A Stranger in My Own Day
An ongoing inquiry
I like sitting by the lake. There’s a tree with a branch made for two quiet readers. I watch deer move through the trees. I feel happy, just sitting there, doing nothing at all. Nothing!
I’ve walked through dozens of libraries trying to find my favorite one. I haven’t, and maybe that’s the point.
I’m fond of old restaurants where the owner’s been serving the same food for years. The chairs don’t match. The door creaks. There’s a handwritten menu and a quiet regular in the corner. That’s the kind of place that stays with me.
My dad sees things like that too. He paints, maybe that’s why he observes so closely. I was never the best at it, but I liked it. Painting taught me how to pay attention. How to observe. How to really see. That’s where it started, this habit of picking up on small details.
Over time, that habit of noticing extended to the world around me. I’ve been fascinated by human behavior. I watch. I listen. People are more similar than we realize, and I find that oddly comforting.
Get Bhawana’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I especially enjoy talking to older people. There’s something sacred about hearing someone remember who they used to be. When they say “back in the day,” I lean in.
I’m drawn to museums. There are stories in museums, and I love stories. Lately, I’ve started finding them in ceramics too. I took up pottery a few years ago and was amazed by how much beauty lives in each piece. Pottery calms me. It taught me patience. Sometimes it feels like meditation. Sometimes it’s just messy.
Kafka, Murakami, Dostoevsky their words draw me into strange, quiet worlds that feel oddly familiar. Like pottery, their work asks me to sit with discomfort, with beauty, with mystery. Sometimes I feel like I’ve met them before.
I’ve picked up a lot from books, cities, and conversations. I’ve grown by listening to people and their stories and I use those lessons to shape how I think, work, and write.
The most important thing I’ve learned from my parents is to stay grounded and give more than you ask for. A principle I carry into everyday life.
I love journaling because I want to remember all these beautiful things. Ideas, people, small passing thought. I once heard Connor Neill say that writing things down every day doesn’t just capture moments, it compounds your intelligence. Six months later, you’re not just you. You’re six months of thinking, noticing, and remembering.
I work in data science. I’ve been learning more about AI, about data, and how quietly they shape the world around us. I want to write about what I’m learning, small things, and moments that stay with me. Maybe someone else starting out will find something useful. A lesson. A story. A passing conversation that left something behind.
Outside of all this noticing and reflecting, I laugh easily, often at my own jokes. I’ll try almost anything once whether it’s learning a random dance step, cooking something wildly beyond my skill level, or getting lost in a city just to see where I end up. Life’s too short to be serious all the time, and I like finding the humor tucked between all the meaning.
In my field, everything moves fast. So I’m trying to slow down. To reflect. To stay consistent, and intentional.
