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Hi there!

This space is about connection, memories and the thoughts that sometimes get tangled in our minds.

Here's how you can be part of it!

There are 3 main emotions in this space:

Monotonous

Surreal

Elated

I would love to hear from you! Add your own memory or experience relating to these emotions —big or small, anything that lingers in your mind.

Take a moment to explore what others have posted! You might see a piece of yourself in their stories too.

You’re welcome to stay anonymous or leave your name if you’d like.
Thank you for being part of this!

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I remember the feeling of those thick stacks of past exam papers. Worn at the edges, the pages folding in awkwardly after being opened and closed so many times. Every evening after school, I’d sit at my desk, flipping through them like clockwork. My pencil in hand, but my heart not quite in it. The process felt mechanical, a daily routine that lacked joy, yet carried a heavy sense of obligation.

Even then, I questioned the point of it all. Why pour so much energy into something I knew wasn’t aligned with where I wanted to go? I wasn’t going to be a doctor or an engineer. I wanted to major towards design.

But with time, I began to understand that not every step forward has to make perfect sense in the moment. Sometimes, the things that seem irrelevant or draining still shape you. That repetition, that discipline, even the frustration taught me something. It wasn’t about the content of the papers, but about learning to keep going, even when it felt like it was all for nothing. In the end, those dull moments added up to something meaningful. Not because they sparked inspiration, but because they gave me resilience.

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Sometimes I still question whether it really happened, even though the memory feels so vivid. It was during my final semester, a time when I felt completely overwhelmed. I struggled with my project, constantly reworking ideas that never felt good enough. The revisions were endless, time slipped away, and doubt crept in. I began to wonder if I had chosen the right path. Still, I pushed through, trying not to let the frustration take over. I kept brainstorming, trying to apply design thinking with whatever clarity I had left. Thankfully, my tutor never gave up on me; their guidance became the thread that held me together. By the time our final critique arrived, I had something I could stand behind. Even though I was exhausted, I felt satisfied. When the critic looked at my work and offered a kind, genuine praise, it felt surreal to me. It was just a few words, but they hit me deep. In that moment, every late night, every moment of doubt, felt like it had led somewhere meaningful. I felt emotional, not just because I was seen, but because I had proven to myself that I could fall, get up, and still grow as a person.

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This memory is still fresh and in many ways, it’s the heart of this entire project. I’ve never been someone who invests in expensive jewellery. I like occasionally wearing bracelets or rings, but I usually stick to small, handmade beaded pieces crafted by local artists. Things that feel personal without the weight of a price tag. My mother knows this about me. So when she gifted me a gold bracelet, I was quietly moved. It wasn’t just about the value of the item, but the thought behind it. Her deep understanding of who I am. It felt like more than a gift; it felt like a gesture of love and observation. I’ve always admired stories of daughters inheriting jewellery passed down through generations. Those treasured heirlooms layered with meaning. This bracelet isn’t one of those, not yet at least. It marks a new beginning. It’s a piece that didn’t come from the past, but instead anchors me to the present — to my mother, to our bond, and to the quiet, resurfacing memories that come with every glance at it. It’s personal. And in its own way, it’s already becoming part of a story worth holding onto.

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More often than not, I found myself thinking, How did I even make it this far in this field? I felt trapped in the same endless cycles. What came so easily to my classmates always felt like an extra mountain for me to climb. I’d pick a color, then stop. Check it. Adjust it. Cross-check with a tool. Ask a friend. Then do it all over again. A simple choice turned into a long, exhausting process I couldn’t avoid.

Critiques made it harder. I knew people meant well, but somehow the conversation always circled back to my color choices. I had to explain, justify, prove what I’d already worked so hard on. It felt like invisible work that no one really saw — the kind that left me drained at the end of the day.

But through all of it, I kept going. Because even though the process was slow, even though it felt repetitive and isolating at times, I still believed in what I was creating.

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my job

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my job

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not my job

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There was a point during lockdown when every day felt the same. I’d wake up, clean my room, do my workout, and repeat it all again the next day. It felt like I was stuck in a loop but somehow, that routine gave me control when everything else felt uncertain. Even though it was monotonous, those small daily habits became quiet moments of stability. They still linger in my mind as a time when I was trying to hold myself together.