On the morning of June 18, 1815, Napoleon Bonaparte did something out of character. He waited. His marshals were anxious. The man who had turned speed into a military philosophy was watching the morning burn off. Simone Weil would have recognised this immediately as a failure of attention. And attention, for Weil, was everything.

Cathy Rentzenbrink's Write It All Down promises solace through memoir writing, but beneath the therapeutic framing lies something older: the basic practice of sustained attention to your own experience. This review excavates what survives the self-help overlay. The craft instruction, the honest admission that writing remains difficult, and the mechanics every memoirist needs. Not therapy.

A commissioned piece exploring the psychological weight of January. While most content around the New Year focuses on achievement and transformation, this essay argues that January’s true power lies in forgiveness. By leveraging the "Fresh Start Effect," we use temporal landmarks to distance ourselves from past failures.

I keep wondering whether commitment confines us, or gives shape to something larger than the self. What emerges is the friction between the “I” and the “we”. Crudo suggests that love is not resolution, but stamina: the willingness to remain inside the rawness of being seen.

I’ve been thinking about excess that wants to be mistaken for care, curation, almost moral attentiveness. How it borrows the language of virtue, and calls itself intentional, presents itself as edited, curated, almost ethical.

The Great Alone made me want to understand our appetite for stories about women who endure. What happens when trauma is wrapped in descriptions of northern lights and midnight sun? When violence and beauty occupy the same paragraph, the same breath? Why do millions reach for these narratives of female suffering?

The objective was to deconstruct "Goblin Mode"—Oxford’s 2022 Word of the Year—moving beyond its surface-level definition of laziness. I wanted to explore it as a legitimate psychological rebellion against the "perpetual performance" of modern life, specifically within the high-pressure context of the Singapore expat community.

There is a photograph of a woman eating toast at a kitchen table in 1976. The toast is simply toast. Fifty years later, breakfast has become unrecognisable. Not the food itself, but everything surrounding it. The decision-making apparatus. The expert guidance required. The moral weight of choosing correctly.

I wished someone had been more patient with Nora (The Midnight Library) before she started converting every experience into lessons. So I wrote her a letter, because sometimes the most honest way to examine what a book gets wrong is to offer what it couldn't give its protagonist.

What would it look like to actually honour the premise? An infinite library could be genuine contemplative space allowing Nora to dwell in possibility without pressure to choose correctly. But that would require Haig to value contemplation over consolation, inquiry over instruction, dwelling over destination.

Fiction's capacity to expand moral imagination is also its capacity to colonize it. Every time you inhabit a character, you bring your own architecture of feeling to their experience. You can only understand them through your available emotions. This is why diverse literature matters.

We are creatures of nested time. Your circadian rhythms follow the sun. You move through seasons no calendar marks. Beneath all this, deep time—evolution, continents drifting—there is pattern, recursion; and recognising this anchors us.

My son spent six years learning what Adrienne Rich called "the geography of fear"—bullied, developing an atlas of avoidance. Then something unexpected: he began reaching toward leadership roles with persistence that baffled me, practicing courage against all his training.

Without conversation, you notice flavour differently. Without accommodation to another person's pace, you discover your own. The focaccia is gone. I have traveled much farther than the distance from my hotel.

Perhaps what I'm describing is simply the movement from romanticism to realism, from the aesthetics of intensity to the ethics of attention. Perhaps it is only that I have loved and been loved enough times to know that the experience bears little resemblance to its representations.

We have no generous vocabulary for pauses in adult life. We never call them necessary, never sacred. But what if our lives, like fields, need seasons of rest? What if the gap isn't empty but essential? The rest between notes that makes music music.

Our biology insists on honesty even when our psychology does not. The flush rising in our cheeks, tears springing to our eyes, our voice breaking when we speak of what matters. We are, whether we like it or not, transparent.