Lotz of thoughts

  Last night, my two boys were deep into a board game. You would think it was a matter of national security the way things escalated—there was a fierce disagreement about one of the rules. The younger one was cheeky, confidently mocking the older one. The older one, already frustrated, stood up to leave. I asked him to stay—not because I wanted the game to continue at all costs, but because I wanted him to hold his ground. His reply came quickly: “If I stay, I’ll end up using violence.” And I understood. I really did. I told him that sometimes walking away is the best thing we can do. Sometimes we need distance to calm down, to find our balance. But I also reminded him of something else: we don’t shy away from what matters to us. From our wants, our needs, our boundaries. We can hold our ground without losing control. We can stay in the conversation without hurting others. That’s not weakness—it’s strength. And then, almost smiling, I said: “But boys, read the manual! Before you ar...

 I was standing just offstage, moments before dancing my solo. My teacher introduced me—not just with my name, but with a few words that caught me completely off guard. She spoke about my journey, my efforts, and how I kept dancing while being a mother of two, a full-time professional, and a woman spinning many plates. And suddenly, something in me softened. I don’t dance for applause. I don’t show up at rehearsals, exhausted after a long day, for recognition. I do it for the joy, the grounding, and the sense of self it gives me. And yet… it mattered. Her words mattered. Being seen mattered. Why does it matter when others recognise our efforts? Why do we care, even when we tell ourselves we don’t need it? Maybe it’s because so much of what we do as women—especially as mothers, professionals, caretakers, and silent warriors—goes unnoticed. We keep it together, we hold it all, we show up, and we often do it quietly. There’s a strange pride in being “low-maintenance,” in not asking fo...

I am not the biggest fan of Marvel movies. The explosions, the superpowers, the endless battles—it’s just not really my thing. But my sons and husband love them, so there I was, curled up on the movie chair next to them, watching Fantastic Four . Somewhere between the portal malfunction and the formation of yet another superhero team, I found myself surprisingly drawn in. Not by the action, but by the metaphor. Because each character doesn’t just gain a power—they struggle with it. They don’t wake up thrilled about their new selves. They are confused, isolated, scared. Sound familiar? It does to me. I have been going through a phase lately. A quiet one. One where I don’t quite believe in myself. I know the checklist of what I have done, what I am doing, who I am. But somehow, self-belief slips through the cracks when I am tired, when I feel like I am not doing enough, or when I compare myself to some version of what I should be by now. And that’s when Fantastic Four hit differently...

I am officially on leave. Out of office. Unavailable. In theory. In practice… it’s complicated. Because even when I put up the out-of-office reply and silence the notifications (well, some of them), I can’t quite silence the chatter in my own head. What’s happening while I’m gone? Are the projects moving forward? Has anyone noticed I’m not there? Or worse… has no one noticed I’m not there? Welcome to the spiral. That special cocktail of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), curiosity, and just a touch of control-freakery. Served with a generous splash of guilt. At first, I tried to justify it. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.” “I’ll just check this one email.” “It’s easier to answer this quickly than to deal with it in a week.” But the truth is: stepping away is hard. Especially when you’ve built your professional life on being present, responsive, involved. And yet—life went on. Emails were answered. Decisions were made. Projects progressed. Students found their way. Co...

 Last week, my system crashed. Not my laptop or my phone. Me . No warning screen. No alert saying “low battery.” Just a quiet shutdown — the kind that only you notice, at first. The kind you convince yourself is just a bad day. Until it isn’t. I thought I was doing well. Managing the calendar, showing up, staying on top of deadlines, even remembering birthdays. But then, one morning, I couldn’t get out of bed — not because I was just tired, but because I was done . My body said stop. And the doctor confirmed it: I was physically sick. A clear diagnosis. So, on the surface, it was easy to attribute it all to that. But deep down, I knew better. The virus was just the final straw — not the whole story. Because what had been building wasn’t only physical. There are different kinds of tired. Mental tiredness is the kind that dulls your sharpness — when even simple tasks start to feel like heavy lifting. Physical tiredness settles into your limbs, making movement sluggish and sl...

Some days, it is easy to brush things off—to let the little frustrations roll away. Other days, a single comment, a dismissive tone, an unfair assumption lingers, and suddenly, there is a storm inside. I feel first.  Annoyance, anger, disappointment. The reaction is immediate and hard to ignore. But is it about this moment, or is it something deeper? Is it just this person, or am I responding to a pattern I have seen before? I remember when someone casually dismissed my work as "interesting, but energy economics is not really economics." On the surface, it was just an opinion, but deep down, it triggered years of having to prove the value of my research in rooms where my field wasn’t always taken seriously. That comment wasn’t just about that person—it was about every similar moment that had come before it. I think next—sometimes too much.  Was it intentional? Am I overreacting? Should I give the benefit of the doubt, or is this a boundary being crossed? Thought can help ...