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Smell has always been one of my strongest senses. After the visual, my memory of people and places usually comes back through scent. When I think of home, I think of the woodsy inhale I always take the second I walk through the door.

I got a new candle today. And it feels too special to burn. I will burn it the day my real life emotions connects to the feelings I have from smelling this candle.

I did not set out to buy this candle, since my true purpose was to buy another eucalyptus cedar one for my living room. But then, for no good reason, I happened to smell this one. The second I inhaled it, I felt like I was in a transcendental state.

The scent of this candle is the sensory counterpart to what I imagine I will feel when I fall in love. Not with just anyone, but the special him. The right one.

It sounds silly, especially coming from me (trust me, I was very skeptical with myself) but my instincts know it’s true.

The dark walnut notes are very grounding for me. Like, the comfort of my home which smells woodsy and rich. The lavender and white amber spike through. They add sweetness. Not too much, just enough for my liking. The scent is so familiar and calming yet so complex and sophisticated that I cannot stop thinking about it. And that is exactly why it makes sense, why this scent makes me feel the way I do. And one day when I meet him and I think about this scent, I’ll know it’s time to burn the candle.

She deeply analyzes some things, yet rides high on her impetuous waves.

She doesn’t have the patience to create art, but she has the eye to admire vintage artisan jewelry and an Italian suede handbag.

She’ll stroll to yoga in a linen tank and flip-flops, then strut the same streets in a satin shirt and leather wedge sandals.

She optimizes her daily routines, but approaches a day with friends as blind as a bat.

She won’t make herself a fancy dinner, but she’ll secure opening-night reservations at Borromini for her gals.

Her experiences with admirers range from as boring as meeting a mediocre guy at a bar, to as punchy as being with a tall, handsome pilot she met at Trader Joe’s.

She usually handles social situations with diplomacy, but she’ll strike up a conversation with anyone and invite them for a drink.

She judges people’s character through a rich collection of observations, but also judge them by what cocktail they order.

She’s called the life of the group and the party, yet craves time alone to sit in her peace.

She’ll think twice before buying herself that gold herringbone necklace, but won’t hesitate to gift her best friend a favorite gold ring she’s been complimented on.

She can solve a complicated differential equation, yet can’t keep track of how much she’s spent on gin and tonics.

She hates attention on her birthday, but lives for planning and celebrating the birthdays of those she loves.

She’ll roll her eyes at compliments from some men, but blush at the same words from the right ones.

She doesn’t consider herself religious, yet prays every night for the well-being of her parents and sister.

She’s known to be intimidating, but those who know her best will tell you she never takes herself too seriously.

She is me, she is equal parts linen and satin.

For the past few months, I’ve had a great deal of stress building up inside me. Not from one thing, but from many — all with one thing in common: I couldn’t escape them. I had to face them every single day.

As a people pleaser, I hate conflict. I’ve always tried to pull the strings behind the scenes to make sure everything just… works. I’m usually fine with taking the hits if it means the bigger picture comes out looking peaceful. But what I had to finally admit to myself last week is this: some problems are simply too far outside my control. And no one — no one — is handing out awards for suffering while trying to fix things that aren’t mine to fix.

That realization went hand in hand with something I never expected to embrace: cynicism.

Take the guy in my lab, the one I mentor. For months, he’s been draining me. Massive ego, constant projection of his own inner chaos, unpredictable outbursts — and I kept trying to navigate it all diplomatically. But the moment I fully accepted that he’s just always going to be a piece of work, it was like a weight dropped off my shoulders.

I’m not here to fix the fundamental nature of anyone. Especially not someone who is not even self-aware to recognize how burdensome he is. My job is to mentor. That’s it. I don’t have to hold his hand, absorb his attitude, or perform emotional olympics to make his experience better at the expense of my own.

Last week, for the first time all summer, I felt my face muscles stay relaxed and not tense up when he walked into the lab. That’s when I realized how deep the tension had been.

Same thing with a close friend of mine. For years, we’ve had this back-and-forth, flirt-but-never-address it type of dynamic. I kept telling myself it wasn’t that deep — brushing off moments that, if anyone else were watching, would seem romantic. Deep down, I always left the door ajar, like maybe something could or should happen between us one day?

But the truth is, I was only keeping that door open because I felt like I owed it to him. Like if I was complicit in the flirting, I had to be emotionally accountable for it.

I don’t.

He’s seeing someone now. And it seems like he really likes her. Our flirting hasn’t stopped — it’s just normalized at this point. Which is its own topic of discussion separate from this… But I think I have stopped feeling anything strong from it. I can feel myself starting to detach. And it’s felt so freeing.

Adopting a cynical lens toward that dynamic has helped me realize something I’ve always avoided asking: If we were actually in a relationship, would it even work?
Hard no. We’re fundamentally different in ways that would have sunk the ship before it ever left the dock.

Cynicism has become my unlikely pathway to emotional freedom.

It’s helped me create boundaries. It’s made it easier to stop over-investing in things I can’t control. And it’s giving me a healthier way to killing my lifelong people-pleasing tendencies.

You know — the way guys act at clubs or bars when they’re out picking up girls.

Earlier that night, I had dinner with the boys (who, to be fair, are gentlemen — but still have that “dog” in them). I listened as they talked about girls: hooking up, flirting and showing interest but being cool. One of my friends just wanted a good time (sex), and the other two had unofficial flings, leaving them free to wave their charm wherever they wanted.

After dinner, we split up for a bit and shook on it that we’d all meet again later. Ironically, I almost didn’t want to go out that night (laughable in hindsight). But after that dinner, I had overdosed on “inside the man’s brain” and needed to get it out of my system.

How? By being a man that night.

I headed to one of our go-to bars in the city, ready to play my uno reverse card on every guy there. From my experience — and from my girlfriends’ — it’s always surprising how easily guys seem to think they can just pick up any girl, as if they deserve them. I’ve often looked at the guys surrounded by girls at clubs and thought, what the hell “The girls can do so much better. “

Of course, this isn’t about belittling guys or judging them purely by looks. It’s more about the principle — being at the center of an orbit and acting like everyone should be grateful to revolve around you. It’s funny.

So, that night, I decided I’d be the one with the orbit.

I can’t put the cock in cocky, but I was going to whip out my ego.

At the first bar, I hit it off with a guy, but instead of playing the polite, interested girl, I sounded utterly disinterested. We talked about the soccer game that was going on earlier that night, and soon started talking about Wimbledon and other sports. He was hooked and loved we were talking about sports. For me, I don’t need a guy to talk about sports with. So, I wasn’t showing as much enthusiasm as he was. I noticed his frustration with my nonchalance turned into intrigue. He bought me a beer; I drank about 3/4 of it before telling him I might come back — then I left him hanging.

The bouncer was chill; I warned him I’d be bouncing around a bit. I also went on to strike this deal with the other bouncers at the other bars.

At bar number two, I was the center of my own orbit again. I found some of the guys cute, but acted completely oblivious, deflecting their attention with no responses and just dancing. The same male pattern emerged: frustration morphing into interest and eagerness. After dancing and drinking, I left them hanging too, off to bar number three.

Same pattern, same power play.

Then I circled back to bar one. By now, I was drunk — but not enough to forget my game. I made about two or three full cycles, each time leaving the guys more eager, more hooked.

Eventually, my friends called me back to “home base” at bar number three. Game over. I ditched the orbit and joined my crew, dancing, jumping around (literally), and having the time of my life. We took a photo of me wearing my friend’s glasses while he wore my sunglasses — a moment that’ll live in our memory vault.

Around 3 AM, I wasn’t quite done with my game… but I’ll just leave it at that. 🙂

That night, I realized I wasn’t doing any of this to teach anyone a lesson or prove a point. I was just so damn curious: what is it really like to be the average guy out for the night? What’s going on in their heads? What does it feel like from the other side?

But what I remember most from that night isn’t the games or the ego trips. It’s the fun I had with my boys — my actual friends.

I had a grand time playing “man,” but what really made me feel fulfilled (and not regret all the drinking) was coming back to my friends and the time we shared together.

Maybe “guy mode” was fun for a night (I may run it back more) — but my real home base will always be my people.

When it comes to intellectual growth, we readily accept the idea that it takes challenge, discomfort, and effort. We study new subjects, take on complex projects, and expand our cognitive load over time. My advisor told me, “You can only grow your capacity to handle more when you challenge yourself to deal with more at once.” That stuck with me—because it’s true. You get better at managing more by doing more.

Similarly, my dad once said, “No one is too busy. I don’t care what you do—if you’re too busy, you’re not managing your time well.” He was talking about relationships and communication—how disappointed he is when people say they “don’t have time” to check in or respond.

At the time, I didn’t connect these two pieces of advice. They were given in completely different contexts—one about professional productivity, the other about emotional maintenance. But now I think they’re deeply related. They both speak to the idea of capacity—not just how we manage it, but how we grow it.

Lately, I’ve started to believe that emotional capacity deserves just as much intention and development as intellectual capacity. We don’t talk about emotional bandwidth in the same way, but maybe we should.

In the past year, I’ve become acutely aware of how much emotional energy I have to offer—how much I can give, how much I can sustain, and when I’m stretching myself too thin. With the end of my long term relationship that consumed most of my time and attention, I found myself with a new wealth of energy. A regeneration of my emotional currency. I began redirecting it into my friendships and my relationship with my parents and sister. It made me realize how much I’d sidelined relationships that truly mattered in the name of “not having time.” In truth, I’d just been overdrawn and lacked the self-awareness to address it.

One of my best friends seems to operate like this: every new relationship he takes on means one old one gets cut. It’s like a zero-sum accounting model—emotional capacity must be reallocated from somewhere else. But I don’t think that’s sustainable. That’s not growth. That’s budgeting within a fixed cap. It’s like refusing to learn something new because you don’t want to forget something else.

To me, emotional capacity should be treated more like a bank account that can grow—but only with intention. You can’t recklessly spend. You also can’t assume growth without effort. You need to know your limits, spend wisely, and seek ways to expand what you can hold. If you don’t, you’ll go into emotional debt—resentment, burnout, detachment.

Just like we train our minds to take on more challenge, I think we should bring this perspective to our relationships. Not more people, necessarily—but more presence. More responsibility. More grace.

I don’t care for summaries. I care for perspectives.

My first publication in my first year of my PhD was a perspective on catalyst design. It wasn’t a review or summary of what’s been done — it was a take on what research questions we should be asking towards developing advanced materials. Reviews bore me. Summaries are easy. But I love a perspective. There’s something inherently challenging about forming one. You have to push yourself to think beyond what is and understand what it means. You can’t get away by listing a string of facts — facts are inarguable and they’re defined. They’re too safe. A perspective, on the other hand, invites disagreement. It isn’t right or wrong. It’s risky, and it’s valuable.

That’s what makes having a perspective ballsy — it forces tension. And I love that. There’s a lot of energy stored in tension, and that can easily become dangerous and polarizing if it’s not responsibly handled. I love when someone can hold a strong point of view and deliver it with class, clarity, and respect.

My first perspective for this blog is that I don’t think your career needs to be your calling.

I’ve always found the question “Why are you getting a PhD?” annoying. Not because I don’t know the answer — but because I don’t have the “right” one. I wasn’t motivated by a burning passion for science or engineering. I can fulfill that by teaching myself fluid mechanics on my own without a five year shot in the dark commitment. If you know me, you know the string of events that got me here. I’ve always hunted for opportunity — that’s what I do. That’s what led me to this. And while I might not care deeply about my specific research topic, I definitely care about being part of something ambitious, something important. If that something happens to have strong societal impact? Icing on the cake. But I would be lying if I said saving the Earth from climate change was my north star that I was set on from a young age.

Recently, I was on a date and the guy said he could see me running a massive event planning company — because, in his words, “event planning is just a big optimization matrix which [I] would crush every time” That stuck with me. He saw career alignment through traits — not passions. I liked his perspective. He’s a private equity financier.

When I ask people what they do for a living, I rarely take their first answer at face value. Maybe that’s cynical — or maybe it’s honest. I just don’t think most people are driven by a single, clean-cut reason. People are shaped by circumstance, by necessity, by curiosity, by randomness. Some answers are deep, and some aren’t.

If someone tells me they’re in medicine “to save lives,” and someone else says they’re in finance “for the money,” I don’t rank those answers morally. I don’t assume one person is noble and the other has sold their soul. I think they’re both being practical, responsible, ambitious — in their own way.

That’s my first perspective.