#13: I turned 25!

An obligatory “OMG my frontal lobe is developed!” edition

Hi friends,

I turned 25 last week, which means my chances with Leonardo DiCaprio have officially expired. This also means my frontal lobe should have developed which I used to think was pop-psych hearsay but now I’m not so sure.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve felt something shift internally. Not in a dramatic, spiritual awakening kind of way – more like a subtle rearranging. My thoughts are clearer. My reactions feel more measured. The way I process pain, people, and myself feels upgraded. Even the version of me from last June feels like a completely different person which may be the best birthday present I could give to myself.

It’s not just simply feeling this change though. As an avid journaler, I have tangible proof of how I seemingly became a new person. Every year around my birthday, I have a ritual where I read all of my old journals and see how I’ve grown. It’s embarrassing to say this now but I used to be so consumed with sadness. Every other page was a tirade against my body, a lament on how mean my mom was, an inquiry into why I wasn’t enough for my boyfriend, a rant on terrible people being terrible to me, or a wish to literally die.

i will not be beating the dramatic allegations

The Decline of Journaling

Maybe that’s why I’ve filled up so many pages over the years – the sadness catapulted me into picking up my pen and giving shape to my negative thoughts. But lately, my journal seems to have fewer and shorter entries which, to me, is a sign that I’m finally living more in the world than on the page. I’m not spiraling as often, and I’m no longer obsessed with documenting every emotional wound. Body dysmorphia doesn’t kick my ass anymore. I’m learning to understand my mother instead of resenting her. Petty things that used to demand three pages of angry scribbles no longer warrant even a sentence. Somewhere between now and then, I stopped wallowing.

I read my old entries and feel compassion, but also a little frustration, for younger Jasmine. I wish I could tell her that there is no nobility in sadness and self-deprecation, there is just suffering. I don’t see an introspective girl in those journals – I see someone stuck. And so much of that stuckness came from turning inward, over and over again, until all I could see was myself.

I’ve come to believe that sadness is a form of self-obsession. When I was chronically sad, everything became about me. How I felt, how others perceived me, how much I hurt. I was constantly chewing on my own misery, cannibalizing my sense of self until there was no room left for anything or anyone else. Ironically, once I stopped caring so much about myself, I started feeling a lot better. I don’t mean I’m neglecting my needs. I mean I’m no longer consumed by them.

The Aesthetic of Sadness

In some ways, sadness has become a cultural currency that has caused mental health to be trivialized and fashionable. Phoebe Bridgers made depression feel poetic. Lana Del Rey made longing look beautiful. The Weeknd made maladaptive coping mechanisms cool. The melancholy, especially in online spaces, can feel romantic, even aspirational. I’m not exempt from this. I’ve theatrically mentioned wanting to die when I didn’t mean it. I’ve spam texted friends about my depression like it was a recoupling episode of Love Island.

The sadness aesthetic for me wasn’t just a mood – it was a coping mechanism. It was a way to make my pain feel organized instead of chaotic, but that became a trap and fed the very thing I was trying to escape. It was egoistic as well, not in the traditional sense, but in the way that it made me feel important for suffering. I acted like being sad was an act of defiance, like I was being forced to experience good things but prided myself on not enjoying them. It took me years to realize what an ungrateful perspective that was.

This aestheticized relationship with sadness — the performative gloom, the curated despair — might have been a necessary part of my development, but it doesn’t serve me anymore. My sadness wasn’t evidence of depth and my ability to articulate that feeling didn’t make me any more profound. Sadness isn’t stylish – it’s just sad. Turning pain into content and filling up endless journals, while sometimes comforting, is not the same as healing.

Woe is NOT me

In hindsight, it feels vain to have been so deeply entrenched in my own sadness when there are definitely bigger problems in the world and far more substantial things to care about. That’s not to say people aren’t allowed to feel things deeply – they are and they should. But now, I find myself focusing more on happiness and letting it be enough without having to make it ironic or self-aware. I do the little things that I enjoy and actually appreciate them, which makes me feel like a more complete person. Maybe even a better one.

Obviously, I’m not perfect – I’m still quick to anger, I feel lonely and anxious at times, and I can work on gaining a bit more emotional availability. But there’s a growing capacity in me to engage with life more intentionally and to choose a more grounded, hopeful perspective when I can. If this is my quarter-life crisis, it turns out it’s less of a crisis and more of a quiet realization: there’s nothing inherently glamorous about feeling burdened when happiness is also an option. That said, I don’t see happiness as some kind of moral virtue since emotions are neither good nor bad; they’re just guiding signals. What really matters is how we respond to them, and what we choose to do next.

Love,

Jasmine

Highlights since my last edition:

1. March - Grandparents visited America for probably the last time. I told my parents if they ever act like them when they’re old, they’re going to a home. Love them all though.

   

2. April - Bought extraordinary amounts of skincare in Korea. Touched Lady Gaga at Gagachella!

3. May - Knife turned 3!! He still randomly throws up though. Went to EDC and got trapped into buying tickets for next year. My company went public!

   

4. June - Got CapCut and can’t stop making edits. Had my birthday dinner at Boiling Crab which caused me to break out in hives as expected. Got a Labubu who may be a Lafufu — the jury is still out on this one.