͙͘͡★ the life i built slowly
✨ In Shaa Allah ✨
making her inner child proud and who knows, meet joshua hong in paris fashion week one day!
READ THIS TO RECALIBRATE! ⬇️
A Day in My Life
The first thing I hear is purring.
Not an alarm.
Not the sharp vibration of a phone reminding me of deadlines I don’t care about.
Just one of my cats demanding breakfast.
I blink awake as soft morning light spills through the curtains of my apartment. The room is quiet except for the distant sound of birds and the gentle hum of life outside. For a few seconds, I simply lie there, staring at the ceiling.
No anxiety.
No dread.
No rushing.
No wondering whether I’m wasting my life.
I smile.
This is my life now.
I sit up, stretch, and feel the satisfying looseness of a body that is healthy and cared for. No stomach pain. No mysterious tummy issues ruining my mornings. Just energy.
After making wudu, I pray Fajr.
The apartment feels especially peaceful at this hour. The prayer mat beneath my feet, the cool air against my skin, the stillness before the world wakes up.
When I finish, I sit quietly for a moment.
Gratitude comes naturally now.
Not because life is perfect.
But because I remember how hard I prayed for this version of it.
⸻
The kitchen smells like freshly brewed coffee.
One of my favorite mugs sits beside a plate of eggs, fruit, and homemade gimbap.
Actual homemade gimbap.
Every single time I make it, I still feel ridiculously proud of myself.
Past me would laugh knowing that rolling rice and seaweed somehow became one of life’s greatest victories.
I carry my breakfast to the balcony.
The neighborhood is peaceful and creative—exactly the kind of community I once dreamed about. There are little bookstores nearby. Artists selling prints on weekends. Cozy cafés where people discuss books and ideas instead of office politics.
I open the novel I’m currently reading.
Coffee in one hand.
Book in the other.
Sunlight warming my face.
The morning stretches slowly.
No manager waiting for me.
No leave application.
No countdown to Monday.
Just time.
Real time.
Mine.
⸻
Around nine, I move into my home office.
One wall is lined with books.
Another holds framed covers of my published novels.
Even after years, seeing my name on those covers still makes me pause.
I remember all the unfinished drafts.
All the self-doubt.
All the nights I thought I wasn’t talented enough.
Yet here they are.
Stories that once lived only inside my head.
Stories that now belong to readers around the world.
I sit down at my desk and open the manuscript I’m currently writing.
The words come easier these days.
Not because writing is suddenly effortless.
But because I trust myself now.
I know how to show up.
I know how to continue even when inspiration is missing.
Discipline has become a form of self-love.
By noon, I’ve completed my daily writing goal.
I save the document and smile.
Another chapter exists.
Another lantern lit.
⸻
A notification appears on my laptop.
A client message.
An emotional branding project.
One of my favorites.
I spend the next few hours doing the work I once dreamed about: helping creators and businesses uncover the emotional heart of their brands.
Not manipulating people.
Not selling aggressively.
But translating feelings into words.
Finding the memories, hopes, and experiences that connect people.
The work feels less like marketing and more like storytelling.
Exactly how I wanted it.
My personal brand, Hanatheundaunted, has grown into something beautiful.
Messages arrive regularly from people who say my content helped them feel understood.
Not famous.
Not viral.
Just meaningful.
That’s enough.
More than enough.
⸻
At lunch, I call my mom.
“Did you get your medicines?” I ask.
She laughs.
“Of course. Stop worrying.”
“I’ll never stop worrying.”
I smile as I check that this month’s support transfer has already gone through.
The familiar warmth settles in my chest.
Not because I’m rich.
But because I can help.
Because I don’t have to calculate every peso.
Because seeing her needs met no longer comes with panic.
That feeling alone is worth years of effort.
⸻
In the afternoon, I head out for Pilates.
The studio is bright and airy.
My body feels stronger than it ever has before.
Not because I’m chasing perfection.
But because I finally learned to care for myself consistently.
After class, I spend an hour wandering through a small artist market.
Paintings.
Ceramics.
Handmade journals.
Tiny treasures everywhere.
I buy a beautiful illustration without checking my bank account first.
The old habit still tries to appear.
Can I afford this?
Should I feel guilty?
But it fades quickly.
I know the answer now.
Yes.
And no.
⸻
A few months later, I might be in Tokyo.
Or Seoul.
Or Paris.
Travel has become normal enough that it no longer feels impossible.
Today, though, I’m home.
Exactly where I want to be.
I stop by a museum exhibit before heading back to my apartment.
Every room sparks ideas.
Colors.
Stories.
Fragments of lives.
I leave with pages of notes for future novels.
Inspiration seems to find me everywhere now because I’ve finally built a life that makes space for it.
⸻
As evening arrives, my apartment glows with warm light.
The cats greet me at the door as if I’ve been gone for years instead of hours.
I laugh and scoop one into my arms.
Dinner is simple but nourishing.
Real food.
Fresh ingredients.
Food that makes me feel better instead of worse.
After Maghrib prayer, I settle onto the couch with my laptop.
Tonight, I’m editing a newsletter for Hanatheundaunted.
A reflection on hope.
On resilience.
On carrying your own lantern through dark seasons.
The words feel deeply personal.
Because I lived them.
⸻
Later, a group chat explodes with excitement.
SEVENTEEN just announced another tour stop.
I grin immediately.
Flights?
Booked.
Hotel?
Booked.
Tickets?
Already secured.
Past me would spend weeks calculating costs.
Current me simply smiles.
I close my laptop and glance at a shelf filled with concert memories collected from different countries.
Tiny reminders of promises I made to myself and kept.
⸻
Before bed, I walk onto the balcony one last time.
The night air is cool.
The city lights shimmer softly in the distance.
Everything is quiet.
Not empty.
Peaceful.
The kind of peace I spent years searching for.
I think about the girl I used to be.
The girl who worried constantly.
Who questioned her purpose.
Who wondered if creative work could ever become a real life.
Who feared she’d never feel secure.
I wish I could tell her something.
Not that the journey will be easy.
Not that everything will magically work out.
Just this:
Keep going.
The stories matter.
The discipline matters.
The small daily choices matter.
One day you’ll wake up in a life that feels like home.
And when that day comes, you’ll realize that the dream was never fame, money, or success.
It was freedom.
To write.
To create.
To worship.
To care for the people you love.
To move through the world gently.
To become the person you were always trying to be.
I smile into the darkness.
Then I go inside, where my cats are already occupying most of the bed.
Home. 💚🌙✨
how i built it . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗
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