steeped by samia no. 46 | 04.29.26 & 05.18.26
…And you might not know what they’re trying to tell you.
Towards the end of April and trickling into May, I experienced this ambient feeling of emptiness and grief. I could feel it in the back of my eyes, in the stillness of inanimate objects, underneath the splendor of spring.
Around this time, I watched Season 3 of School Spirits (2023-present), a brilliant show. It’s gripping and atmospheric and very well-made. I finished Season 3 hastily, and started the series all over again the next day.
Chicago by Sufjan Stevens became the soundtrack of my life for the next few days.
It’s featured in School Spirits Season 3. Chicago feels like the vibrant twin of Casimir Pulaski Day, a song I can’t listen to without feeling so incredibly sad.
The opening bars played on loop, most noticeably present when I was alone driving to cat-sit while my brother was out of town. The jacaranda trees are blooming all over, periwinkle petals lining the edges of sidewalks and drifting in wind gusts. I’d take a longer route home just to marvel at them at stop signs and the beauty of the mid-morning sunshine.
It’s wild to be 28 and still feel so young. It’s a blessing to be 28 and feel like there’s so much to learn. It’s real to be 28 and feel like you don’t really want to do anything, other than what you’ve been doing for the past few years.
But a slow accumulation of things start to make the gears in your mind turn in a different direction.
During Spring Cleaning weekend (yes, my city does this),
I opened my closet and stood on my chair to access my closet shelves, where two IKEA magazine files have all my journals from ~ 2010 to 2020. These are, perhaps, my most prized items. And, perhaps, there are two people who would hypothetically be allowed to read them. But for now, they’re mine alone.
While I’ve been journaling consistently enough this year, at least a few entries per month, I miss when journaling consisted of documenting things and scenes that were happening in real time, along with my reaction. And when looking back at it, being able to confront the unreliable narrator, squirming and blushing and cringing and empathizing and consoling a past version of myself. Right now, journaling is more processing and turning things over and connecting the dots.
I’ve read through my middle school journals a few times. I even crafted an autobiographical story from it for one of my college writing workshops. I can’t recall, though, having read my high school journals before. And something compelled me to open one. I picked one up.
Sprawled on my floor, I took a deep breath and opened the journal.
The first page was dated September 2015, the beginning of my senior year of high school. I walked straight into a room pulsing with red light and sirens (but not as scary as the scar dimensions in School Spirits). The squiggles of Pilot G2 black ink chronicled lurching waves of stress: my impending college applications, studying for the dreaded ACT, and wanting to be a good and impactful ASB president.
I wrote a lot about feeling out of place, both invisible and the center of attention, and incredibly self-conscious of things I said or did while going about my day as a 17-year-old. I wrote about not wanting to be full of myself, and not wanting to change who I am for others. This was interesting to read; I don’t recall feeling that particular mix of sentiments.
My conclusion after reading through senior year again: Girly pop was doing amazing! But she was so hard on herself! And yet she had an amazing and vibrant and conclusive senior year. There were very few classes taken, turning points, successes, failures, realizations, longings, love(s), friendships deepening, leadership drama, heartbreak, anguish, regret, excitement.
In a K-drama called Love Next Door (2024), the main character Bae Seok-ryu moves back home from the U.S. after quitting both her job and engagement. She’s soul-searching, funemployed, and healing from trauma that isn’t fully revealed until the end. Seok-ryu and her friends unearth a time capsule buried next to a tree at their high school, where they wrote letters to their future selves. She’s looking for signs of what her dreams were, at that time. To her disappointment, she doesn’t find anything helpful.
I was secretly trying to find a lamppost in this high school journal, too.
Something sturdy and bright, buried in the loops of my half cursive, half regular print handwriting, in the “he said / she said / I feel like” of my high school days, pointing to some overarching goal or dream. An invisible through-line. In this journal, nothing really stuck out in the department of all thing goals and dreams and shooting for the stars.
Something I’ve been telling myself lately is this: “You can literally do anything you want right now. It’s not too late to start something entirely new yet feels aligned with your soul. It’ll be worthwhile.”
This was reconfirmed after witnessing my sister become a doctor this past weekend, graduating alongside classmates of all ages and ethnicities. A good chunk of them became parents or experienced big life changes during med school.
If I were to sum it up: my ambitions are things I instinctively do, that build and build, redirect and topple over, and rebuild again. And that was also reconfirmed after my foray into my high school journal.
Back to the emptiness and grief I was feeling:
I wanted to tell you I was feeling it, but I couldn’t quite place where it’s coming from. Maybe we can find out together. I’d say that the quietness of it almost felt both anticipatory and retrospective?
It felt like an echo from a future Samia. She’s saying:
There’s so much you’ve yet to experience, do, and learn.
Here’s some of my burden.
Hold onto it and let it go, you dry-eyed 20-something girl.
I went on an afternoon walk the other day.
At the local park, I saw a cat wearing a leash and harness, perched on top of a water fountain. The cat was drinking water from the spout, as the owner pressed the button for them. The small joys of life reified into a blissful, innocent, and wide-eyed joy. The kind that that tells you to live a little, or a lot. — S.A.
💫 Catch Up:
03.12.26 | On welcoming the existential dread
steeped by samia no.45: Snippets from my desk, somewhere at the tail end of Ramadan.
💌 About This Blog:
Steeped by Samia is a space where I can simmer on thoughts & curiosities about life, liminal spaces, digital culture, & more. Far too often, my writing ideas fizzle out in energy; I never get to see them to their full potential. While building my rhythm with writing, I want to share these stories with you.
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