Life is hard.

That part is non-negotiable. There will be grief. There will be disappointment. There will be days where the bar for success is “did not cry in public” and even that feels ambitious.

So please, for the love of silk lining and common sense, do not make it harder by pretending you don’t like things you very clearly like.

If you like the song, play it again.
If you like the sweater, buy it in another colour.
If you like the person, stop acting like indifference is a personality trait.

Joy is not embarrassing.
Enthusiasm is not naïve.
Delight is not a weakness.

Liking things openly is an act of quiet rebellion in a world that rewards detachment. Cynicism looks clever until you realize it’s just fear in a nicer coat.

Here’s the secret they don’t teach you because it’s inconvenient:

Joy breeds joy.

When you allow yourself to like something, really like it, you create momentum. You soften the room. You invite more good things to sit down next to you and stay awhile.

And yes, you might get hurt.
But you were going to get hurt anyway. At least this way, you also get the song, the sweater, the kiss, the moment.

Like things.
Say it out loud.
Let yourself be seen enjoying them.

IYKYK.

— Sebastien

There is a peculiar lie floating around in polite society.

It says you must earn rest. As if exhaustion is a moral failing.

As if pleasure requires paperwork.
As if lying down before you are utterly depleted is some kind of crime against productivity.

Nonsense.
Rest is not a reward.
It is maintenance.
You do not wait until the engine smokes to add oil. You do not praise a cracked teacup for its dedication. You do not ask a tired heart to “just push through” without consequence.

And yet, here we are. Apologizing for naps. Justifying joy. Adding qualifiers to leisure like it needs supervision.

Let me be perfectly clear.

You are allowed to rest before you break.
You are allowed to pause without a dramatic reason.
You are allowed to enjoy stillness without turning it into content.

Doing nothing is not laziness.
It is resistance.

A world that profits from your depletion would very much prefer you stay tired, busy, and vaguely guilty. Choosing rest without shame is a refusal to participate in that arrangement.

So lie down.
Cancel the plan.
Stare at the ceiling like it owes you money.

The emails will survive.
The laundry will wait.
The world will continue spinning, shockingly unconcerned.

And you?
You will still be worthy. Even horizontal.

Especially horizontal.

— Sebastien

Yes, I’m aware of the irony. I am, in fact, giving advice about advice. Please contain your applause.

Let’s talk about restraint.

Before you offer advice, ask yourself a very unsexy question:

Is this actually to help them…
or is it to make you feel more comfortable?
Or worse… is it a flex in sensible shoes?

“I did X and it got me Y.”

Marvelous. Truly. I am delighted for you. Frame it. Embroider it. Tell the story.

But the moment it becomes,
“You could do it too…”

We wander into interesting territory.

Because you are you.
And they are them.

Timing matters. Context matters. Privilege matters. Luck sometimes winks and sometimes vanishes entirely.

What worked for you might have worked because it was you. Or because the stars briefly aligned and you happened to be standing in the right place with decent Wi-Fi.

Advice can inspire.

It can also quietly suggest:
“If you’re not getting Y, perhaps you didn’t try hard enough.”

That’s where it stings.

Share your experience. Celebrate what worked. Offer what you learned.

But hold the assumption that it’s universally replicable.

Not everything is a formula.
Not everything is transferable.
And not every struggle needs to be corrected.

Sometimes people don’t need a blueprint.
They need encouragement.
Or space.
Or someone who doesn’t turn their life into a case study.

So yes, share. Help. Teach.

Just be careful when you say,
“You could do it too.”

Sometimes the kindest thing you can offer…
is curiosity instead of correction.

— Sebastien