About Lenn

I write about my personal thoughts, experiences, and bookish fixations.

Entering the New Year Gently

Posted on 12/31/2025 by Lenn

There’s a certain pressure that comes with the New Year—the neat lists, the bold declarations, the promise that everything will be different by January 1. I’ve tried that before. Sometimes it works. Most times, it leaves me tired before the year even properly begins, already feeling like I’m behind.

So this year, I’m choosing to enter it gently.

Instead of rigid resolutions, I’m leaving space. Space to change my mind. Space to rest without explaining myself. Space to follow curiosities—even when they don’t lead anywhere productive or impressive. I want a year that feels lived in, not one that feels like it’s constantly being audited.

Last year reminded me how much comfort I find in small, quiet routines—but it also reminded me how deeply I love leaving home and letting places change me, even briefly.

Siquijor taught me how to slow down. There was something about the quiet roads, the unhurried days, the way time didn’t seem to demand anything from me. It felt like permission to rest—to exist without constantly needing to be productive.

Dumaguete felt gentle and grounding. The pace was calm, familiar in a comforting way, like a place that invites you to breathe a little deeper and stay present. It reminded me that not everything has to be loud or grand to be meaningful.

Taiwan, on the other hand, woke something up in me. It was vibrant and alive—the food, the long walks, the sensory overload in the best way. It reminded me how much joy there is in curiosity, in letting yourself be amazed, in paying attention to the smallest details you don’t realize you’ll miss until you’re already home.

In between unpacking and returning to daily life, I held onto quiet comforts: slow mornings with a cup of coffee, audiobooks playing in the background while I folded laundry, pages filled with annotations because a story hit a little too close to home. I drifted between genres depending on my mood—romance when I needed warmth, horror when I wanted intensity, familiar authors when I needed grounding. I also learned that it’s okay to put a book down and come back to it later. Reading doesn’t always have to be disciplined to be meaningful.

I want to carry that energy into this year. To keep journaling even when the spreads aren’t perfect. To keep reading because it feels good, not because I’m chasing numbers or goals. To let some stories unfold slowly, and to trust that I’ll meet them again when I’m ready.

I still hope for consistency—but a kind one. The kind that allows missed days without guilt. The kind that understands that progress doesn’t always look neat, and that some seasons are meant for pausing, not pushing.

This year, I want to listen more closely—to myself, to the stories I choose, to the quiet nudges that say slow down or keep going. I want joy that shows up in ordinary ways: a line that makes me stop and reread, a book that leaves my margins full of thoughts, a journal page that captures exactly how a day felt.

If the New Year is a door, I’m not rushing through it. I’m stepping in calmly, carrying only what feels light enough to hold.

Here’s to a year that’s flexible, soft around the edges, and honest. Here’s to starting—not with pressure—but with intention.

From Fear to Comfort: How Cooking Became My Therapy

Posted on 12/21/2025 by Lenn

I used to think cooking was stressful. Intimidating, even. Before I got married, I didn’t know how to cook—like, at all. Not even a basic fried egg. The kitchen felt like a place where mistakes were expensive and disappointment was inevitable. I was terrified of messing up our meals, of serving something inedible, of failing at something that felt so fundamental.

But somewhere between newlywed nerves and everyday necessity, I learned.

At first, I relied heavily on reels, short videos, and step-by-step tutorials online. I watched, paused, replayed, and tried again. Some dishes turned out better than expected, others… not so much. But in all fairness, every meal I cooked was edible. Some didn’t taste quite the way I imagined they would, but they were still meals we could sit down to, share, and finish together. Through all of it, my husband was there—encouraging, patient, and genuinely supportive. He never made me feel bad for my mistakes, and he celebrated every small win like it mattered.

Now, just a few months short of our fourth anniversary, I’ve cooked so much—far more than I ever imagined back when I was scared of burning eggs and ruining meals. What started as cautious attempts slowly turned into confidence, and eventually into something I genuinely look forward to.

One of my favorite parts of cooking now isn’t even the process—it’s what comes after. Every meal ends with him saying, “Thank you for the food.” Every single time. He’s appreciative in a way that feels sincere and grounding, and he’s vocal about it too—proud enough to tell his friends and family about the dishes I make. Knowing that something I created brings him joy makes my heart feel full in a quiet, steady way.

Lately, cooking has evolved from survival to creativity. I’ve been recreating our favorite restaurant dishes at home, and it’s been surprisingly fun—beef and pork Pepper Lunch, palabok, bacsilog, sisig, burgers, tonkatsu, gyudon, spam musubi, burritos, just to name a few. Dishes I once thought were “too complicated” are now part of our regular rotation. There’s something deeply satisfying about realizing you can make something yourself that you used to order outside.

I’ve even started marinating my own tocino and tapa so we don’t have to rely on processed ones from the grocery. It feels like reclaiming something—taking control of what we eat, slowing down, and being more intentional.

Somewhere along the way, cooking stopped being about fear and started becoming therapy.

The chopping, the marinating, the waiting—it forces me to be present. My hands are busy, my mind slows down, and the noise fades. Cooking has become a space where I can focus, create, and care all at once. It’s not about being perfect or impressive; it’s about nourishment—in every sense of the word.

I never thought I’d say this, but cooking is fun. It’s grounding. It’s comforting. And in ways I didn’t expect, it’s healing.

Turns out, the kitchen isn’t a place where I fail.

It’s a place where I’ve learned, grown, and found joy—one meal at a time. 🍳✨

What Three Years of Endo Has Taught Me

Posted on 12/17/2025 by Lenn

Living with endometriosis is living with a body that constantly asks for negotiation. For the past three years, chronic pain has been part of my everyday life—not as a dramatic moment, but as a steady presence that quietly shapes how I move through the world. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t always announce itself loudly enough to be seen, yet it influences every decision: how I plan my days, how much energy I spend, how carefully I listen to my body. There is a deep loneliness in carrying pain that others can’t measure or fully understand. Continue reading →

Trying to Exist Without Shrinking

Posted on 12/15/2025 by Lenn

Lately, I’ve been carrying around this feeling that things just aren’t going the way I want them to. I know that’s not unusual—life rarely follows a straight line, and I’ve made my peace with that, at least intellectually. I understand that setbacks happen, plans shift, and sometimes you just have to sit with discomfort until it passes.

But what’s been harder to accept is where that discomfort is coming from.

The people who are supposed to support me—the ones who should feel like solid ground—sometimes feel like the very ones pulling me down. Instead of lifting me up, I feel trapped in a space I don’t recognize or want to be in. It’s exhausting to feel like you’re constantly pushing forward while the people around you are quietly—or not so quietly—holding you back.

Most of the time, I feel alone. Even when I’m surrounded by people. Even when the room is full and the conversations are loud, there’s this persistent emptiness, this sense that I’m standing on the outside looking in. It feels like, at the end of the day, I only have myself. No real support system. No safe place to land when things get heavy. Continue reading →

The Softness of Being Loved Well

Posted on 12/10/2025 by Lenn

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how love shows up—not in dramatic moments, but in small, thoughtful gestures that make everyday life feel a little softer. And recently, my husband has reminded me just how comforting those quiet acts of care can be.

For years—truly a decade—I’ve wanted a Nespresso machine. Not because it’s fancy, but because I’ve always imagined how grounding it would feel to start my mornings with a cup of coffee that tastes calm, steady, and warm. Yet each time I thought of buying one, I’d talk myself out of it. There was always something more practical, always a reason to push my own wants aside.

But through all the years we’ve been together, my husband never forgot. He always encouraged me to finally get one because he knew how much I wanted it. This year, he surprised me with it as an advanced Christmas gift—so I could enjoy my mornings right away. And honestly, it really does change the tone of the day when your coffee tastes a little better. It feels like being cared for before the world starts demanding things from you. Continue reading →

900 Books Later: Growing Through Stories

Posted on 12/03/2025 by Lenn

I’ve been reading for as long as I can remember—truly. I don’t have a single memory of my life before books. They’ve always been there, woven into every season of my childhood and every version of who I’ve become. Continue reading →

“I Didn’t Ask to Be Born”: On Carrying a Weight That Was Never Mine

Posted on 11/30/2025 by Lenn

I came across this passage in a book recently—“I didn’t ask to be born though, and you don’t get to treat me how you do.” And something in me went still. Not because it was new, but because it echoed a truth I’ve carried for so long I almost forgot it had a name.

I never asked to be born.

None of us did.

Whatever decisions, impulses, accidents, prayers, or circumstances led to my existence—none of them were mine. I wasn’t consulted. I wasn’t invited into the room. I simply arrived, handed a life I didn’t choose, expectations I didn’t shape, and burdens that somehow ended up feeling like debts. Continue reading →

The Things We Don’t Say Out Loud

Posted on 11/29/2025 by Lenn

We talk so much about dementia—how heartbreaking it is, how heavy it must feel to slowly lose pieces of yourself. And I agree. I truly do. My heart aches for anyone who has to live inside that confusion, that fog, that unpredictable shifting of reality.

But there’s another side to it that we don’t talk about as often.

A quieter story.

A softer kind of ache. Continue reading →

🧡 The Warmth of Tanned Pages: A Book’s Character

Posted on 11/18/2025 by Lenn

The crisp, bright white of a brand-new book will always have its own charm—clean, untouched, and full of quiet promise. But there’s a different kind of magic in pages that have tanned or even foxed over time. That soft amber glow and those faint, freckled specks—born from years of light, humidity, and simply existing on someone’s shelf—feel like the book’s own story unfolding alongside the one printed on its pages.

And here’s the thing: we all have our preferences when it comes to the books we collect. Some love that pristine, barely-opened look. Others gravitate toward the warm, seasoned feel of a volume that’s clearly lived. Personally, I love both. I’ve been reading literally since I can remember—from stuffed cloth books for babies, to thick cardboard storybooks for toddlers, to chapter books for intermediate readers, to fantasy novels and beyond. Naturally, a lot of my older books have tanned (and even foxed) through the years, and that never made me love them any less. If anything, it made them feel more mine.

A tanned or foxed page is a mark of time and testimony. Every shade of cream or brown, every tiny constellation of reddish spots, hints at where the book has been—moments by a sunlit window, evenings under a lamp, or entire seasons resting quietly on a shelf. And then there’s that familiar “old book smell”—lignin gently breaking down into that soft, vanilla-like scent that feels like being welcomed home.

The texture shifts too. The paper softens ever so slightly, turning velvety under your thumb. Holding a timeworn book feels like touching a memory.

And honestly, I’m really glad dehumidifiers exist these days. They help keep books from deteriorating too quickly, prevent mold, and slow down foxing and excessive tanning—especially in humid climates like what we have in the Philippines. But even then, time will still leave its gentle mark. Books will still age, still tan, still evolve in their own quiet ways.

In a world obsessed with the spotless and replaceable, a book softened by years carries a kind of steady authenticity. It says:

“I’ve been read. I’ve been loved. I’ve lasted.”

Dog-ears, faint smudges, tiny rings from forgotten cups—none of these diminish the experience; they enrich it. And whether you prefer crisp white pages or warm, timeworn ones, there’s beauty in both. One is the beginning, the other is the becoming.

The Water Teaches You Twice: From Competition to Connection

Posted on 11/12/2025 by Lenn

I used to be a fast swimmer—competitive, powerful, and always racing the clock. Back then, everything was about speed, about shaving off seconds, about proving how far and how fast I could go. There was a thrill in it, an almost electric rush that came with the sound of the whistle, the push off the wall, and the relentless pursuit of the finish line.

These days, my pace is different. I move slower in the water, not because I’ve lost my love for swimming, but because my relationship with it has changed. Ever since I discovered freediving and shifted my focus to breath-hold and efficiency, I’ve learned that swimming isn’t only about power—it’s also about presence.

I won’t lie: sometimes I do miss the adrenaline of competition, the structure of training programs, and the satisfaction of measurable progress. But freediving gave me something I didn’t know I was missing. It showed me the beauty of silence, of slowing down, of letting the water hold me instead of constantly pushing against it.

Swimming in a pool and swimming in the ocean are two completely different experiences. A pool is measured, predictable, neatly divided by lanes and time. The ocean, on the other hand, is vast and alive—always shifting, never the same twice. Both test you, but freediving has taught me a deeper kind of discipline: to be still, to listen closely, to surrender control, and trust the water in a way I never did before.

It’s no longer about racing against the clock—it’s about finding calm in the depths, about moving in harmony with something greater than myself. And in that stillness, I’ve found a freedom I never felt, even at my fastest.

Lenn of Spades ♠

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