I've been thinking about what it means to keep the things you've read — and what we lose when reading leaves no trace.

My co-author's grandfather fled Vienna in 1938 and saved every document he ever touched. Fifty years later, they built a chatbot from his words.

My mother was born out of the back of a '39 Ford on a Montana ranch. The land question starts there.

My grandmother could read a pot of jollof rice the way a doctor reads an X-ray. I've been thinking about what that kind of knowing actually is.

My drawing teacher used to say 'just feel it.' As a neuroscientist, I now know why that's terrible advice.

I gave up on writing because I wasn't a genius. It took years of studying creativity to realise that was exactly the wrong test.

I have chosen to live near the sea without running water, to surround myself with simple beauty.

I didn't know any women adventurers apart from Amelia Earhart. Then I started Googling.

My mother was born out of the back of a '39 Ford on a Montana ranch. The land question starts there.

I wrote this to challenge the idea that aesthetics are shallow. I believe our preferences reflect deeper values shaped by experience. Even small, unconscious choices reveal what we find safe, meaningful, or true. Paying attention to them helps us better understand who we are.

I've been wondering whether the way we pay for things changes how we pay attention to them.

I started publishing my failures three years ago. This essay is about why I haven't stopped.

I wrote this because I feel myself drifting toward over-automation and losing something human. I wanted to push back—protect effort, slowness, and small rituals. This is a reminder to stay present, think for myself, and find meaning in doing, not just optimizing.

I’m unsettled by how easily we’ve deprioritized beauty in favor of efficiency. Walking through New York makes that contrast impossible to ignore. This is me questioning when that shift happened—and whether we’ve lost something essential in the process.

I’m concerned we’re losing touch with our own taste. Algorithms, AI, and constant curation are shaping our choices so much that we’re forgetting how to decide for ourselves. This is an attempt to reclaim that—by turning inward, creating privately, and reconne

There's a Yoruba word that carries more than English can hold. I've been thinking about what that means for how we read online.

I’m concerned how much of our identity is shaped by others’ perceptions. We start performing versions of ourselves instead of discovering who we are alone. This is a reminder to step away from the mirror, reconnect inward, and protect space for an unobserved

I realized how much minimalism stripped away our individuality. In chasing simplicity, we lost the messy, personal expressions that make us human. This is a call to embrace idiosyncrasy again—to surround ourselves with things that feel meaningful, not just cu

Corporations exist because they minimise costs. What happens when software can do that better?