Flow - The Handwritten

From depression to Whimsy

Sep 09, 2025

A New Writing Challenge: Logging Days in my Life as Concisely as Possible

Ever since starting Substack, I have challenged myself to read more writing advice and implement the wisdom into practice. One of my favorite quotes I have come across so far is by Colson Whitehead:

“Most people say, ‘Show, don’t tell,’ but I stand by Show and Tell, because when writers put their work out into the world, they're like kids bringing their broken unicorns and chewed-up teddy bears into class in the sad hope that someone else will love them as much as they do.”1

I have always struggled with the “show” part of writing. To “show” requires a concise clarity, an objective recall, and an ability to get out of the mind’s weeds. I tend to always be in the weeds, creating secret gardens in my mind.2 As a second grader, I would write multiple pages to the prompt, “How was your weekend,” and now, I need all 4 sides of a card to tell someone happy birthday. I do not consider a lack of conciseness to be a flaw; however, I think it’s important to expand my writing toolbox- like a painter who can turn to acrylics, watercolor, or oils for expression.

So with the intention of strengthening my “show” skills and my brevity, I am starting a new writing challenge and mini-series here on the Handwritten.

This series will include a log of my day in as few words as possible- without word fluff, my opinions, or my lingering feelings. These logs will require me to get honest about how I spend my time, what I pay attention to, and what I think about. It will, as I discovered in my first log, help me “… capture the messy and human way [my] emotions and thoughts flow from one to the other.”

As a small disclaimer, I would like to note that I am writing about these days in spurts (i.e., when I have the motivation to continue the journal entry). This requires me to rely on my imperfect memory to recall my day. What I log is as close to my perception of what happened as possible, but it will never be 100% objective. As a human, I am innately an unreliable narrator.

Welcome to my mini-series, Flow

I am titling my new short-form series, Flow, as inspired by Zilbalodis’ 2024 film.3 The film Flow perfectly depicts how life is a never-ending rhythm where the only constant is change: from one experience to the next, one emotion to the next, one relationship to the next, one place to the next. My mini-series will seek to document the flow of the human experience, logging the authentic and tumultuous experience that is my life as a 22-year-old woman.

So without further ado, here is the second entry of Flow: a story about a Sunday when I tried to turn my depression into whimsy: learning that I can create my own kind of music if I leave my bed to find it.

Sunday, September 7, 2025

Flow: From depression to Whimsy

6:00 am. Woke up to the light out my window and my roommate getting ready. Opened my eyes for a minute. Hoped she’d have a good day.

10:00 am. Opened my eyes. Checked my phone. Damn, I slept a long time! Stared at the ceiling and Instagram and Substack timelines.

11:00 am. I called a dear friend at night for her and in the morning for me. She lives in Turkey. We chatted. Laughed. Reminisced. Have not talked to each other since June; have not seen each other since TCU’s December graduation. We made plans to start a weekly children’s book brainstorming session. Felt inspired. Logged off the call.

Loneliness and nostalgia replaced the sound of laughter.

12:00 pm. Felt depressed. Did my makeup. Thought it would motivate me to leave my bed. It didn’t. Climbed under the blanket. Unlocked my tiny device. Scrolled. Scrolled some more. Found some cool creators. Felt inspired for a moment. Depressed the moment after that.

Opened Snapchat. I never go on Snapchat- guess I was trying to feel something. Saw a picture of my ex. 3 years ago today. Swiped out of the app. Remembered why I don’t go on Snapchat.

1:30 PM. Got my ass out of bed. Put on my writer uniform: a seashell dress with a seashell fanny pack. Climbed down three stories. Opened the door. Bigsby awaited me! Pet her for a second, wondering what she’d been up to today. Hoped she enjoyed the new fall weather. Walked to my car. Put my Laufey records on. Started the drive to my favorite cafe.

2:00 PM. Parallel parked on the street: an always stressful experience. Took a breath and walked toward the green door. A “I-like coffee with my oxygen”-Lorelai-Gilmore sign attached to a glass door with command strips. Took a picture and smiled. Already feeling better.

Found a cozy spot at a glass table. Reminded me of the dining room in my childhood home.

Walked to the counter and saw the beautiful barista.

“Hi, how are you?” “Pretty good, what can I do for you today?” “Could I have a cherry latte?” Looks to her colleagues, “Do we have cherry here?” “Yeah, we got amaretto.” I laughed. “I know it might be an unusual order.”

Went back to the glass table. Opened up my rose gold laptop to my Substack homepage. Saw an endless number of drafts. Ignored them and selected “new post”. The blank page looked back at me as my thoughts circled the idea of starting a short-form diary series. Did not know what to call it. Stared out the window to stumble and sort through a storm of ideas until I landed on Flow.

3:30 pm. Crap! The museum closes soon. Stuffed my things into my 9-year-old backpack. Hopped in the driver’s seat. Drove through a couple of turns and then a merge on the highway. Oh shit! That truck barely missed me. Kept driving. Sang some Norah Jones to calm the highway nerves.

4:00 pm. No parking. I knew it. It’s ok, I’m not in a rush. Life does not need to be rushed. Kept driving. A spot! Another parallel park. I got this. Whipped the car with a few inches on either side. Walked along the grass. Admired the 121-year-old, 320,000 square-foot museum in front of me. Yanked its 15-foot-tall door with my whole body. Marched confidently in.

Got a bit intimidated by the tall old man inspecting the museum and its donation box. He didn’t smile. I smiled anyway. Kept walking.

Really needed to pee. Journey to the bathroom took me to the basement. Hmm, I haven’t been to the basement yet. Student artwork filled the walls along my walk. One titled “Bubble Bath.”4 The junior artist writes of replacing oceans with bathtub magic in her Midwest hometown. Almost teared up. Felt quite inspired by this young artist. Proud of her for creating and for representing my home as something other than flyover country.

The artist, Riley Kummer’s, description: “Growing up in the Midwest, we didn’t have the ocean to doggy-paddle in or sand to get stuck in our pants. Instead, we had a bubble bath…This was my sea: an ocean full of soapy nostalgic sparkles that popped with each poke, draining into my memories.

Kept walking. Entered into an eerily silent and shadowy room. Moved towards the description: “Islamic Art from Spain to India.” Started taking pictures of patterns that inspired me. Filed them away into a Notion archive- like a Magpie collecting shiny things.

Ottoman period, Iznik, Anatolia (Turkey); Tile Panel, c.1560-80.

A museum employee came up to me. “15 minutes until close.” Decided it was time to go for a writing picnic. Back to the car. Grabbed my trusty backpack and picnic blanket. “OK, keys, wallet, journal. Check!” Took my platform Uggs off and walked along the grass. 20 steps. Shit, my water bottle! 20 steps back. Ok, now time to go.

5:00 PM. Carried my shoes in one hand and keys in the other until I found what felt like a perfect spot. Spread my blanket and laid down with my head in the grass. Stared into the sky where a kite flew into my field of vision. My eyes darted back to the grass: a Free Palestine Protest. Quickly realized that it was the community of protest members taking turns flying the beautiful kites. The realization brought tears to my eyes. Kites are a heartbreakingly beautiful message for freedom today.

Opened my journal and wrote for a while until my stomach grumbled. Grumbles turned into a ramen craving. Guess I was feeling nostalgic for the kind I used to eat in college on snow days with roommates and date nights.

New to the city, I did not have a ramen place yet. Opened up maps, selected the closest destination, and drove a little. Admired the sunset through my windshield until I heard, “You have arrived at your destination.” Crap, parallel parking again, I’m getting good at this.

7:00 PM. Got out of the car and found the restaurant: a small building with a line wrapped around the front. I peered towards the front door, searching for a hostess stand. Did not want to cut in line or lose my spot, so I asked Google if I could put my name in online: “Community-style. No reservations accepted.”

Looked in front of me towards the four parties ahead, realizing its maybe a couple of hours until my turn. Well, I guess I’m already here! Pulled out my journal and read, searching for an old idea I wanted to meet again.

A girl with red hair and cool makeup yelled from inside, “A table for one! Anyone?”

Silence.

I looked up. Oh, that’s me! She told me there was a single spot at the end of the long table to my left. Felt bad to cut in front of the other parties, but also proud- like a kid getting called early for a roller-coaster, single-cart seat.

Walked to my seat, thinking it was quite ironic that the day I proved to myself I can eat alone was the day I discovered community-style dining experiences.5

Next to my seat, a man was eating by himself. He looked up, “Hi, your first time here? Mine too. Chopsticks are over there.” Pointed behind us. “I drove an hour from home for this ramen.” “Wow, I had no idea about this place, but it’s pretty cool!” We went back to eating separately.

I sat feeling honored, only waiting 10 minutes for ramen of such high reputation.

The man finished up his green tea and went out the door, leaving me with the corner of the community-style table to myself. I wrote a little in my journal. “Maybe someday I’ll do a sidequest to be a food reviewer. I guess they get paid for eating alone and writing.”

The next guest sat down. Accidentally bumped into me as he scanned the QR code to order. “Oh sorry about that.” “Haha, no worries. It’s a tight space!” We went back to our own little worlds. Ate side by side without sharing a word. The quiet community was nice. Finished sipping the last spoonfuls of my broth.

I guess I like community-style dining. And eating ramen alone doesn’t change how much I like it.

8:00 PM. Headed home over a peaceful car ride. Parked and walked up the stairs, delighted to see my roommates. Sonia shared exciting tales from her day at urgent care with challenging coworker dynamics and impatient patients. We got food from the kitchen and sat at the table together. Thought about watching TV, but Sonia’s been trading algorithms and screens for books. I decided to trade the TV too and read with her. We both melted into the couch and our books, her’s about an ER and mine about the Brontë sisters. Read and read. Felt my eyes wishing to close.

10:00 PM. Said goodnight and headed to our rooms. Fell asleep with thoughts of gratitude: for seashell dresses, cherry coffee, art museums, esteemed ramen, and a chance to live with a bff.

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading about my Sunday and my new mini-series. This, so far, has been healing for me to write, making me more grateful and reflective about the life I live, the friends I have, and the world I get to experience. If any of this made you think, please feel free to share below, and see you next time on: