soft living
Tuesday, October 13, 2026
A serendipitous record-store find and a poem about singlehood remind me that there’s romance in living life on my own terms
If I’m not catching up on laundry over the weekend, you’ll likely find me wandering through night markets and browsing pop-up shops. There’s something lovely about these little excursions—the unexpected finds, the creative people you meet, and the feeling that a perfectly ordinary afternoon might turn into a story worth telling.
Recently, I found myself at a pop-up event at Neighbor Cafe, where Eulvintage Recordstore and the Iloilo Typewriter Poets Collective offered two very different kinds of nostalgia: Japanese and US-pressed vinyl records for music lovers, and personalized poems composed on an old-fashioned typewriter for the romantics among us.
Naturally, I was drawn to both.
When the Vinyl Finds You
Among the records, I spotted a John Waite album featuring Missing You, one of my all-time favorite songs. I didn’t think twice about buying it. Finding a copy had always seemed like the sort of thing that would require a little luck and a great deal of searching. Yet there it was, waiting for me among the stacks.
I have a soft spot for discoveries like this. In a world where almost everything is available at the tap of a screen, stumbling upon something you’ve long wanted feels wonderfully old-fashioned. There’s the thrill of the hunt, the joy of holding your find in your hands, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you didn’t have to chase it after all.
The vinyl found me. And somehow, that made it all the more special.
A Poem for the Solo Romantic
At the same pop-up, the Iloilo Typewriter Poets Collective offered personalized poems for a small donation. You could share a thought, a feeling, or a little piece of your life and have it transformed into something written just for you.
I requested a poem about singlehood.
Perhaps it was curiosity that prompted me, or perhaps I simply wanted to see what a stranger might make of this particular chapter of my life. Whatever the reason, I didn’t expect a few lines typed on a sheet of paper to leave such a lasting impression.
What I received was a gentle reminder of the freedom that comes with being on my own. Singlehood, after all, need not be defined by what is absent. It can just as easily be about the life you choose to create: the places you explore, the interests you pursue, the quiet weekends you enjoy, and the decisions you make entirely for yourself.
There is a certain romance in that kind of independence, too.
The Beautiful Thing About Being on Your Own
Perhaps that is what I loved most about the experience. I arrived looking for little treasures and left with something more meaningful than a record and a poem. Both reminded me that life has a way of surprising us when we leave a little room for spontaneity.
One brought back the familiar ache of a favorite love song; the other offered a fresh perspective on a life lived independently. Together, they made an unexpectedly fitting pair.
I still believe in romance—in the songs that stir old feelings, the handwritten notes we keep, and the little things that make an ordinary day feel extraordinary. But I’ve come to appreciate that romance doesn't always have to revolve around another person. Sometimes, it is found in a record you weren't expecting to find, a poem written just for you, or a weekend spent following your own curiosity.
And if that isn't a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon, I don't know what is.
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Thursday, May 21, 2026
From tangled cassette tapes to Spotify playlists: a gentle reflection on nostalgia, convenience, and modern life
Apparently, 2026 is the year everyone wants to go “back to analog.”
Suddenly, young people are buying cassette players, collecting vinyl records, carrying tiny digital cameras from the early 2000s, and romanticizing handwritten planners like they’ve discovered some lost ancient ritual. Maybe everyone is tired of staring at glowing screens all day. Maybe people are exhausted from performing polished little online versions of themselves.
As someone who actually lived through the analog era, I honestly find the trend both amusing and strangely sweet.
But here’s the thing: I don’t believe the analog and digital worlds need to fight each other. They can peacefully coexist. One does not have to destroy the other. While some people are eager to rewind time completely, I’m personally still excited about the digital future. I like my music on demand. I like cloud storage. I like not having to rewind anything with a pencil.
Because trust me — cassette tapes were not always magical.
I vividly remember destroying several tapes from replaying favorite songs over and over on a dusty little tape deck. But despite all that, there was something beautiful about analog life too. I loved recording my voice and random ambient sounds on blank TDK cassettes like I was secretly documenting my tiny world. Back then, even ordinary moments felt worth archiving.
On my 18th birthday, I received a Sony Walkman and immediately became the kind of person who walked through life with headphones on and absolutely no awareness of her surroundings. At one point, I literally fell into an uncovered manhole because I was too busy listening to music. I remember being more upset about scratching the Walkman than scraping my knees.
Very dramatic behavior, honestly.
After college, I worked as a radio DJ, and my days revolved around what we called “board work” — juggling cassette tapes, CDs, mini-discs, timings, cues, and dead air panic. Analog equipment had a personality of its own. Some days it behaved beautifully. Other days it betrayed you at the worst possible moment while you were live on air.
A tape would jam.
A CD would skip.
Audio would suddenly turn scratchy for no reason.
You learned patience very quickly.
That’s why I always laugh a little when younger people romanticize analog life as some perfectly cozy aesthetic. It was charming, yes — but it also demanded skill, attention, and endurance. Still, there was a certain intimacy to it all. Music felt tactile. Memories felt physical. You held things in your hands.
But would I go back completely?
Absolutely not.
Everything younger generations casually enjoy now — streaming music, digital archives, instant playlists, wireless headphones — once felt futuristic to people like me. These were things we only dreamed about while untangling cassette ribbons with our fingers.
I think what many people are truly searching for is not necessarily analog technology itself, but a slower and more intentional way of living.
Maybe it simply means creating little pockets of offline life.
Buy inexpensive notebooks and make handwritten recipe journals instead of saving everything into random phone folders.
Practice your penmanship again. Write labels by hand.
Skip online shopping once in a while and wander through actual stores without rushing.
Designate one quiet offline day where nobody can immediately reach you.
Write a poem. Sketch something badly. Keep a tiny journal. Print photographs again.
And if you want, you can still take a photo of all of it afterward and upload it online.
That’s the funny thing about modern life: we don’t always have to choose one world over the other.
Personally, I’d rather appreciate the convenience technology gives me than spend my days cursing it. Tools are just tools. What matters is how we use them to create a life that feels softer, slower, kinder, and more human.
Maybe the goal isn’t to live like it’s 1989 again.
Maybe the goal is simply to remain present while living in 2026.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
A season of slowing down—where shade, stillness, and small rituals become enough.
Life begins after 4 PM these days.
The dry season is at its peak—sweltering in a way that feels almost personal, like the sun has singled me out. The heat is relentless, the kind that drains you before the day even begins. I’ve learned to move slower, to conserve energy, to exist in small, quiet ways just to make it through.
Honestly, there isn’t much to do when you’re trying to evade the sun like Dracula. I’ve made peace with missing out for now. No FOMO, just shade, stillness, and soft living where I can find it.
Lately, I’ve been drawn to slower, more tangible things. I found a second-hand vintage typewriter—60 years old, made in East Germany. Older than me, which makes me love it even more. There’s something comforting about the weight of it, the sound of each key pressing into paper. It feels intentional. I imagine future afternoons spent making handmade scrapbooks, typing little fragments of days like these.
I also tried making a tea infusion using dried honeysuckle blossoms from KKV. It pairs so softly with peach tea—light, floral, almost like sipping something from a memory. Moments like this feel like an excuse to slow down, to bring out my delicate Royal Albert teacups, and pretend time isn’t rushing anywhere.
A new sandwich shop just opened in town—Bánh Mì Kitchen—and it’s quickly become my current favorite. There’s something about the flavors that makes me want to book a ticket and disappear into the streets of Vietnam. I’ve been catching myself daydreaming about it more often lately… maybe that means something.
And in between all this quiet, I found a little magic again. The Studio Ghibli Film Festival is currently showing at SM Cinemas, and I finally got to watch My Neighbor Totoro on the big screen. It felt like stepping into a softer world, even just for a while. Familiar, comforting, gentle in all the right ways.
Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me—
to move with the day instead of against it,
to rest when the world feels too loud,
and to find small, quiet joys in the in-between.
Life begins after 4 PM… and maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.
Friday, April 3, 2026
In a world that feels uncertain, choosing peace becomes its own quiet act of courage.
It is unfortunate that the US–Israel–Iran war had to unfold in the springtime—a season that is meant to symbolize renewal, softness, and quiet beginnings. After a relatively tumultuous 2025, one would hope that this year might offer a gentler rhythm, a slow return to hope. Instead, the headlines remain loud, and the uncertainty lingers in the background of our daily lives like an uninvited guest.
I’ve written before about the fear and anxiety that seem to accompany this year—the way volatility has shaped not only global affairs but also our personal outlooks. There is a certain heaviness in knowing that the world feels fragile, that stability can shift overnight, that peace is never quite guaranteed.
And yet, as the second quarter of the year begins, I find myself resisting the idea that dread should define us.
I don’t want fear to be the theme of our days.
I don’t want uncertainty to steal the small, beautiful moments that still exist—quietly, stubbornly—around us.
Instead, I imagine cherry blossom petals drifting through the air. Soft, fleeting, almost weightless. A reminder that even the most delicate things can still exist in a world that feels anything but gentle. A reminder that beauty does not ask for perfect conditions—it simply blooms where it can.
Perhaps this is where we begin again.
Not by ignoring reality, but by choosing how we meet it.
A Gentle Reset for the Months Ahead
There is something powerful about deciding to reset—not in a dramatic, life-altering way, but in the quiet, intentional shift of perspective.
To move forward with ease does not mean we are unaware of the chaos around us. It simply means we are choosing not to carry it all at once.
We learn to live each day as it comes—fully present, fully aware—while still preparing ourselves for uncertainty. It is a delicate balance, this dance between mindfulness and preparedness. But it is also where peace lives.
We don’t have to have everything figured out.We only need to take the next step, and then the next.
And in between, we allow ourselves to breathe.
Holding On to Hope, Softly but Steadily
Hope does not have to be loud to be powerful.
Sometimes, it looks like continuing your routine even when the world feels unstable.
Sometimes, it looks like making your morning coffee, watering your plants, replying to messages, showing up for your responsibilities.
Sometimes, hope is simply choosing to believe—quietly, persistently—that better days are still on their way.
Let this be our mantra, carried gently in our hearts:
The best is yet to come.
Beautiful days are arriving.
Les beaux jours arrivent.
Repeat it on days when the news feels overwhelming.
Repeat it when your thoughts feel too heavy.
Repeat it until you begin to believe it again.
Resourcefulness & Resilience in Uncertain Times
In moments like these, we are reminded of the importance of being grounded in what we have.
Resourcefulness is not about scarcity—it is about creativity.
It is about learning to make the most of what is already within reach.
We save wisely, we plan thoughtfully, we prepare where we can. But we also remember that life is meant to be lived, not just endured.
Allow yourself small joys.
A good meal. A quiet walk. A simple indulgence that reminds you that you are still here, still living.
Resilience is built not only through survival, but through the ability to find light even in constrained spaces.
Self-Care as a Quiet Form of Strength
There is a tendency, in times of global uncertainty, to place our own needs on hold. To think that caring for ourselves is somehow less important when the world feels like it is unraveling.
But the truth is this:
Our health and well-being are non-negotiable.
We cannot pour from an empty cup.
We cannot navigate uncertainty if we are already depleted.
So we return to the basics—sleep, nourishment, movement, stillness.
We keep the habits that sustain us, even when everything else feels unpredictable.
Taking care of yourself is not selfish.
It is an act of quiet resistance against chaos.
Creating Inner Sanctuaries
When the outside world feels overwhelming, we turn inward—not to escape, but to anchor ourselves.
Art, reflection, meditation—these are not luxuries. They are lifelines.
They allow us to process what we cannot control.
They give form to emotions that feel too large to hold.
They remind us of our capacity for depth, for beauty, for meaning.
Build your inner altar.
Fill it with whatever brings you back to yourself—words, music, prayer, creativity, silence.
Let it be a space where you can return, again and again, whenever the world feels too loud.
Choosing Beauty, Again and Again
The world may not settle anytime soon. The uncertainty may linger longer than we would like.
But even in the midst of it all, there are still moments of quiet grace waiting to be noticed.
A soft morning light.
A kind conversation.
A fleeting sense of calm.
These are not insignificant.
They are reminders.
That life continues.
That beauty persists.
That we, too, can continue—softly, steadily, with intention.
So let the imaginary cherry blossoms fall where they may.
Let them remind you that even the most fragile things can still be beautiful.
And as the months unfold, may we carry ourselves with a little more grace, a little more hope, and a quiet, unwavering belief that brighter days are still ahead.
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