small ways i fill my cup

things i do to feel grounded

Oct 05, 2025

these last 8 months of my post-grad stretch have introduced more unbearing days than fruitful ones. the days that spill me empty remind me that i, too, need refilling - that a cup cannot pour unless it is first held with care. in those moments, i return to small gestures; gentle rituals that remind me i am here, i am alive, i am light, i am bloom, and i am rain. all in one. they are not grand, they do not shout, but they keep me steady.

these are quiet anchors i lean on. the small ways i fill my cup.

faith.

the keystone of what has held me together in the last 3 or so months has been actively seeking God in all that i take in - through my senses, my thoughts, my intentions, my actions. prayer, constant remembrance of God, reflection, have not only grounded me, but have eased me to exhale and find beauty, peace, wisdom and mercy between the haze that surrounds me. it is a slow rooting, an act of turning back in, a way of reminding myself of a larger purpose and that i can disperse the weight of what lies over me. through faith, i have found the gentlest filling: the kind that steadies my heart, reshapes the day, and reminds me that every breath is already sustained.

nature.

nature has always been my muse, my sanctuary, my home, my peace. in this yearning chapter, i find myself seeking it more often - resting in its ability to steady, to soften, and to flourish. there is something so thorough about sunlight flickering through leaves, the hushed streams of water, the stillness of trees that remind me of the vastness i belong to. in nature, i remember that i am part of something enduring: as long as i stand, i will weather the inevitability of storm, and in time feel the warmth of sunshine envelop me. a quiet victory for stubborn ambition.

deliberate thought.

my mind is a perpetual vault of thought - musings, cogitation, contemplation, and quiet solitude have consistently lined the innings of my days. in this chapter, i’ve learned to inhabit my thoughts only with discernment, detachment and intention: to pause, sift, and allow clarity to settle before i decide whether a thought deserves space. this practice has given me the room to notice the quiet currants beneath: the meshed ridges of groundwork, the gentle sway of emotions, the soft stirrings of intuition, the subtle rhythms of presence. tending to my mind is like tending to a garden - it requires patience, care, and the courage to let some seeds fall where they may, while gently guiding others toward the light.

reconnection.

like many, nostalgia will also be the death of me. i long for who i once was - lull daydreams of my naivety, innocence, childhood, that once rested in me but now drift into the past. in a tender way, nostalgia can become like rumination - a scratchy film of memory that loops endlessly without any definitive resolution or teaching. yet lately, i’ve begun to turn toward a different kind of pining - not to dwell on what has passed, but to meet what still lives within me but is just buried. i reconnect with the child i once was - through art, games, nature, food, ornaments - to remind myself of the small delights i once held sacred. in these acts, i find a slow unburdening: a return to childlike curiosity, wonder, and the profound magic of being fully present and fulfilled in every step of my life. nostalgia no longer entombs me - it becomes a bridge of reconnection; to joy, a soft reminder that the past is not just a weight, but a source of being.

movement.

strength training, pilates, hiking, walking, swimming, yoga, are a few of my favourite forms of movement. to me, movement has held a meaning far greater than appearances or aesthetics, it is a reminder that i am primal, living, and organic. each purposeful stretch, each pulse of sweat, each breath drawn deep into my lungs, reunites me to the core of my being. in the rhythm of my body, i feel the quiet insistence of life course through me - the resilience, ambition, power, softness, strength, challenge, that coexist in harmony. movement does not demand perfection; it simply reminds me that i am present, capable, and embodied, that i can rise after strain, steady after imbalance, and steer even when the path is uncertain.

learning.

the absence of healthy stimulation and learning has been prominent since i finished my bachelors degree in dec 2024. what has been more prominent is the struggle to harness my intellectual consumption in ways that are productive, invigorating and nourishing. returning to curiosity without the structure of academia has compelled me to be more deliberate about what i feed my brain each day. sometimes this means opening a book and lingering with at least five pages instead of losing myself to a scrolling void. other times it is watching a lecture or ted talk over dinner instead of slipping into distraction, or choosing to write what weighs on me rather than bury it beneath instant gratification. in these choices, i rewrite my relationship with learning to not be with achievement or pace, but about keeping the mind supple, awake, and alive to the world’s unfolding.

preservation.

this era of my life is cloudy. as i work relentlessly to bend my environment towards my goals and aspirations, my tendency to envision too deeply often spirals me into panic - reminding me of time already passed, of how far behind i feel, of how much i still long to do. preservation, to me, is the practice of conserving these visions: writing them into journals and future letters to myself, praying them into God’s keeping, and tucking them away until they ripen into being. through this, i reframe the ache of “not yet” into the comfort of “in time,” allowing myself to remain present, anchor myself in what is within reach, and free my heart from carrying the full weight of what is still on its way.

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