps your feet steady and still right exactly where you are. And yes. Sometimes that can be good. Sometimes it’s reassuring to stay where you are comfortable.

But you miss that feeling of flying, of pure freedom, of a presence in present moment that comes with the leap.

So when I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, “how in the world can I do that?”

I have only one answer: you do it scared.

I have a habit of becoming a linguistic chameleon, instinctively matching my word choice to whoever is on the receiving end. Yet when I studied child development and education, we were taught to do the opposite with children. We were always told to incorporate academic vocabulary into our language with children. Even if they don’t immediately recognize the meaning of the word, they absorb vocabulary through context. Research in language development consistently shows that children learn new words best when they hear them used naturally in meaningful conversations.

So why don't we extend the same courtesy to adults?

Instead, we simplify our language for adults because we're afraid of seeming pretentious. We apologize for using "big words." We replace melancholy with sad, peculiar with weird, meticulous with careful. But every conversation is an opportunity to learn from one another and expand eachother’s worlds.

I think, as English speakers, many of us have lost sight of just how beautiful our language is. We sometimes forget it’s an art form. English is a patchwork quilt stitched together from Latin, Greek, Germanic, French, Norse, Arabic, and countless other influences. It is messy, inconsistent, and wonderfully expressive. We don't just have one word for "happy." We have content, elated, ecstatic, jubilant, and euphoric. We don't simply feel "sad." We can be melancholy, wistful, heartbroken, nostalgic, or despondent. Each word carries its own texture, its own shade of meaning. To reduce all of that richness to "good," "bad," or "mid" feels like owning a grand piano and choosing to play only one key.

Using more complex diction also helps you better articulate your thoughts and feelings. The richer your vocabulary becomes, the more accurately you can describe your internal world and share that with others. There is a quiet satisfaction in finding the exact word for a feeling you've struggled to describe.

Perhaps this is why I have a deep fascination with untranslatable words—words that exist in one language but have no perfect equivalent in another.

The Portuguese word saudade describes a deep, bittersweet longing for someone or something that may never return. It's more than nostalgia and different from grief. It's an ache mixed with gratitude. Or one of my favorites is the Japanese word komorebi, which refers to dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of a tree. English requires an entire phrase to express what Japanese captures in a single word. Or even a lighter term, una passeggiata, a leisurely post-dinner stroll, one with no destination. The existence of these words makes me wonder how many emotions, moments, and observations pass through our lives unnamed simply because we lack the language for them. Every new word isn't just another definition to memorize. It's another lens through which to view the world. Every language illuminates different corners of the human experience, and every word we learn gives us another shade of meaning to paint with.

So yes, if we’re laughing over a glass of wine and you casually slip in a sonder or an abhor into our conversation, just know I see you. Not because I'm impressed by a large vocabulary or a posh demeanor, but because it tells me you're still collecting words. You’re reveling in the power of words and not afraid to use it. Still paying attention to the astonishing complexity of the world around you. And I find that endlessly attractive.

Their answer was, “bats.”

Mine was, “Grief. Real, earth-shattering grief.”

The contrast made me laugh at first. It also made me question their emotional depth. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered how two people could look at the same sky and notice entirely different things.

I spend most of my life dancing in reveries. A living poem, flooded by depth and emotions, rushing through me like water. I have romanticized everything since I was old enough to form coherent thoughts.

The expression, “head in the clouds,” always made sense to me, because who wouldn’t want to be a cloud? They constantly shift, change, and morph into shapes worthy of looking up at. One with the wind, their journey written by the sky. Sure, there are days they grey, weighed down with all they have gathered along the way. But those moments never last long, because eventually the earth opens and asks for it all back.

The hardest part of being a cloud is sometimes falling for rocks.

I often expect a rock to enter my weightless world filled with wonder and whimsy. Confused as to why they weren’t flying up to meet me, even when I showed them the beautiful scene from above.

For a long time, I thought emotional depth only existed in the sky.

I thought it sounded like late-night conversations about passion and purpose, our deepest dreams and greatest fears. I thought it lived in poetry and honest expression. In shared stories and the parts of ourselves we rarely show the world.

It took me a long time to realize that not all souls look skyward.

From above, rocks can seem simple, superficial even. But in reality, they are witness to it all. Studying the weather, the terroir, the patterns of the clouds. Rocks function best on the ground. They also shift, change, and morph into shapes worthy of collecting, but are always made of the same core. Rather than gathering debris, rocks allow the elements to shape them. In time, they soften edges and polish to a smooth surface.

And during rainfall, they are always there to keep the ground from eroding. They are there to remind the clouds that blue skies will come. And teach them what needs to be carried and what must be surrendered.

I used to mistake stillness for simplicity. Silence for absence.

But rocks withstand the heavy rains and the passage of time with a quiet modesty. Watching the clouds drift by, staying steady when the time comes they are needed.

And maybe that's the point: some people carry the weather, gathering stories and storms as they drift, then pouring themselves back into the earth when they can no longer hold it. While others are built to weather it all and keep the ground steady.

Those who aren’t afraid to share the little musings that rest on the edge of their minds. Like notes that lie in the margins that never leave the page. I like when people tell me the water ripples look like 70s wallpaper or start a Rorschach test at a stoplight with a sculpture. I like all that is said in moments of silence or the tender brush of a hand.

I like when those people let these insights linger, bookmarked for a later date. Send me a photo of their fortune cookie proverb because it mentioned bees. Or take the ice out of my water knowing I prefer it at room temperature. I like people who say, “Look at the cat right now,” even though it’s in the same pose as yesterday. These little moments caught in the wild like pressed flowers falling from a book. Reminders of all the places we've been and curiosities collected.

I like the marginalia of being alive. The details that don’t advance the plot, but create the heart of the story. I want to live between the lines, amidst the wonder hidden in plain sight. Let the simplicities of the mundane reveal the magic they’ve had all along.

Because in the end, I don’t think a life is measured in its major events. It’s crafted from the sloppy annotations and dog-eared corners. The worn-out spine and coffee stains. The moments when we let the dust settle, and the world softens into focus.

you are white paint

a chance to start fresh

to cover old marks

from lessons long-learned

you lighten and brighten

never empty, nor void

you are all the hues

disguised in a simple form

you soften sharp edges

blur the lines of old wounds

never erasing

but teaching the eye

where it should move

you make space

for creativity

a chance to feel empowered

open and waiting

to receive all of life’s palette

you’re rarely just white

the light

brings out different tones

alabaster porcelain ivory

timeless as ruins

carrying stories of their own

gold in the morning sun

silver at night

to me

you are anything but simple

a hundred shades hidden

in what others call white

even when you’re not near,

you linger

long after

goodbyes were said

and left the air

wafts of spruce and bergamot

cling to the fabrics I once held.

days later,

I still catch

the wisps of you

like a breeze half-felt

you spread through me like rays

like the warmth of the air

held captive

long after the sun has melted away

when the world has cooled

but I feel you there

you leave me bathing in

that quiet heat

an aura, a scent

an imprint on a heart

something between a memory

and a simple thought

somehow, you’re everywhere

and nowhere at all

like something remembered

rather than lost

a ghost of golden hour

lingering long after you’re gone

for oneself, for others

for the trees, the bees

or any simple thing

is rarely wrong

because from any angle

even our greatest qualms

have meaning

have truth

and are simply

consequence

of being

messy, miraculous

and wholeheartedly

human