#littlecake thoughts

[littlecakeclub]

On Monsters, Men, and Mercy: My Thoughts on del Toro’s Frankenstein

Disclaimer first: I haven’t read the original book yet, even though it’s been on my TBR for… years T.T Shameful, I know. But here we are.

What struck me immediately is impossible to ignore: the visuals, the cinematography, the sets. In a world where everything is increasingly digital, it felt genuinely refreshing to see handmade sets crafted with care. Our eyes, even untrained, can tell the difference—there’s a texture to reality that CGI still can’t mimic, and it’s one of the film’s greatest strengths.

Victor is brilliantly acted. Coming into the story without knowing the novel, I actually began with sympathy for him. You see an abusive father, intense mommy issues (very Freudian XD), and a deep jealousy toward his younger sibling. He’s shaped by a violent, toxic masculinity and, to survive it, he reproduces it. Yet it becomes especially fascinating when he tries to defy life itself by creating a human being from scratch.

As he pushes the boundaries of humanity, Victor also becomes obsessed with his brother’s fiancée. In many ways, Elizabeth represents everything he was denied: motherhood, purity, nurturing femininity, and also proximity to his brother, which makes her symbolically desirable. Guillermo del Toro’s decision to cast the same actress as both the mother and Victor’s infatuation is such an intriguing choice.

And then we have Victor, in full hubris mode, securing his laboratory, killing his associate, and finally giving life to the Creature. A Creature we instantly grow attached to. The actor gives him such expressive eyes; his vulnerability is almost unbearable. He’s born asking for nothing, knowing nothing, in pure pain. And Victor, though capable of creating life, has no idea how to care for it. He offers no gentleness, no guidance. He is cruel, demanding, repeating the emotional violence he himself endured. Masculinity as a curse passed down.

The Creature finds instead a softer, almost maternal energy in Elizabeth, who does not meet him with destruction. But even this innocent soul-connection becomes something Victor projects his own fantasies onto. His solution to his own frustration is to kill the Creature—who, thankfully, escapes.

The Creature’s journey is the most compelling part of the film. Watching him survive, bond with nature, learn the world. His friendship with the blind man is beautiful: the blind man cannot see, yet perceives the Creature’s innocence immediately. He sees beyond appearances and connects with his soul. Losing that friend devastates him, and he realizes how trapped he is in a world that refuses to see him as anything but monstrous. When he asks Victor for a companion, he asks for connection, not lust. Once again, Victor reduces everything to carnal desire, unable to imagine intimacy that is not shaped by dominance.

The reunion between Elizabeth and the Creature is brief but gorgeous. Her self-sacrifice to protect an immortal being feels like the ultimate gesture of love and mercy. That final grief pushes the Creature into vengeance, launching the cat-and-mouse dynamic between creator and created. Everything builds toward that last confrontation on the boat with the curious sailor, and honestly, it adds a whole spiritual layer to the story. We have scholars warning Victor not to play God, the old man—kind of Gandalf-coded—sharing ideas of mercy, forgiveness, soul, the meaning of existence. And in the end, we return to that: the Creature is finally acknowledged as Victor’s son, and in that brief moment, forgiveness becomes possible.

It’s also a meditation on the limits of humanity and how arrogance—particularly masculine arrogance—tries to dominate nature itself.

Overall, the film is incredibly acted, beautifully shot, and thematically rich. I can’t speak to how it compares to the original novel yet; I’ll do that once I finally read it. But as its own work, Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is stunning.

[littlecakeclub]

My husband did not propose to me on one knee.

Instead, when I was pregnant and did not want a child because I was too young and terrified, he held me tight and said: I am with you. It’s going to be okay. We will do what you want.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

My husband did not get me an expensive ring.

But when I was mistreated by my parents, when they tried to sabotage everything, he told me we were in this together and held my hand tight.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

My husband is not a millionaire.

But when I cried because I was burnt out and financially stressed, he held me and said: Don’t worry about anything. I will take care of us as long as you need.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

My husband may not give me material things.

But he wakes up on random days to make me breakfast, brings me little gifts from flea markets, hugs me tight and kisses me before leaving for work and when he comes home.

He holds my hand while we sleep.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

He lays with me in bed, him watching a movie on his phone, me reading my book in his arms, gently stroking my hair and kissing my forehead.

And he tells me he loves me a thousand times a day.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

And I think about how the world taught us to measure love through rings, money, grand gestures.

But love was never supposed to look like that.

Love is someone who stays when everything is falling apart.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

And when everything in my life felt like it could break,

he stayed.

[littlecakeclub]

i think i'm in a bit of a hobby burnout.

nothing really excites me right now. no new story, no book, no manga, no kdrama, no movie. i keep starting things, and even when i know they're good, i just don't feel engaged enough to keep going.

the only thing that's really keeping my attention at the moment is afterimage on my switch.

has anyone else been through this? what do you do to get excited about your hobbies again?

[littlecakeclub]

I’ve been seeing the phrase media literacy thrown around a lot lately (often in fandom debates) and I think we should talk about what it actually means.

Media literacy is about critically analyzing media systems, like recognizing bias, understanding advertising strategies, or spotting misinformation online.

It’s not a synonym for “you misread this fictional character” or “my interpretation is correct.” That’s narrative analysis, and fiction invites multiple interpretations.

You can have a valid and thoughtful take on a story without accusing others of lacking media literacy just because they disagree.

Let's stop using a term rooted in education and digital safety to win fandom debates.

[littlecakeclub]

I never really had Christmas growing up. As an Indian Muslim kid, an immigrant kid, it was something that existed outside my world, something I only knew through TV. What gave me Christmas FOMO wasn’t the lights or the carols; it was the films. Those movies that sold the idea that Christmas was this magical moment when families came together, healed, forgave, and everything fell into place.

I blame the Mickey specials on old VHS tapes. They made it look so safe, so warm and I think what I was really craving wasn’t Christmas itself, but togetherness. Coming from a psychologically abusive and toxic family, I wasn’t dreaming of Christmas. I was dreaming of safety, love, and calm.

Now, I like celebrating it with friends who care about it, but I don’t romanticize it anymore. I’ve found my own sense of warmth and belonging in the holidays that mean something to me, like Eid. And maybe that’s what growing up is: learning that what we were longing for wasn’t a season, but a feeling.

[littlecakeclub]

I know theme blogs are really popular on Tumblr : whether they’re focused on one fandom, one aesthetic, or one super niche topic. And honestly, I love them! I think it’s amazing to follow people who have that sharp focus and curation.

But for me, I’ve realized I enjoy blogging differently. My blog feels more like a personal diary: a mix of all my passions, fandoms, moods, and random thoughts. One day it’s a book review, the next it’s a manga log, then a little gaming as a noob, then some fanart or a post about Urdu poetry. Sometimes it’s a Pakistani drama next to a K-drama, or Bollywood alongside an indie film.

There are recurring threads, things I always seem drawn to, across every medium: dysfunctional families, mental health, poetic narration, realistic themes, revolution, change. I love altering between long meta posts about my recent obsession and casual one-liner posts. But overall, it’s definitely eclectic, a little chaotic, and very much my brain spilled onto a dashboard.

Some people have advised me to split it up, to make different niche blogs. And I get why! But honestly? That would overwhelm me. I’d rather keep everything here, even if it means I’ll reach fewer people. I love the freedom of mixing it all together. That’s the format that makes me happiest, so I think I’ll stick with it.

[littlecakeclub]

The Long Ride Home: Academia, Burnout, and the Dreams That Stay

There is something about trains that makes me introspective. The slow rhythm, the blurred landscapes, the brief halts in between—each stop feels like a memory, a stage of my life. Some stations I chose. Others I stumbled into. Sometimes I barely looked outside before rushing off to the next destination.

I am on the ride back home from a week in England. I got to see R.F. Kuang in Cambridge, promoting her new book Katabasis. I also got to spend time with family in London. Sitting here, with the train swaying and the stations flashing by, I can’t help but think about my own academic journey.

I always was a school girlie. I loved books, loved classes, loved learning. But I also felt awkward and often bored because everything looked too easy.

I wanted to study social sciences or anthropology, but my Indian parents did not understand. I ended up in medical school for two years, feeling miserable, depressed, and failing twice. It felt like a train stop where I got off at the wrong platform, and for a while, I thought the journey had ended there.

But I had a fighting spirit. I fought hard with my parents to switch to psychology. They weren’t supportive, but in Belgium, university is affordable and I had a scholarship, so I could make that choice. My parents being South Asian meant everything was about academics, but on top of that, they were also abusive, so making autonomous decisions was complicated. Honestly, if my studies hadn’t been paid for, I don’t know if they would have let me.

Starting psychology felt like a renaissance. I finally rediscovered the joy of learning and got better grades. My confidence slowly came back. I even started dreaming of teaching and doing research. I didn’t know back then that I would actually teach at that same university years later.

I wanted to do an exchange in Canada or England, but my parents refused. Still, I went on with my studies.

The more I advanced, the less diversity I saw. So I did a postgraduate in social and intercultural psychology. At the end, I had two offers: a PhD or a project manager position at the university on a program against discrimination. I chose the latter, because it allowed me to work in academia without the full commitment.

At that time, I realized something important: I wanted a PhD because I loved learning, writing, and fighting for social causes. But the working conditions were terrible. Competition, isolation, no boundaries. I wanted to learn, not burn out.

So I said no to the PhD. The first time.

I worked at the university for five years. It was a good experience, but watching my PhD colleagues confirmed many of my fears. The loneliness, the stress, the lack of balance. After those years, I was again offered a PhD. And again—I said no.

Instead, I joined an NGO doing antiracist work: political advocacy, educational workshops, writing papers. I loved it. The young depressed student had become a woman in her thirties with a purpose.

Last year, I was even asked to teach practical classes in group dynamics for postgrad students. Teaching—something my 19-year-old self would never have believed possible.

But from September 2024 to March 2025, my NGO job became toxic. My manager was overworked and perfectionist, and our friendship turned into manipulation. I burnt out. I crashed. Depression took over and I went on medical leave.

I am still recovering. And while trains usually rush you from point A to B, this one forces me to sit still, to look out of the window. To reflect.

What place does work have in my life? What place does learning have? And what place does writing have? I don’t always have the answers. But writing here on Tumblr, in English rather than French (my working language), is a way of reclaiming joy. A way of finding myself again.

I think about 19-year-old me, depressed, failing exam after exam, wondering what was wrong with her brain.

I think about 6-months-ago me, burnt out and doubting if I was good at anything.

I wish I could hug them both. Tell them it’s going to be okay. That life is not linear, that the stations we pass by still lead us somewhere. The train keeps moving, even if the path is not the one we first imagined. It’s not going to be medical school. It’s not going to be the NGO work. But it will be something else—something that is ours.

This trip felt like a small hug from God (or the universe, if you prefer). I dreamt of studying at Cambridge or Oxford. And here I was, sleeping in a Cambridge dorm, meeting one of my favorite authors, wandering through colleges. Maybe not the exact dream, but still—something beautiful.

Now I am thinking about the future. About maybe doing a postgrad in South Asian Studies at SOAS London, maybe even applying for a PhD later. It feels scary in my mid-thirties, when I also want to build a family, have a slower life, and a stable home. But thinking about it again gave me a spark I hadn’t felt in months.

And today, I feel more confident going into a PhD than I ever did in my 20s. I think I would be able to see it as a professional project like any other, have better boundaries, and not let myself be crushed by competition or toxic academia culture. Even if I’ve never been in research, I have always lingered around that area, and I know enough about the field to understand what I’d be stepping into—something my 20s self did not.

I also realized that I would rather work on South Indian Studies than social psychology, which was my postgrad base. Social psychology allowed me to do a lot of antiracist work, but always for the white gaze. South Indian Studies would be for myself. A way of reconnecting with my roots and reclaiming my own narrative.

But that would mean uprooting my life from Belgium. Organising a whole shift with my husband far from my sister, my friends and my habits.

Trains remind me: the destination remains, even if the route changes. I am not sure PhD and academia is the destination, but it might be a route I can take to live my passions. I don’t know what waits for me. I don’t know if, amid recovering from burnout, I will have the energy to uproot my life from Belgium to England and go back to studies.

But the most important part is not rushing ahead. It is sitting in the carriage, breathing, and realizing I am still moving forward. I am still alive, even if I am not sure of the things ahead.

[littlecakeclub]

Every year around November, I start seeing more and more people in Europe post about Thanksgiving and honestly, it feels strange. As an Indian Muslim who grew up in Europe, I can tell you: this was never a European tradition. No one celebrated Thanksgiving when I was younger. It’s not part of the history, the calendars, or the cultural fabric.

But now, through the soft power of American media and social networks, I see Europeans (especially white Europeans) adopting it as this cozy, aesthetic “gratitude day.” And what’s even more jarring is that most of them don’t even know the violent, colonial origins of the holiday they’re reproducing.

Thanksgiving wasn’t born out of harmony: it’s built on the myth of reconciliation between colonizers and Indigenous people. A myth that erases genocide. When white Europeans celebrate it today, stripped of context, they’re not just mimicking American culture : they’re reproducing a symbolic and systemic violence.

It also says something deeper: that after colonization and secularization, European cultures (especially in France and Belgium, that I know better) have lost touch with their own folklore, their own rituals of gratitude and community. And instead of reclaiming them, they borrow from elsewhere even when it means appropriating a harmful, colonial holiday.