Olivia Dean has had quite a year, capped off just days ago by her Grammy win for Best New Artist. And Leon Bridges? His music has always struck me as having remarkably beautiful lyricism, which feels especially impressive given how blunt and sometimes depth-lacking the English language can be. (No offense, English, I grew up surrounded by Farsi poetry, and nothing quite compares.)

For some context: this track was originally Olivia’s solo. Three years later, she brought on Leon Bridges, someone she’s long considered a musical idol. She once biked all the way from Deptford to Hammersmith just to catch one of his shows. And now they share this gorgeous song together. How incredible is that?

“As people, we’re constantly growing and at times, we outgrow people whether that’s close friends, romantic partners or situations. ‘The Hardest Part’ confronts this idea by exploring the conflicting feelings that come with growth and its own form of grief.”

[Verse 1: Olivia Dean]
Call me up to meet you, static on the phone
Normally I need you, this time, I don't wanna go
Lately, I been growing into someone you don't know
You had the chance to love her, but apparently, you don't
No, you don't

Opening with Olivia’s voice, were immediately dropped into a moment of disconnection. The image of static on the phone, one that I bet many of us relate to, showing both literal interface but also emotional distance that creeps up in so many relationships. I think the second line, showing the shift from “normally I need you” to “this time I don’t wanna go” is the thesis for this song. She realizes her pattern of dependency, and also recognizing that she’s slowly growing away from this pattern. Its happening in real time, just as the static on the phone call.

“lately I’ve been growing into someone you don’t know” is a devastatingly beautiful line. we often hear about growing with your partner, but there’s also the hard truth of growing out of a relationship, or just merely growing in different directions. She’s not saying she’s better, just a stranger to the person who should know her best. “you had the chance to love her, but apparently you don’t.” to me, she is referring to “her” as the new version of her, the version that her partner sees as a stranger. often times, we are faced with this exact scenario, people grow and change, sometimes we like that change sometimes we don’t. love is conscious choice, her partner wasnt able to make that choice with this new version of her. And lastly, the repetition of “no you don’t” to me seems like a last ditch effort to convince herself. we all have stayed in situations where we aren’t sure we are loved, and sometimes it takes time to really realize that.

[Chorus: Olivia Dean]
So even if I could, wouldn't go back where we started
I know you're still waiting, wondering where my heart is
Pray that things won't change but the hardest part is
You're realising maybe I, maybe I ain't the same
And what you're waiting for ain't there no more anyway

Onto the chorus, she is now fully committed to her decision. She’s not just drifting away, but shes actively choosing to not return to how things were. She’s consciously refusing to shrink back down to the old version of herself just to fit into the relationship.

At the same time, she has full awareness of the other person’s perspective. She knows her partner is waiting on hope that things will go back to how they were. It takes a lot of cruelty out of what could’ve been a cruel situation, but instead she is painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of motion on her end, and stasis on her partner end.

To me, this song is explaining that the hardest part isn’t the leaving. It’s watching someone realize you’ve changed, and the guilt of being the one who evolved. It’s knowing that what they’re waiting for—that former version of you—doesn’t exist anymore.

The chorus captures something that excruciatingly painful to talk about: sometimes you’re not leaving because someone wronged you, but because staying would mean betraying who you’re becoming.

[Verse 2: Leon Bridges]
Oh, I held her up so highly, had me deep under her spell
Her opinions would define me but this time I made some for myself
'Cause lately, I been certain there's no further to go
Yeah, she had the chance to love me, but apparently, she don't
No, she don't

GOSH I just love Leon’s voice. We’re now hearing the mirror image, showing that this isn’t a one side story of growth, but that both people are being stunted by the relationship in different ways.

To me, it seems like while Olivia was growing into someone new, Leon was losing himself entirely. The line of “her opinions would define me” is something that as a fellow anxious attachment victim I think I will relate to for the rest of my life (hopefully not… but probably just a little bit forever). There’s a difference between loving someone and disappearing into them, although the lines often get blurred.

Regardless, there is parallel language to olivia’s verse- showing that theres nowehere left to in the relationship. from Leon’s end, he is reclaiming his agency, explaining that he is now forming opinions of his own.

And then comes that devastating echo: “she had the chance to love me, but apparently, she don’t.” It’s the same structure as Olivia’s line, but it means something different here. I believe this is him realizing that the person he put on such a high pedestal never actually saw him. Rather, she saw someone who would reflect her back to herself.

I think making this song a duet makes it so much more beautiful for this exact reason. Its not about one person being the villain, its about two people enabling each others worst patterns.

[Chorus: Olivia Dean & Leon Bridges, Leon Bridges]
So even if I could, wouldn't go back where we started
I know you're still waiting, wondering where my heart is
Pray that things won't change but the hardest part is
You're realising maybe I, maybe I ain't the same
And what you're waiting for ain't there no more anyway

I LOVE THEIR VOICES TOGETHER ARE YOU KIDDING ME! Were continue to echo the same ideas here, but now it feels like they are meeting up to have “the talk.” Not one that involve raising your voice and eye rolls, but one filled with chest crushing grief and tears.

[Bridge: Olivia Dean & Leon Bridges]
And it's okay, I'm not gonna remember you that way (O)
You say I'm different now like that's so strange (L)
But I was only eighteen (O), you shoulda known that I was always gonna change (L)

I noticed that in the bridge, Olivia and Leon are now trading roles.

When Olivia sings “I’m not gonna remember you that way,” there’s grace in it—she’s offering reassurance that despite the pain of this ending, she’ll hold onto the good parts. She won’t let the difficulty of the present erase what mattered before.

Then Leon comes in with “You say I’m different now like that’s so strange.” I cant tell if “different” here is his inability to love his partner throughout all the changes, or if this is a way to channel what Olivia is hearing from her partner. I’m sure there’s a celver reason they switched roles here, but either way its a shared frustration, one rooted in the question of why is change treated like a betrayal?

But here’s where it gets really interesting: “But I was only eighteen” is Olivia, and “you shoulda known that I was always gonna change” is Leon finishing her thought. They’re completing each other’s sentences, in a solidarity way. To me, it feels like Leon is backing her up, a beautiful agreement even in the midst of a breakup.

[Outro: Olivia Dean, Leon Bridges & Both]
Ain't there no more, I ain't there no more
(I ain't there no more, no more, no more)
Ain't there no more, I ain't there no more
(I ain't there no more)
Ain't there no more
(I ain't there no more)
But the hardest part is
You're realising maybe I, maybe I ain't the same
And what you're waiting for ain't there no more anyway

The outro to me feels like an exhale. There's something almost meditative about the repetition. It's like she's saying it over and over, not to convince the other person, but to fully accept it herself. Sometimes you have to repeat a difficult truth until it stops feeling like a betrayal and starts feeling like a fact. But the song doesn't end on bitterness. There's acceptance in these final lines.

Gosh what a beautiful song.

My New Year’s resolution this year was less screen time. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my phone, using it as a means to stay in touch with my long-distance friends, but also spending more time on there than I’m willing to admit. The algorithm knew me too well, and the endless feed of things that are uniquely interesting to me felt like it was taking my life away from me one doom scroll at a time. More than that, I felt like none of my thoughts were really my own anymore. Opinions merely regurgitated from infographics I’d seen on Instagram, looking up every nuanced topic before I ever gave my brain a chance to form its own thoughts. Scrolling when I wake up, before I go to bed, while brushing my teeth, while walking the dog, you name it.

I tried a lot of things in 2025. App blockers, screen time limits, buying a literal physical phone jail with a lock and throwing the keys as far away as I could. I even went “cold turkey” for a couple months and switched to a flip phone. I really enjoyed my time with a flip phone and learned a lot from the experience. But ultimately I had a hard time navigating this world without access to text messages, GPS, and I just missed having a camera on me at all times. All harmless parts of my phone, but things that I just had such a hard time separating from the not-so-harmless Instagram doom scroll.

So this year I decided it’s time for a change. I’m gonna delete social media for 75 days and see how it impacts my life. Today marks day 28 without social media (except YouTube, because that doesn’t count if you ask me), and here is what I’ve learned:

1.) I don’t know what to do with downtime

I’m not talking hours of downtime, because then I can just meet up with a friend or dive into a hobby or watch a show. But those awkward 20 minutes of free time before your next meeting, the time you spend waiting in a line, heck, the time you spend on the toilet. Prime scrolling time, right? Well with nothing to do, I found myself both bored and overwhelmed at the same time. A strange paradox of feelings, but I realized it had been a long time since I let my mind just be. No distractions, no screen to look at, just me and my good old thoughts. The first week was the most painful. I found myself itching for something to look at, something to occupy me. Anything to fill the time, because the concept of doing truly nothing was completely foreign to me.

Now, only 28 days in, I’ve already noticed a difference in my comfort levels when it comes to doing nothing. In the 10 minutes waiting to be called in for the doctor’s appointment, I let myself sit and take some deep breaths. Think about some things I was looking forward to. Daydream! And I mean really daydream, not see something on Instagram that reminds me of something else and think about that. But really sit there and think of something completely random, all from my imagination. A skill that I felt was only possible in childhood came back to me with such ease, like riding a bike.

2.) It’s no longer considered weird to be off social media

I remember just a couple years ago, when I first deleted TikTok, everyone thought I was crazy. Why would I do that? How else would I keep up with the trends, and what else would I do with my free time? I never looked back and have been off TikTok since.

Now, when I tell people that I’m off of all socials, I don’t get the same reaction that I used to. Now it’s mostly “good for you” or even “I wish I could do that.” I’ve noticed that there seems to be a cultural shift—it’s no longer “weird” to be off social media, but admirable and even cool, if I say so myself. I think as a generation were all slowly realizing that social media is not what it used to be, and that maybe it really is the damn phone afterall.

3.) My hobbies are 100x more exciting now

There are certain things I’ve always loved. Music, stories, being active, animals, just to name a few. I never stopped loving those things, but somewhere along the line I lost the energy to engage with them meaningfully. It was always “I don’t have the time,” “I’m too busy with school,” or whatever other excuse that I’m sure we’ve all made. Well, in the past 28 days, I noticed my creativity make a comeback. And with that came my energy for things outside of my career. I started listening to music again—really listening to music, like I used to as a teenager. Not just having it in the background as another way to avoid being alone with my thoughts, but really sitting there, headphones on, and listening. Nothing else but listening, enjoying the beat, the rhythm, the poetry of the lyrics. I even became an amateur (emphasis on amateur) DJ this month because I found myself so engrossed in the music. I started reading again, something I never gave up but was really only doing 10 minutes a day at most. Often times by force, just to feel like I did something other than work, eat, and scroll. I read an entire book in maybe a week—it’s like my attention span came back! I got more consistent with the gym. I spend intentional time with my pets, long walks with my dog and cuddle sessions with the cats. I’m not saying deleting social media will fix all your problems, but it’s a damn good place to start.

4.) I have to go out of my way to stay informed about the world

This is something that I’m not sure if it’s a pro or a con. With Instagram, it felt like I would know all things politics in a matter of seconds. Obviously not the most reliable and accurate source, but damn was it efficient. Now, I find myself listening to NPR news on my drive to work, reading CNN like my dad always did growing up. I have to really make an intentional effort to stay informed. The pro is that I’m not exposed to devastating media without warning. Scrolling from cute dog videos to a report of another mass shooting was something that never sat right with me. Now I can carve the time out, mentally prepare myself, and really read about what’s going on, likely in a more accurate and unbiased way. But at the same time, I miss a lot of the things that our media fails to report on. Right now, in my home country, there is a lot of political turmoil. Things that western media, unsurprisingly, does not report on. I’ve had to really go out of my way to search for news on this, often times just giving up and asking my parents if they know what’s going on. Social media has definitely done a lot when it comes to getting our generation politically involved, and I think many of us are afraid to admit that all of our news updates come from social media. This is something that I will continue to learn how to navigate. As of right now, I’m just not sure.

5.) I’m not sure if I’ll ever go back

I never planned to completely remove myself from social media. I always saw the positive that came from it and had a really hard time giving those things up. I always thought if I just find a way to have a healthy relationship with it, I can have the best of both worlds. I learned quickly that, at least for me, I’m not sure there will ever be a healthy relationship with a device that has access to the entire world. My self-control is not the greatest, and I truly feel like an addict when it comes to social media.

For example, I have a healthy relationship with alcohol. I can go months without a drink and not think twice. I can go to a bar and have one drink, without having to hold myself back from ordering more.

The same isn’t true for me when it comes to social media. When I delete it, I still think of it often. When I scroll, it’s rarely for 5 or 10 minutes, but closer to hours. “I just want to see if anyone posted anything new” turns into an hour-long scroll down reels. My thumb instinctually reaching for the Instagram app every time I open my phone. I truly mean it when I say I think I have a social media addiction, and for that reason I don’t think there will ever be such a thing as a healthy relationship between me and social media.

These are just five brief reflections from day 28 of 75. I’m not sure what the rest of this journey will look like; whether I’ll stick with it, whether I’ll find new challenges, or whether I’ll discover even more about myself in the process. What I do know is that for the first time in years, I feel like I’m living my life instead of watching it pass by through a screen. And maybe that’s enough of a reason to keep going.

If you’re reading this and feeling that familiar itch to reach for your phone, to fill every silent moment with content, to scroll just one more time, just know that I see you. I was you, and I probably still am. But I’m learning that boredom isn’t the enemy I thought it was. Sometimes, it’s just the doorway back to yourself.

Here’s to the next 47 days, and whatever comes after.

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I’ve heard before, colloquially at least, of the term “The Mad Genius.” The first academic speculation on this connection that I was able to find was Cesare Lombroso’s investigation of genius and madness in the 1800s. Lombroso, a forensic psychiatrist, posited that genius and madness were not separate, but two sides of the same psychopathological condition. He published The Man of Genius in 1889, a book that argued artistic genius was a form of hereditary insanity.

Although his criteria are regarded as outdated today, his work inspired later writers and researchers on the subject, and I would argue much of the general public’s understanding of those who tend to carry a level of genius with them that is extraordinary.

I think it’s something most people have noticed: those with the highest levels of intellect and creativity, those who seem to be overflowing with art, poetry, and an inherently artistic existence, often have much more beneath the surface. Aristotle famously stated that “No great mind has existed without a touch of madness.” This is synonymous with the common observation that, although creativity is one of the most sought-after traits in a variety of fields, there is still a long list of eminent creative achievers who have suffered from psychopathology.

I can’t help but wonder why that is. It’s certainly not something that medical school has taught me thus far. My own research on the matter opened a can of worms into the multifactorial nature of this.

Neuroscientific, psychometric, psychiatric, and historiometric evidence (just to name a few) exists showing that psychopathology and creativity are closely related, sharing many traits. However, there is also research showing that outright psychopathology may actually be negatively associated with creativity. Essentially, from my understanding, there is a fine line and a delicate balance between the two. Cross that line too far, and you enter full-blown psychopathology, losing the ability to engage with creativity.

I am also left wondering wether the lack of understanding—or perhaps more accurately put, the lack of urgency to manage mental illness—within the creative community leaves many creative individuals inclined to ignore their psychological condition.

I know I’m biased; I’m building a career out of my love and fascination for psychiatry. But I can’t help but notice the importance of treating these individuals, not only to prevent adverse outcomes, but also to preserve their creativity. As discussed above, it’s a fine line, after all.

“We’ll see her first,” she told me.

Looking over her chart, I saw that she had been through a lot. Cancers from head to toe., and at a relatively younger age. A last name clearly Hispanic, in a predominantly white area. At a time where, lets be honest, it’s politically difficult to bee anything other than white. I wondered what other stories she had that her medical chart left unsaid.

Her hair was gray, salt and pepper-like, and messy all around from tossing and turning in the hospital bed. She was small, frail from the relentless aggression of her cancer. She was happy to see Dr. K, until her eyes panned over to me. My white coat was filled with various pins showing my interests and passions, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as excited as any medical student could be to finally make it out of the pre-clinical years.

She rolled her eyes—seemingly, my incompetence was noticeable from miles away. She was in pain, frustrated, and not improving. She was what some might call difficult.

But we kept going back. In the mornings, I would go see her on my own, and then again in the evenings with Dr. K.

She was not happy to see me most mornings. I don’t think she was happy to see anyone aside from her daughter, who would visit often. I would ask her how her pain was, and she would look at me with the same expression, silently screaming stop asking me that stupid f*cking question. “10/10,” she would tell me.

I kept going back. Every morning, walking in with a smile until eventually, I got to see her smile too. She wasn’t doing any better; her disease continued to progress. But her daughter continued to show up. Her sister eventually flew in from out of state. And I kept showing up. Dr. K kept showing up. Her demeanor started to change, and my incompetence as a medical student no longer felt like the elephant in the room. I think she was just comforted by a familiar face.

We began to chat about things unrelated to her pain level. She told me how much she loved Roman burgers, something I had never heard of before. When I told her that, her jaw dropped all the way to the floor. “You’ve never had a Roman burger?? Oh, I will buy you one once I can eat again.”

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She was NPO for her entire stay, meaning nothing by mouth—including food. She had a feeding tube, which unfortunately was never able to be removed.

We discussed hospice. Her illness was aggressive and unkind. But she wasn’t ready, and no one was going to fight her on that. She was in charge, and everybody knew it. That’s something I actually really liked about her. Something so out of your control, yet she still found ways to stay in charge. Autonomy is a big part of your quality of life, after all.

I knew, medically speaking, there was no cure for her ailments. There was symptom control, but ultimately, no cure.

One time, I spent almost an hour with her, discussing the painting in her hospital room. She had spent weeks staring at it and was convinced there was something behind it—maybe some sort of spy software. The painting was bolted to the wall, so I really had no way of removing it and proving her wrong. She had never shown signs of paranoia prior to this. Whether this moment was a manifestation of mental illness/delerium or, more so, representative of—in the words of Thomas Szasz—“insanity is the only sane reaction to an insane society” (or in her case, an insane situation), I still don’t know.

It was finally time for her to be discharged home. It wasn’t a pretty discharge, she would be going home with the need for a lot of medical help. She was still NPO and on a feeding tube. Her pain, although better controlled, still left her with limited ability to do much of anything. I stopped by one final time to check in on her before she went home. She told me she was disappointed we never got to share a Roman burger together. I promised her I would try one myself that weekend. She asked for my business card. I laughed.

“Business card? Oh, I’m just a medical student. I’m not nearly professional enough for something like that yet.”

She replied, in her typical fashion, “Well… you should make one that just says: Ghazal—your friend.”

To say that I was touched would be an understatement.

I didn’t do much for her medically as a student. I couldn’t remedy her pain or take away her cancer. But I know I did one thing: build a connection and make meaning.

I like to think that helped her in some small way. Whether it did or not, I know it left a lasting impact on me.

That weekend, I ate a Roman burger. It was greasier than I expected and had a lot more mayo than I was ready for. I thought of her, and I grieved for her. What a shame it is to not be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of eating your favorite meal. What a sick illness cancer can be to take that away from you.

A couple of weeks later, her name popped back up on my inpatient list. I was on a different service at a different hospital, but I thought of her often and wanted to see how she was doing. She had accepted hospice. She was relieved to finally leave on her own terms, in her own special way.

Well, obviously, I know how to pronounce my own name.

But I don’t know how to introduce myself. Often times, in a somewhat crude and maybe inappropriate fashion, I end up profiling people based off of what they look like. In other words, do you look like someone who could pronounce my name the way its intended to be pronounced, or should I just cut to the chase and introduce myself with the American pronunciation?

Well, today was no different. I was faced with the never ending question- how in the heck should I introduce myself. I went ahead and used to American pronunciation, making the yet again crude and maybe inappropriate assumption that the person I was speaking to wouldn’t be able to pronounce it any other way. To my surprise, I head on the other line of the phone “oh, is that how your name is meant to be pronounced?”

What a refreshing question. I explained that not exactly, but thats what most people end up calling me anyway. I gave the more correct pronunciation, which ended up being how I was referred to for the remainder of the conversation.

All of this is to make a point that—everyone has a name, but not everyone’s name is said with the same care. When your name is one that people aren’t super familiar with, they tend to pause, ask for an easier version, or offer to call you something else entirely. Over time, those small moments can chip away at your sense of identity, as if who you are needs to be adjusted to make others more comfortable.

I was grateful to experience a small moment today that did just the opposite, affirmed my identity and even celebrated it.

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September 1st
In my mind, this is when the transition to fall truly begins. A quiet farewell to long summer days spent lounging by the pool. I tend to have the most free time in the summer, and that’s often when I learn the most about myself. Unstructured time pulls me back to a childlike sense of wonder, creativity, and imagination.

Today, for example, I randomly spent a few hours trying to learn the drums. That kind of aimless exploration is exactly what led me to start this Substack in the first place. I’m realizing more and more that boredom might be the antidote to creative block. This is something I’ve truly leaned into this month.

So, in the spirit of this reflection, here’s a simple list of things I’ve learned lately:

1. I love lists.
   I learned this during my first rotation as a medical student, Internal Medicine, where everything seems to revolve around a list. Phrases like “run the list” became part of my daily vocabulary during rounds, as we went through every patient assigned to the team. Before long, I had lists within lists, a family tree of to-dos that kept me organized. It might sound mundane, but it’s been revolutionary for me. I’ve finally accepted that I can be forgetful, and the best cure is to write it all down.

2. Friendship takes effort.
   This might seem obvious, and I’ve read a lot of discourse about this online recently, but it’s starting to really hit home for me. Sometimes, even when I’m exhausted, the right choice is to push through and grab dinner with friends. More often than not, I leave feeling more recharged than I would have staying home. Maybe that’s my extroverted mature, but I think it’s true for a lot of people too: relationships can fill your cup, but they thrive on intentional effort.

3. Gift-giving is an art.
   Some people are naturally talented at choosing thoughtful, practical gifts. I am not one of those people. Luckily, I’m surrounded by friends and a partner who excel at it, and I’ve been in awe of how they can pour so much love into something so simple. It’s a skill I hope to develop over time.

4. Music connects us all.
   Everyone has that one song that stirs something deep, bringing them to tears or to a moment of clarity. Music feels almost supernatural in the way it binds us together, it’s a form of communication beyond words. I’ve met a lot of different personalities this month, but I have yet to come across anybody who doesn’t have a sparkle in their eyes when talking about their favorite music.

5. Hobbies matter; being good at them doesn’t.
   For years, I avoided hobbies because I wasn’t “naturally gifted” at them. I mourn all the time I missed out on writing, exercise, cooking, music, and meeting new people because I was afraid to fail. Being a beginner is actually a gift: it’s when you have the most to learn, and that’s where the fun lies.

6. Small things create a colorful life.
   A smile at a stranger, extra effort at work, flowers for your partner, you name it. Tiny acts of care and attention make life richer and more meaningful.

7. We only get one body.
   Stepping deeper into clinical medicine has made this truth inescapable for me. Our bodies are the vessels through which we experience life, and they deserve care and respect. Wasting energy on insecurities or neglect only cheats us out of that experience. Some are lucky and others are unlucky when it comes to their health, some of it is in our control but a lot of it is not. I have yet to figure out exactly how I will move differently in this world as I learn the harsh reality of this truth.

8. Pretending to be someone else is dangerous.
   Any time you spend being someone other than yourself is time spent in the wrong places, with the wrong people. For many of us, tweaking parts of our personality is a coping mechanism for social anxiety or unfamiliar environments, but it’s like playing with fire. If being yourself means you’re excluded, that’s just a closed door guiding you somewhere better.

As the days grow shorter and September settles in, I’m reminded that life is made up of seasons, both in nature and in ourselves. This month, I’m choosing to embrace change, welcome the lessons that boredom and stillness bring, and carry these small discoveries with me into the fall.

With love,

G

I have a unique experience in my up bringing. most people are surrounded by media that tells us the end goal is to get married, to find the one. we are told, especially as women, the best thing you can do is “find your other half.” we are conditioned to center romantic love, and completely decenter all other forms of love.

I was raised a little bit differently. i remember very clearly one of my childhood birthday parties turning into essentially a huge community gathering. my parents friends, from high school friends to later in life friends, combined with my school friends, their parents, the local musicians in our town, the local barista, you name it. I was raised with strong collectivist values, and the unique experience of parents who really emphasized centering friendships and much as you center romantic relationships.

Don’t get me wrong. I love romantic love, and I think everyone deserves to experience the feeling of sharing your days with someone you feel so connected and soul tied to. I love my partner, and I can’t imagine my life without her.

but just as equally, I can’t imagine my life without my friends.

This past weekend, I finally had the time in my schedule to visit R, a close friend in NYC. every night, I slept at around 3AM only to wake up at around 8AM. I couldn’t contain my excitement in spending time with him. to say i am fortunate to have friends that make sleep feel optional is a massive understatement. R has carried me through so many highs and lows of life, and seeing him was a reminder of just how much friendship has done for me during my time on this earth.

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Often times, when people ask about me, I end up talking about my friends. When I think of my personality, I can see rather clearly that a large part of it is a mosaic of things I have adapted from people that i love. many of those people being friends.

people tend to notice this about me. the greatest compliment I’ve received is “you have really awesome friends.” it means a lot to me, knowing that my friendships are a reflection of myself.

Along the same lines, a lot of people have asked me how I do it. How do I have such strong friendships, not the kind that’s only good for going out clubbing, but the kind that feels like a long lost other half being found. the connections I have with my community is so strong, that I know it builds the grounds I walk on during uncertain times. R has been exactly this for me. We were roommates in college, and I cant tell you the amount of times that we laughed to the point of me clenching my stomach in pain. the amount of times he checked in on me when I was being a little more quiet, the attention to detail he gave to our friendship dynamic, tending to it like a fragile plant which ultimately led to it blooming into a beautiful garden. the amount of inspiration I took from our friendship, from R’s sense of community, ability to connect with others, from his creativity. A large part of my creativity today comes from this, having a friend who inspires me, and who encourages me to water the neglected parts of me

So how do i do it? How do I have such strong friendships?

I don’t fall for the idea of “low maintenance friendships.” I see a lot of this in popular culture, the idea that you can be close to someone that you only speak to once a year. I believe you can have lots of love for someone that you have drifted apart from, but you cannot claim to be close to them. closeness comes from consistency. and community inherently comes at a cost, that of inconvenience. that of being for your friend even though you’re exhausted from a long day.
The idea of “choosing your own peace” has never sat right with me. Inherently, the sentiment is very valuable. but the contexts in which i see it being used feels like a load of BS if you ask me. choosing peace means not snapping back at the rude customer at work. choosing peace means not engaging in an online argument with a stranger. choosing peace does not mean ignoring your friend when they need you. it does not mean letting your friend go through things alone for the sake of your own convince. it might bring you peace in the short term, but if you ask me, that is not worth the cost of losing your community.

All this to say, I had a great time reconnecting with a very special friend. I missed him so dearly, and I was reminded to never let the business of life make me forget how much my community means to me. I am so grateful, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Things in Iran are uncertain right now. I’m not here to talk politics, and frankly, I’m not here to say anything worthwhile. Being a part of the diaspora, my voice is not the one that needs to be empowered and elevated right now. I urge anybody reading this to listen to stories of people currently living in Iran, especially those old enough to have lived through the regime change. This post, bluntly put, is a means to understand my own feelings and grief navigating the current news. A way to make sense of my own identity, and what role I play in maintaining the integrity of my culture.

I spend most of high school doing everything I could to keep myself as far removed from my Iranian heritage as I could. Laughing along with classmates calling me a terrorist, or asking me if I rode a camel to school. Doing the whole typical American high school thing, joining the cheer team, forcing my pitch black hair to have blonde highlights, saying “like” and “um” every other word. I completely rebranded myself in a way that likely would’ve been unrecognizable to 8 year old me back in Esfahan.

By the time I realized this, it was almost too late. I had lost touch with so much of my culture. I can barely read farsi anymore, reading a sentence takes me longer than a first grader. I struggle to speak with other people my age, I don’t know most of their slang and my personality and sense of humor doesn’t carry over. I am a shell of a person in farsi, barely able to crack a joke or express myself.

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It took years to fix my bleach fried hair. I almost forgot that under all the bleach and dye, I have thick black, almost curly, Persian hair. All of the years of waxing and threading, I forgot I have thick, dark, eyebrows, and sideburns that run down the side of my face like tiger streaks. I almost nicknamed myself, which would’ve been a shame, considering the beautiful origin of my name. غزل, a love poem. A culture that has shown me unconditional love, yet I chose to abandon it for the comfort of my peers.

Not a day goes by that I dont regret this. My heart is filled with so much shame for what I did just to merely fit in. Now more than ever, I am flooded with diasporic grief. I long for connection to Iran, to my ancestry. I long for a more fluent understanding of the language, the culture, the art, the poetry.

I don’t have the right words to explain how, and why, my heart aches for a place that I can barely remember. But I just know that it does. I hope it is not insensitive of me to speak of this, as I know I come from a place of great privilege in being able to escape the political turmoil of my country.
I hope one day we can all return to the place we call home. Or better yet, never be forced out of that place.

i knew this year was going to be intense. i essentially crafted it this way, deciding to sacrifice a good deal of my 20s to achieve my dreams, knowing it’ll be worth it once i reach the finish life.

23 showed me, in the most righteous and violent way, the dangers of that mindset. of always tunnel visioning to the finish line, missing the crowd that cheering you on, the birds chirping nearby, the stranger offering you a sip of water.

part of me is frustrated that this was the narrative that i was sold. that you have to struggle to earn rest, happiness, or peace. that good things don’t come easy, and somehow that translates to misery.

i worked hard this year, there is absolutely no denying that. there was a month where i spend more time hitting the books than two full time jobs combined. but what surprised me is that, for the most part, i had a lot of fun. in moments of struggling through the never ending studies, i was laughing, smiling, creating meaningful friendships, and feeling like i am exactly where im supposed to be. 23 taught me that, despite how corny it sounds, it really is about the journey! no amount of success, achievement, power, or money is worth misery. life is meant to be lived, and i realized that just because i have big aspirations doesn’t mean i have to put a hold on that. my life is precious right not, and to not live it would be a huge disservice.

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i hope i carry these reflections with me during my 24th year.

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Tomorrow is a big day!

A day I committed myself to back in December 2024. A day that once felt excruciatingly far away. Yet somehow, it's now just hours away. Tomorrow is just another Tuesday. Just June 3rd. But it’s also the day I take my board exam.

Throughout this process, what we call the “dedicated period,” I experienced more emotions than I thought was even possible. Joy, grief, regret, hope, disappointment, exhaustion, fatigue. You name it. Sometimes, I’d cycle through all of them in a single day, or even a single hour.

The exhaustion of yet another 5:30 AM alarm. The jadedness after yet another sub-par practice test score. The flicker of hope when I saw even 1% improvement. The frustration of missing a question not because I didn’t know it, but because I was just too mentally drained to think clearly. The loneliness, watching non-medical friends enjoy their winter turn to spring turn to summer. The emptiness of constantly saying no to plans I wanted so badly to say yes to.

I did all of this under the belief that I should just trust the process.

Going to medical school was a decision I made, I like to believe, by being authentically myself. This career path called to me in many ways, and I don’t regret that choice. I don’t doubt that this is where I’m meant to be.

But I do doubt whether these past few weeks needed to be as difficult as they were.

Medical school, and even getting to medical school, was never easy. Writing the MCAT, applying to any school that would give me a chance, surviving organic chemistry, working a job to help pay off my loans knowing I had even more loans waiting for me—it was all incredibly hard. But through all that, I never felt disconnected from myself. Until now.

This was the first time I felt completely disconnected from me.
Isolated. Lonely in a way that stung, so deep to my core. Stuck in a never-ending loop of UWorld questions and Anki flashcards. I forgot what makes me who I am—my humor, my love of community, my adventurous spirit, my childlike wonder. All stripped away, one practice question at a time.

I don’t think I would’ve survived this period without my classmates, who studied with me and brought me back down to earth when I would freak out over forgetting minutia of the contents of the inguinal triangle. I wouldn’t have made it without community.

Now that I’ve reached the end of this phase, I think maybe this was necessary.
But more importantly—it had to be temporary.

Tomorrow, I will walk into that testing center and give it everything I have. I will trust the process. I will trust that the hours I poured in, the sleepless nights, the tears—they mean something.
They have to.

And after tomorrow, I will choose me.
I will spend the summer reconnecting with myself. Because how can I go into rotations, interact with patients, and be a helping professional if my own cup is empty? If I have nothing to look forward to outside the hospital? If I’ve lost touch with my community?

No dream or aspiration is worth losing myself.

Yes, I learned a lot of medicine these past months. I solidified knowledge that will serve me as a future physician.

But more importantly, I learned something about the soul of medicine.

There is art in medicine. I believe that there is just no denying this.
Art in patient advocacy. Art in gentleness, in conversations, in patient education.
Art in leadership, in healing, in connecting.
And to create good art—you must be inspired.

And for me, inspiration comes from my community.
From boredom.
From long walks with my dog.
From late-night talks with my partner.
From the unexpected joy of reconnecting with a high school friend who moved across the country.

From having protected time.

Those are the things that will make me excellent in this career.
The hard science matters, of course. Passing the board exam matters, of course.
But dedicating myself to something so soul-wrenching has radicalized me. I will never again let medicine, matter of fact anyone or anything, take more than I can give.

Tomorrow will be a good day.
And I will look back on this moment with immense pride in my hard work, my discipline, and my honest reflection. My mentors always told me to trust the process. I didn’t expect this to be the lesson I’d learn—but I understand it now.

And I’m so glad I trusted the process.

There is just no time.

Or at least, it feels like there’s no time.
I’m constantly running out.

How? That doesn’t make any sense, I’m only 23. There’s so much time.
So why does it feel this way?

Get up—the to-do list won’t check itself off.
You have a goal, a dream, a vision.
Did you think it would just be handed to you?
You have to work for it.

Make sure you invest in stocks.
Make sure you take your supplements.
Make sure you work out.
(But don’t lift weights—too masculine.)

What the hell?

Where are the instructions for this thing?
I don’t think there are any.
But then why is everyone pretending there’s some clear-cut guide—and they’re the only ones who have access to it? I have to subscribe to their online course to access it. To their dream summer body workout class. That’ll give me the answers.

This illusion of certainty?
It’s nothing more than that: an illusion.

Right now I’m pissed. But honestly? I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

Because when I look back—before I ever made it here, before the career milestones and successes—I already had certainty.
Not in the world’s instructions. In myself.
A delusional belief in my own potential, in my own ability to figure it out.

And back then? That belief was nothing but delusion.
But now? It’s reality.

Maybe that’s the only instruction there ever was. (But also, don’t sign up for that influencer’s course, just my two cents).

In middle school, I played the viola, badly. So badly that during parent-teacher conferences, my instructor, with a kind smile and a heavy heart, gently suggested I stick to “math and science.” She meant well. But I still remember the shame blooming fresh across my cheeks.

It stung because music lives in my bloodline, in my culture.

My mother plays classical piano with the kind of grace that makes rooms go quiet. My father builds beats from nothing and sings old Iranian songs with a voice that seems to remember lives I’ve never lived. My brother crashes his drums into the night, wild and free, a one-man rock band in the basement. The gift passed through them like a river. And without any expensive private lessons- almost as if they were just born with it.

And me? I stood at the shore and listened.

In college, I had a roommate who was extraordinarily talented at making music. He would sample clips of us laughing together, making breakfast, or playing beer pong, and somehow use those sounds to create a beautiful piece of art. I am still in awe of his ability to create magic from the mundane.

Though I’ve never been able to make music, I’ve always been able to feel it.
When a song plays, I hear every lyric like it’s meant for me.
When I can’t speak, music does.
When I need silence, it gives me sound.

Maybe that’s why I love it so much—it’s never asked me to be good at it to be held by it. To me, music is the one art form that lets you belong without needing to perform.

The first concert I ever went to was Lana Del Rey. I was 14, heartbreak-heavy over boys I never even dated (blissfully unaware that I was a lesbian- side note), sitting in the nosebleeds with my best friend. Next to us, two women in their twenties chain-smoked cigarettes and looked impossibly cool—like people who had real stories to cry about. But we were all there for the same reason: to worship at the altar of sound. To get a little lost. To feel something holy. To have what I call a non-religious religious experience.

Almost a decade later, I saw Lana again. This time at a festival. This time I was much older, much wiser. I had my own apartment, my own dog, a partner I love, dreams, a strong sense of self, you name it.
Things 14-year-old me couldn’t even imagine.
And still—there I was. Same artist. Same ache. Same miracle.
The music still didn’t belong to me. But I belonged to it.

Just another Tuesday.

You open TikTok or Instagram.
Scroll. Scroll.
A “5-to-9 before your 9-to-5” routine.
A $200 gua sha.
A candle that promises clarity.
A matching workout set that’ll finally get you to the gym.
A motivational reel telling you to ghost everyone you know and “move in silence.”

A visceral reaction—not anger or frustration, but hollowness.
Jaded.
Consciously unaware of the agenda your FYP has baked into your daily routine.

I’m not here to critique the consumers—because in many ways, I am the target audience.
After a long day of studying, I light my clarity candle, journal three things I’m grateful for, and go to bed with my salt lamp and “sweet sleep guaranteed” supplements by my nightstand.

And still—I wake up empty.
Tired.
Isolated.

My education in Medicine has made one thing painfully clear:
There is no line between your mental health and your physical health.
They are intertwined in ways that the research still struggles to understand.
To assume they are separate is not just outdated—it’s stigmatized. If you ask me, two things that work so closely in tandem simply cannot be separate.

And yet, I’ve also watched wellness turn into a marketing campaign.
The promise isn’t healing—it’s optimization.
Productivity in a prettier package. A subtle way of promoting a hyper individualistic culture.

We’re sold the idea that self-care is something you buy.
That mental health is a matter of discipline, productivity, and personal choice.

But what about community?
What about grief?
What about the systems that keep us sick?

Healing has never been something you could vlog.
It’s the time you showed up at your friends house because they just got their heart broken.
Dropping your parents off at the airport even though its inconveniently out of the way.
The professor who made space for you. The doctor who listened. Who didn’t rush your appointment.
The walk with your dog after a soul-sucking shift.
The times you pushed through for that workout—even when the depression said you couldn’t.
The boring, unglamorous stuff: access to care. A paycheck you can live on. A third space. A life you don’t have to perform.

A community you can rely on when things get hard.
Someone who will water your plants when you're out of town.

Not a supplement.
Not a skincare set.
Just someone who gives a damn.

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Growing up in Iran, I knew it was already decided for me that I would grow up to marry my prince charming — a nice Iranian man, probably a doctor, with a kind family that got along well with mine. Honestly, I didn’t really mind. I am fortunate to have parents who always look out for my best interest, so I trusted that the man they approved for me would be a good man.

That was until I started really thinking about what it is that I want.

I dated men — a little too many of them, honestly — all throughout my adolescence. Tall men, short men, kind men, intelligent men, rude men, abusive men, men of all ethnicities, you name it. Regardless of their character flaws (or lack thereof), there was always something missing. I could never quite put my finger on it.

I knew I was bisexual from a young age. Or at least, I knew there was something about women that I was curious about. But that was just something I quietly accepted about myself — and made a decision never to explore. I told myself it was because I was having fun with men, so why bother!
The truth is, I wasn’t having fun with men.
I was trying so desperately to fit a mold that had been built for me, and refusing to admit that my truth didn’t fit inside it.
But I wasn’t ready to admit that to myself.
I thought, Oh, maybe this guy just isn’t funny enough for me. Or smart enough. Or adventurous enough.
I thought maybe I was the problem — maybe I just wasn’t made to love.

The quiet confusion was something I sat with for a long time, in a sea full of “you’ll find the right one!”
Deep down, I knew the right one didn’t exist for me — at least not in the heteronormative dating scene I found myself trapped in.

It wasn’t until late college that I finally said:
You know what? Maybe it’s time I explore this part of me.
And that's when everything changed.

Dating women was like putting on glasses for the first time after a lifetime of blurry vision.
I couldn’t believe it — this is how it was supposed to feel?
You mean, people actually enjoy spending time with their partners... alone?

After my very first date with a woman, I knew there was no going back.
I was Queer — a full-fledged Lesbian — and there was no doubt about it.
To say this changed things for me would be an understatement.

For a long time, I thought two things couldn’t coexist:
You can't be Middle Eastern and Queer.
How could I ever expect my family to be proud of me?

But once I started living my truth, I realized these two parts of me could not only coexist — they could live in beautiful harmony with one another.

Queerness didn’t just show me who I could love.
It showed me how to love being myself. And in that sense, Queerness truly saved me.
No matter where I go, I know I can be comfortable being myself.
After all, no self-truth will ever feel as insurmountable as realizing I am a Lesbian for the first time.

Regardless of sexuality, I hope everyone gets to experience something that reminds them:

You were put on this earth to be you — and only you know what that looks like.

To be brave enough to live it is the most radical act of self-love there is.

I am in what we call “dedicated.”

This is the time that second-year medical students get to do nothing but study for one exam.
The exam that feels like our entire future is riding on it: the dreaded USMLE Step 1 (and COMLEX Level 1 if you’re a D.O. student, like me!)

I knew this wouldn't be the most enjoyable chapter of my life, and I expected the long study days to be grueling.
But it’s actually surprised me.

There’s something really beautiful about giving myself permission to say,
“For the next month, I am cracking down and working toward my dream. No one is allowed to bother me.”

I’m not sure I’ll ever have another opportunity like this—where I get to be fully dedicated to chasing one thing.

And in the quiet, in the long hours, something unexpected is coming back to life:
my creativity.

Five-minute breaks, laps around the library parking lot—they’ve started turning into daydreams about creative things I used to love.
Things I miss doing.
Things that filled my cup.
Things I know will make me a better provider someday.

Storytelling is one of those things.
Writing is one of those things.

So I’m carving out this space to share—
Even if it’s just to the void.
Because damn, I have a lot to say.
And there is just not enough space to say it.

I will be celebrating the messy middle—
the part no one prepares you for.

Not the beginning, when everything feels new and full of possibility.
Not the end, when you can tie it all up with a ribbon and say, “Look what I did.”
But the in-between.
The stretch.
The fog.
The “what the hell is even going on?” phase.

It’s the part where you don’t know if it’s working.
Where you start to question why you even started.
Where you feel too far in to turn back, but still not sure you’ll make it through.

That’s where I am right now.
And that’s what I want to write about.

Because I think that’s where most of us actually live.
Not in the tidy chapters, but in the ones where the pages are still being written and the plot hasn’t made sense yet.

I don’t have a lesson or a clean ending.
But I do have honesty.
And curiosity.
And a little hope.

Nothing Held Back isn’t about having answers.
It’s about showing up with the real questions.
It’s about writing without polish, without filters, without pretending everything makes sense.

(Because it really doesn’t.)

<3 G

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