I feel alive

I feel alive. 

I feel so alive, I don’t feel like I’m simply living. I feel like a new person. I don’t remember the person I used to be. I feel in my soul, in my gut that I am a new person. Picture this; 

It’s a cold winter day, freezing; I forgot my hat, I don’t have my gloves on, this morning I realized I lost my straightener, I have 4 midterms and 3 assignments due in the span of 3 days. I overslept, didn’t have time to do my makeup. I stayed up late doing homework. I have a busy day of classes, just to come home to continue to study. 

And I have never felt happier. 

I feel alive. 

I don’t know how to put it into words. I let my ears and fingers embrace the cold. I bought a coffee to carry it as a little warm up. I appreciate the little spills of coffee on my hand, the hot drops contrast with the wind and its amazing. 

I threw my hair into a pony tail, knowing my hair straightener is nothing but an object; I can buy a new one. 

All my work is piling up, but I have never felt so grateful to be in school. I go to university. I’m in the program I want to be. Im on my way to a successful future and that on its own is a piece of success. I hear each footstep I take knowing very well the ground I’m on walking on is the university’s ground; my ground. The one I belong on. I am supported by everyone; by me. I feel like I belong and it makes all the work feel like a lifestyle; like a step in a daily routine; not a chore, more like a step. A step going up, and up is where I keep going every step I take. I feel grateful to have passions, this is what makes me feel alive. I feel passionate and dedicated. I feel like I want something and I am ready to work for it; I want to work for it. 

I stayed up late in my apartment, with roommates who I love. All of us doing work. I went to the gym then home to do homework and it gave me energy that I surround myself with such dedicated people. To the point that I live with these people, constantly in an environment that pushes me to keep going. Where we can all sit down in the living room together with a jug of coffee and stay up as late as possible to work on our assignment, shifting from a quiet setting, to a slightly distracted one just to laugh about our distraction and get back to it. And if need be, I can simply head to my room and work in silence. I have that option. Its our space; its my space. 

I get to go to classes; each class imparts knowledge into me and it fills me up with joy that each professor has gone through this exact route, and has worked hard to be where they are. They are passionate. They radiate this passion. Some are tired, old, overworked.. its beautiful. To know they’ve lived so long, taught so many lessons, touched so many people. They are tired. Yet they work, and sometimes, you see the joy in their chosen subject in their eyes when they really get into what they’re saying. 

I drank water. I ate food. I am going to the gym. 

And through the wind and the clouds, there is still some sunlight, and though it’s covered at times, I have never felt so alive. 

I have never felt such utter happiness. 

I have no words to fully describe it because paper is not enough space. 

There is nothing more I wish for than to share this. Happiness because I have such a high supply of it, I believe that everyone deserves to feel it. 

I feel so alive; it reminds me that this is where I belong, this is where I need to be, and I would not have gotten here if it weren’t for all the steps that I have taken. 

The steps that feel like I’m going backwards, the steps that bury me in clouds, the steps that make me skip a turn, the steps that make me re-start… its all part of the process and its okay if I don’t finish first because I know that I will still finish and I can laugh about how fun it all was. 

I feel so alive there is no other way to describe it. 

I wish I could put these words into poetry and make them sound more beautiful, but my happiness is so raw and authentic, I feel the need to make this as raw as possible too because the poetry is not in this page; its outside, in the work we do, in the gym we go to, in the people we talk to, in the food we eat, in the decisions we make, in the vibrant colours we see, in the shades that we feel,  in the atmosphere we live in, and paper will never be enough to reflect this. 


And no matter how much I edit this page, it will never fully even come close to what happiness feels like.

The closest thing I can say is that,


I feel alive.



Confessions About a Fathers Love

First of all, I wanna put it out there and get it out of the way: I know, I’m lucky to have a father.

I just wish I could make him proud.

In grade 4 when I brought home a B, I wish he didn’t get mad at me for not bringing home an A.

In high school when I brought back a test, I wish he wouldn’t get mad at me, telling me he expected more.

When I told him I wanted to drop my maths and my sciences and pursue social sciences, I wish he didn’t tell me that I wouldn’t succeed.

I wish he believed in me.

I wish he trusted me.

I wish he didn’t only see in me his own failures, but instead saw my own achievements.

I wish he thought I was pretty and didn’t constantly remind me to lose weight. Didn’t constantly tell me that I will never find a love if I stay looking the way I do, didn’t put me through a million different diets trying to form me into the woman he wants me to be.

I wish I was not his lab rat, his play-doh that he tried to shape into what he desired.

I wish he didn’t think of himself as such a failure for raising a daughter like me.

I wish he told me he loved me more often, not only when I succeed, but when I fail too. If he told me he loved me when I failed, maybe I would not be as scared to fall. If only he believed that I was able to get back on my feet and keep going.

I wish when he told me he loved me, it did not feel like a treat. 

He taught me how to do many things, like be perseverant and determined. He taught me to put others ahead, to respect others.

He also taught me how to hate myself.

He taught me that he can put everyone ahead of himself, except for his family. His family will forever live in the shadows of his insecurities. His daughter will forever merely be a reminder of the hatred he has towards himself.

He hates himself, but he will never show it. He will never say it. Though I know he hates himself, because of all people, he was the one most successful at making me feel like a failure.

Maybe if he was around more often, maybe if he didn’t juggle 4 jobs, maybe if he cared to go to my recitals, he would have seen me grow step by step. If he saw me grow step by step, maybe he would’ve been more proud, maybe he would’ve seen the progress for himself, seen my effort and my passion and my love and my desire to just make him proud.

But he was never there.

We never had dinner all together, he never came to my recitals. He was never available.

Every time he would come home, he would expect me to be 100 times more successful than I was the day before and I was never capable of living up to those expectations.

I wish the thought of him didn’t make me cry even now that I live 5 hours away from him.

Every time I think of him and visiting home, I would think to myself how disappointed he would be in me. I would remind myself that when I come home, I will be getting a reality check, a reminder that I am at the bottom of the scale and am not capable of rising unless I try harder. Unless I lose weight. Unless I change my attitude and my way of living. If I change, I will succeed, and until then, he will not be proud.

And once I do change, Ill have to change again.

I wish that the thought of him didn’t make me cry. Didn’t make me anxious. Didn’t make me depressed. Let alone his voice, let alone the sight of him.

I will never win,

I wish he didn’t think he was a failure for raising me the way I am,

I wish I was not scared to love myself.

I do not blame him. I will never blame him. But it is time I stop blaming me. 




A Pretty Girl

I write this with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks at 1:53 am.

I write this exposing my deepest insecurities as just another girl in her first year of university.

I write this with my mirror right in front of me while I type. My perfectly done mascara with flawless blending of eyeshadow ruined by the disgrace that are my tears, falling down my cheeks exposing skin that is no longer plastered in foundation — just another typical Saturday night.


A pretty girl.


There are different sections to the definition of a pretty girl. I’ve been thinking about this blog entry for a while, thinking of the best way to put it together, but I realize the drunk version of myself would know best.


A pretty girl.

1.The looks: A pretty girl is skinny.  A pretty girl has long hair the would frame her perfect face, or, she has short hair to compliment her perky face. Either way – it suits her. A pretty girl has a tummy that is flat, breasts big enough to fill any top or small that would fit in any top. A pretty girl’s breasts are perky. A pretty girl has eyes that shine with confidence and a smile that can replace the sunshine since it’s always so damn bright. She has a bum that has been clearly worked out complimented with legs that carry her around with such utter perfection – she doesn’t need a man to tell her she’s beautiful.

2. The personality: If it is not the looks, then it is the feels. A pretty girl knows how to talk to boys and win them over with the way she carries herself. She walks around with her chin up high, knowing she doesn’t even care about her looks – she doesn’t need em, she’s got her personality. A pretty girl is nice and caring towards anyone she sees, she does not confuse confidence and cockiness. She knows how to talk to people, how to socialize. A pretty girl knows how to be a leader.

3. The Brain: If it is not the above that pertains to you, it could be the brain. A pretty girl is smart. She’s always on top of all her homework, she finished all her readings all the time, she takes notes in class. A pretty girl will always be able to help you with any homework because she probably already finished it before it was given. A pretty girl gets only the best of marks and comes out of school prepared for what life is trying to throw her. A pretty girl is prepared for a challenge because her brains does the walking, her brain does the talking, her brain carries her better than her legs ever can and with her brain she is able to walk all over anyone who stands in her way.

Now, it is surely possible that if you are anything like me – you’ll feel like none of these definitions of pretty girls pertain to you. If you’re nothing like me, you’ll realize all three definitions are ridiculous because you are a mix of all of them and more.

A true pretty girl does not search for a definition of who she is, because a pretty girl knows that her strengths will take her so far in life, words will not be able to describe.

However, if you are like me, then you probably are now too, are insecure about who you are – or maybe you already were and I took those insecurities out onto a blog entry.

It is now 2:34 in the morning and I am sitting here – still crying, my fingers drenched in mascara, my nose dripping faster than my tears. Yet, I am still writing and I do not actually know what for. Maybe it is because I do not actually know how to be properly social and make cool friends. I do not know how to approach boys and make them fall in love with who I am with a simple sentence. I do not know how to throw a ping pong ball and get it into a cup better than the next player. I do not know how to be skinny enough to fit into that dress I’ve been eyeing at. I do not know how finish on top of my class or have my talents take me far. I do not know much because I am just the below average girl.

I am not a pretty girl.

This is because I am trying to fit myself into one of the definitions above. If I were a pretty girl, I would accept myself for who I am and continue to work on everything I can to be the best version of myself – after all:

The prettiest of girls, are the girls that are able to find their own strength to wake up the next morning and continue working on themselves.

Many of you might agree, many will disagree. This is fine because I am not here to persuade you into thinking I am right or wrong. I am simply writing to expose the insecurities and thought of a below average girl thinking she’s not a pretty girl.

This is why when I wake up tomorrow, I am going to take my personal truth and find a personal cure. I will work on the things that I do not like about myself – not the things others do not like about me.

I will work hard to be a pretty girl and at the end of the day, I know that when I work hard to be the best version of myself, I will automatically be the ultimate pretty girl.

What are you gonna do?



The Name: Vanilla Gloom

Vanilla Gloom. Sounds like a contradiction to most, some may say an oxymoron. Well, this is because the goal of my blog is to reflect and ponder upon factors of life. What better way to describe life, than to say Vanilla Gloom?

Vanilla is sweet. When you think about vanilla, you perhaps think of a scent, maybe the ice cream flavour or the flower. Regardless of which, the image that comes to mind is sweet. Vanilla represents the sweetness that life may bring to us. The perfect amount of sweetness on your spoon from your cup of tea, enough to feel on the tip of your tongue. Purity. Bliss bringing nothing but a smile. There are always aspects in everyone’s life that they look back on, or look forward to, that simply force the muscles in their cheeks to workout a smile on their face. It is true that at certain moments of one’s life, these aspects may be difficult to catch, or worse, they may not be enough to render you happy – this is gloom.

Gloom is defined as “partial or total darkness”. This the darkness that you may encounter. The tough times, cloudy skies and rainy days. Days where you feel gloomy. It’s safe to say that these days occur in everyone’s life, they are inevitable. Gloom dawns upon people in the most inconvenient of times. It can take over one’s will to pursue what makes them happy and slowly devour the human they’ve worked so hard to become. Gloom can last a while, too long of a while for some, and it may take over the Vanilla attributes in one’s life.

The reason, however, that I chose to put Vanilla and Gloom side by side, is to create a sort of Yin-Yang. On sunny days where life feels like Vanilla, there will always be some gloom clouding it up or being prepared to cloud it up. But, on those gloomy days, there will always be some vanilla to sweeten your day, your week, your month and savour that little bit of sugar in your life.

The main focus of this blog is to help myself and others, perhaps such as yourself, pull out the Vanilla in a gloomy day. By doing so, I would like to find different approaches to happiness, I would like to find the beauty of our tears; happiness in our sorrows.

This is the Vanilla in my Gloom.


– Vanilla Gloom