SAM Frida

We’re curating ourselves into mannequins. We’ve gotten so good at pretending that the performance now feels like the person. Polished outrage, curated humility, compassion with a call‑to‑action button. The timeline scrolls like a city of mannequins rehearsing...

(Note to self): Emile Zola’s line hits hard: most will see the cover, a few will skim the intro, and even fewer will sit with the chapters. Ego loves predictability, so it labels quickly, yet humility asks for a pause, a breath, and a sincere “What’s your story?”...

Covert narcissism doesn’t arrive with a neon sign; it arrives as charm, shared values, and mirroring that feels like recognition. Then come the quiet cuts, gaslighting disguised as concern, shifting stories framed as “misunderstandings,” and silent punishments that...

Identity isn’t a mirror, it’s a molting. The layers that feel safest are often costumes stitched from praise, punishment, and the quiet survival tricks learned in crowded rooms. To meet the self beneath, shed the stories that made winning feel like worth and silence...

The quote lands like a diagnosis: leaders don’t deform a healthy culture; they crystallize the fractures already running through it. In a world trained to prize immediacy, clicks today, dopamine now, depth becomes a disadvantage, and so we reward performers of...

Every person is an unrepeatable original, as singular as a fingerprint and as storied as a repaired seam. Kintsugi teaches that breaks aren’t erased but traced in gold, making the vessel more itself, not less. Discarded shards say “ruined,” but golden joins say...

In love, a horizon appears; in struggle, a backbone grows. The journey to meet oneself starts with a small mutiny, refusing to abandon the truth when old habits beg for anesthesia. Demons rarely breathe fire; they whisper instructions that once kept things safe:...