A List of Things I Love

It's not exhaustive

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The way my daughter’s voice changes when she’s on the verge of sleep.

How she used to call “Mama?” into the dark, not needing anything—just wanting to confirm I was still there.

How she needs me now in different ways. How we talk about my mom and my childhood wounds. How she grasps the fragility of relationships, the layers, the complexities at age ten.

How we walk side by side, window-shopping, conversation meandering like a river, sometimes wide and open, sometimes quietly knowing this relationship is different than the one I had.

How she now wears my shoes, and it feels right, because when I once slipped my feet into my mother’s, it felt entirely wrong.

How time moves in circles more than lines.

The weight of my pup’s head on my lap, the way he sighs like he’s been carrying the heaviness of the world all day.

The way he yawns in my arms, that l-o-n-g high-pitched sound, his tiny teeth bared before his mouth closes and he settles in, the soft, rhythmic snores when he’s in deep sleep.

The look in his eyes when he sees me—really sees me—like he knows every version of me, even the ones I keep hidden, especially the ones I don’t want to confront.

The hush of late nights when the house is fast asleep. The quiet evenings when light spills through the window at an angle so perfect, I feel like I’ve walked into a painting.

The lupines on New Zealand’s roadside that reminded me of Rembrandt. The wild poppies and gerberas sprinkling rolling green California hillsides with bright specks of orange. The golden pothos my husband rescued from my black thumb, climbing up the corner of the bedroom wall—reaching, always reaching.

The exact moment when inspiration strikes, when the right words finally find me after lingering just out of reach. The rhythm of typing when the words are coming fast, the ache in my fingers when they aren’t.

The pauses, the white spaces, the blurred lines in rapid succession of each other, tumbling, torpedoing, blustering, raging.

The way a fountain pen scratches across thick paper. Old notes in the margins of books, especially when I don’t remember writing them. The idea that I was a different version of myself then, and still, she left a trail for me to find.

The space between making and measuring. The moment before the brush touches the page. How sometimes, creating is just proof you were here—a tiny blip in the endless ocean of time.

The feeling of coming home after travel, that first exhale when I set down my bags. My shower—the way it resets everything, the water carrying the weight of decades, some days, down the drain.

My lumbar-support pillow, the extra firm mattress, my heated blanket— luxuries, privileges, earned comforts, the signs of a spoiled life.

The sound of my decade-old fuzzy yellow duster swishing across shelves, getting caught in those minimalistic modern drawer pulls, reminding me to slow down.

Handwritten letters.

The hummingbird on the flowering succulents outside our dining room window, hovering just long enough for me to feel special, chosen, loved. The scent of petrichor—the kind that makes you stop mid-step and just breathe. The satisfied look on Ozark’s face as I scratch that sweet spot on this alpaca’s forehead. The last slurp from a bowl of ramen.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom, magnolias opening wide like a long-overdue exhale, lemon buds holding promise, the sprigs on bay trees, pollen allergies but also lavender ice cream.

The peaceful transition between seasons, particularly autumn to winter, when the trees let go without hesitation, when everything goes from colorful to bare but somehow, never feels empty—holding hope.

The last bit of toothpaste I continue to squeeze out for a week, refusing to let it go until I’ve used every last dollop.

How love, real love, doesn’t just stay—it deepens. How my husband and I still reread the emails that built our foundation, two decades of words stacked between us like bricks, each one saying, “I choose you. Still.”

How he boils extra water for me anticipating I’ll need a cup of tea at 4 p.m. How he turns on the towel warmer when he sees me headed for the shower. How he puts away the laundry, unasked, that I would’ve eventually gotten to.

How in little everyday moments we find ways to tell each other, this is love.

How a cup of cacao tastes richer when sipped slowly, held with both hands, as if warmth could be absorbed through fingertips.

How certain music transports me immediately to specific memories—Boyz II Men and slow-dancing at a high school social, in my royal blue ballgown with a cropped jacket and garish gold buttons, custom-stitched for that one prom night. Kishore Kumar playing softly in my childhood home.

The window seat in our living room where I can see the world go by, where thoughts settle like dust in the afternoon light, shimmering like glowworms on summer nights.

The satisfaction of watching something I’ve nurtured flourish, like the little tokens of love being made by those who’ve embraced my gratitude practice and made it their own—those ripples finding their way into the hands of strangers. How the smallest gestures can be the most radical.

How strangers soften when I see them. How a cashier’s shoulders drop when I ask how their day is going—and mean it. The small, almost imperceptible pause before someone says, “Actually…” and tells me the truth instead of lying through their teeth with a cursory, “I’m fine.”

The vendors at the farmers market, how they remember me through a sea of faces, and smile. The warmth of their rugged hands when they pass me the cantaloupe, like they’ve been nourishing the sun all along. The warm gown the mammogram tech hands me before a procedure, the way it reminds me that even in sterile rooms, there is tenderness.

How kindness is the kind of rebellion I want to be known for. How, no matter what, there are always ripples.

The contrast between digital connection and the depth of in-person conversation, how nothing replaces eye contact, the quiet significance of presence.

The sound of silence when I am driving, no music, no words—just the hum of the road, the quietest part of my day, in solitude but never alone.

Sitting by the lake, watching the water hold the sky, how the tiniest of movements get noticed by those looking.

How certain scents bring immediate comfort—sandalwood incense curling into the air, orange blossoms crushed between fingertips, coconut oil massaged into my hair, the way the house smells when pooris first hit the fryer, chai simmering, cardamom-heavy.

My daughter rubbing her sleep away as she walks into my room in the mornings, her feet shuffling, her hair carrying the scent of dreams. Stroking my daughter’s hair and asking for her opinion before offering mine, the way my Nani did with me.

How life comes full circle.

How this messy middle is all we have.

How there is always hope, always love.

How the taste of fennel seeds lingers. How my tanned skin holds the sun and memories from Cabo, Jamaica, and Punta Cana. How sleep comes softly and eludes me masterfully. How breathing brings waves of calm.

This life.

Here.

Now.

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What about you? What are the small, unexpected things that anchor you to this life? The scents, the sounds, the fleeting moments you wish you could bottle?

Tell me—What do you love? What we notice, we keep. And what we love, we carry forward.

XOXO

Mansi.