The Luxury of Disappearing

There are days when I feel the greatest luxury is not wealth or travel but the ability to vanish. To slip quietly from the noise of obligations and expectations, to walk without leaving a trace, to hold myself apart from the constant exchange of visibility. Disappearing is not absence. It is presence on my own terms.

When I disappear, even briefly, the world seems sharper. The sea is louder, the sky more exact, and my own thoughts arrive unhurried. No one is watching, no one is asking, no one is insisting that I turn myself into something for others. Solitude becomes a form of wealth, measured not in possessions but in the freedom to exist privately.

To disappear is not to hide. It is to return to the essence of being, stripped of expectation, untouched by the eyes of others. It is a practice of protection, a refusal to give away what is most sacred. Disappearing reminds me that the truest life is often lived in the quiet, where meaning grows in silence and where the self is most alive.

Resisting the Disposable

Planned obsolescence wears on me. Things break or become outdated so quickly it feels like a trap, pushing constant consumption. I want to live differently, with less noise and more lasting value.

Still, I enjoy the beauty of new films and stories, and I depend on my phone for practical matters like banking and bureaucracy. Finding balance is my quiet rebellion, staying connected without surrendering to the endless cycle of upgrades. 

I am working on making changes that I hope my future self will thank me for. I am learning to repair what I already own, to save for fewer but higher quality items, and to set aside more time for books and art instead of screens. These small choices are a way of trusting that the life I build today will serve me better tomorrow.

On the Freedom of Choosing My Own Path

There’s a simple joy in living by a schedule that I create for myself. The freedom to decide where I go, why, and with whom is something I didn’t realize I would come to treasure so deeply. Being the first woman in my family with the power to make decisions that don’t revolve around a man feels like breaking a long-standing pattern, one that’s both empowering and quietly revolutionary.

This freedom isn’t flashy or loud. It’s more like a calm space where I can be myself without needing to explain or justify. I can choose when to be alone or when to share my time with others without compromise. It’s a new way of living that feels like a breath of fresh air, far from the expectations that once defined me.

Having this kind of independence means more than just being alone. It’s about truly owning who I am and what I want. Every choice I make, without outside pressure, reaffirms that I’m in control of my life. And while that path might be quieter, sometimes solitary, it’s never lonely. It’s mine, and it feels like freedom in its purest form.

The Theater of Modern Dating

Dating today often feels less like meeting another person and more like stepping onto a stage where every move is watched, judged, and replayed. The apps promise connection, but what they really offer is a constant audition. Swipe left, swipe right. Choices made on photos and catchphrases, but rarely on anything real or messy beneath the surface. The person you meet is a highlight reel, curated to attract, perform, impress. It is exhausting, this endless need to show up not as yourself but as a carefully packaged version of yourself.

That summer I lived with roommates in Spain, I witnessed this theater in its rawest form. Hookup culture was everywhere: the casual, no-strings encounters that were rehearsed more than lived. I watched as bodies came and went, sometimes with laughter, sometimes silence. There was no judgment in me. Women should have full autonomy over their bodies and their choices. But for me, there was a quiet alienation that I could not shake. It was not loneliness exactly. It was a deeper sense of being out of sync with the rhythms around me.

Because my body is not a marketplace. It is an altar. A space to be honored, not traded or bargained with. I have never been interested in exchange, in giving myself only to receive something in return. That felt transactional, reductive. So while the world performed this dance of availability, I stood to the side, refusing the choreography. And in that refusal, I found a fierce kind of solitude, not isolation, but sovereignty.