157. From now on, my opinions are the only ones that matter.

Happy 3 years to this newsletter, happy birthday to me and happy new phase of life.

They say it takes thirty days to form a habit, and I’ve been writing for three years, every Monday, without fail. The reason I chose Mondays at 7:34 a.m. was to hold myself accountable and get into the habit of writing and publishing something every week. It’s safe to say I’ve formed a rock-solid habit and accomplished my goal three times around, which is more than 155 weeks. Even though I’ve managed this, I still find it pretty miraculous. It just goes to show that I can do hard things, and if I can, you can too.

In all honesty, I forgot about this newsletter’s three-year anniversary because my “anniversary” is every Monday. When I go to sleep on Sunday night, I know I’ll be waking up to another trophy—or at least that’s how I see it. But that trophy is only something I feel and understand, I think.

I don’t want to focus on me having achieved this three-year milestone because, before remembering the date, what I wanted to write about was how it feels for other people to read my essays.

bday flowers, bye bye 26

I started this newsletter with zero subscribers until my boyfriend subscribed and became the first one. Then my friend Sophie subscribed, and soon, other friends did too. There were fewer than thirty people, and it was a way for me to share my thoughts and feelings with my close circle on a weekly basis. It literally felt like sending my friends and family an email. Nowadays, things have changed. There are almost one thousand of you, which is something my brain can’t comprehend. And I no longer feel like I’m sending emails to my close circle—not because there are more readers, but because a long time ago, I decided to work on improving my essays and becoming a better writer.

I signed up for and took a handful of writing courses, wrote at least one personal essay every week, read a ton of books to learn from the best, and kept allowing myself to write bad essays until I started to get better at my craft. In my opinion, I’m still far from the writer I’d like to be, but I’m on my way. I’ve popped up in your inboxes for 157 weeks, so I can surely say—though with trembling knees, because I’m still human and have a tad of imposter syndrome—that I’m pretty good at this and that I’m proud of myself.

Now that there are so many of you, I’m careful about what I share and don’t share because I don’t want my whole life documented on the internet. But I’m still pretty honest with my writing, and that’s something I’ll never be able to change. It’s the only way I know how to be, both on paper and in real life. I need depth, I need honest emotions, I need thoughts, and I need to feel like there’s a connection happening beneath the surface for me to feel like myself and be comfortable. I’d much rather talk about my childhood traumas and worries than about the weather or what I had for dinner last night. However, sharing personal essays or any type of writing comes with something nobody is prepared for: feedback, criticism, and praise.

When someone messages me and tells me how much they love receiving a POMELO on a Monday or that I’ve helped them feel better about themselves or about life, my heart melts, then explodes, and then grows a couple of inches inside my chest. It’s a beautiful experience, but at the same time, it’s strange. These beautiful messages have helped me continue writing, and it’s shown me that opening up and being yourself is what the world needs. However, criticism is a harder pill to swallow—not because I don’t like hearing people’s opinions (I understand that’s part of it)—but because it’s hard to see people interpret things that weren’t originally there in the first place. And no matter how much I try to explain where I was coming from when I wrote it, they don’t seem to want to understand. Maybe this is the “mirror theory” at its finest: when readers interpret things that weren’t in the original text, they’re mirroring back how they feel or have felt and projecting that onto the writer.

There’s nothing I can do about this, except understand that it’s part of the process. I’ve had to learn to separate myself from the essay once it’s published and hope that I was clear enough and gave just enough detail for the reader to follow my words without adding their own layers that aren’t mine.

Criticism is part of human nature. Sally Rooney’s latest book, Intermezzo, was critiqued and classified before it was even available to read to the public. Authors are bombarded with opinions on Goodreads and expected to continue regardless. Even if you do something as simple and innocent as wearing a bright red woolly hat in the middle of August, you’ll still be criticized for it. There really is no escaping it—the criticism. That brings me to a life lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way recently: my opinion is the only one that matters.

My opinion isn’t above anyone else’s, and it’s not necessarily the “right” one, but it’s the only one I can act on. If I like a skirt that others think is ugly, I should wear the skirt. If I write an essay that I think is my absolute best, I should be proud and love it no matter what anyone else thinks. If I think someone is crossing the line and being disrespectful, I’m allowed to set the boundary to protect myself. Otherwise, I’ll end up giving and giving until there’s nothing left of me.

I’ve always been a people pleaser, and I’ve struggled all my life to stand my ground. It was easier to keep quiet when someone was shouting at me over the phone to avoid upsetting them or causing an argument. It was easier not to wear the “ugly” skirt to avoid embarrassment and to dress according to fashion. It was easier to show up for everyone who needed me because saying “no” and disappointing people was too difficult to handle. But not anymore.

People say that once you turn 25, your frontal lobe fully develops, and you realize how foolish you were for getting a tattoo at twenty. And I partially agree—I have a few tattoos I’d save myself from getting if I could do it over again. But my biggest brain-maturing moment has happened now, as I approach twenty-seven. Astrology calls it a “Saturn Return,” but I call it something like, “You will not mess with me anymore because I have no more fucks to give.”

All of a sudden, a fire inside of me has awoken, and it almost feels like a warrior’s scream when I pay attention to it. When someone crosses the line, this fire ignites and shows me the way. It reminds me not to react or bite back but to retreat and turn my back until I’m ready to face them again. It reminds me to take a deep breath and remember that it’s not my problem. It reminds me that I’m valuable and that my feelings matter. It reminds me that the only person who disagrees with the boundary is the one who benefited from its absence. I’ve had to set a few, and as a result, my peace has been restored.

Some people will hate my essays and think they’re lame. Some people will love them and resonate with every word. Some will have a lot of opinions, and others will remain quiet and reflect. Some people will think they know everything about me, while others will realize they only know what I choose to show. Some will help me rise and grow, and some will hope to prove me wrong and belittle me.

There is no right and wrong in life—only lessons and experiences that we choose to interpret. Because that’s all we’re doing every waking second: interpreting life. Some people see rain and feel blessed that the rivers will grow, while others call it “a bad day.” Some people listen with an open heart, while others listen only to reply. Some see a spider and think it’s good luck, while others run to squash it. It’s all interpretation, and that’s all life offers us—things to interpret and make sense of through our own lenses and conditioning.

And that’s why my opinion is the only one that matters. Because as long as I remain true to myself and be as authentic as I can be, I’ll be okay. As long as my intentions come from my heart, I’ll be okay.

So here’s to the 27-year-old me, born again today, October 7th, wearing the “ugly” skirts, writing authentically, and drawing imaginary lines in front of her, marking the boundaries that no one will be allowed to cross. Happy belated birthday to POMELO, and happy birthday-not-birthday to the readers walking alongside me, helping me rise and grow. There is a piece of cake for all of you.