When Enough Never Feels Like Enough: Reflections on Matthew Perry’s Memoir

One of the books I’ve read in the past month is Matthew Perry’s memoir “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing”. I didn’t expect to cry reading it. And I didn’t expect Matthew Perry, a man I knew mostly as Chandler Bing, the sarcastic glue of one of my favorite comfort shows, to tell my story, in a way. Not the addiction part, exactly. Not the rehabs or the pills. But the feeling behind it. The engine under it. That desperate, invisible hunger to feel worthy. To be enough. I knew that feeling by the time I was eight.

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A Day the Wind Remembered: Notes from Vietnam

I recently found myself on a journey through parts of Asia, crossing borders, changing languages, swapping currencies, collecting stories. Each place offered something wildly different. But of all the moments that stitched themselves into memory, there’s one solo trip in Vietnam that keeps resurfacing. Just a single day, really. But it felt like a whole novel.

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A Weekend of Coming Home

There are moments in life that you don’t just remember, you feel them long after they’ve passed. This past month was full of those moments.

Earlier this June, I spent three days immersed in a mental health event that offered more than just education. It offered integration. And it brought together voices from across disciplines (therapists, artists, educators and survivors) into workshops, conferences, games and conversations that didn’t just inform, but moved. There were tools to take home, strategies for resilience, but most of all, there was a sense of collective permission: to feel, to reflect, to unravel a little.

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România dintre Zid și Punte

Unii dintre noi s-au născut într-o Românie în care părinții vorbeau în șoaptă, iar bunicii păstrau ziarele sub saltea. În acea tăcere forțată s-a născut, mai târziu, o sete de voce, de curaj, de strigăt. Iar acum, după atâția ani, încă ne mai bântuie reflexul de a confunda volumul cu adevărul.

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Time, Coffee and the Stories We Keep

The past month has been a month of literary indulgence. I devoured eleven books, but there is one that’s stuck with me in a way I didn’t expect. ‘Tales from the Café’ by Toshikazu Kawaguchi.

There’s something quietly seismic about Kawaguchi’s writing. His prose doesn’t shout, it listens. It asks questions with the gentleness of steam rising from a cup and yet the answers land with the weight of lives half-lived, regrets unspoken, love left lingering in doorways we didn’t return to.

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