Lifestyle

It started with a sock.

The relationship between mental health and chronic illness is a complex and often overlooked aspect of overall well-being. Living with a chronic illness can significantly impact mental health, leading to conditions such as depression, anxiety, and stress. Conversely, poor mental health can exacerbate the symptoms of chronic illnesses, creating a challenging cycle that affects every aspect of life.

I used to think “getting control of my money” meant becoming someone else entirely. You know the type—financially pristine, color-coded spreadsheet in hand, cutting coupons on Sunday mornings, and definitely not buying lattes unless there was a line item in the budget for them. That version of me was always... next month’s project.

There are moments in your adult life when you realize your back has entered the chat. One of mine came quietly—just a subtle ache after sitting through a 10-hour writing sprint. At first, I ignored it. Then came the tension between my shoulder blades, the clicking in my lower spine, and eventually the growing suspicion that maybe it wasn’t me, it was... the chair.

You know that moment when your brain throws out something awful, like, “You’re not good enough” or “Why even try?”—and it lands with the weight of truth? It’s not just a thought. It feels like a fact. A damning one. And suddenly, you’re off your game, questioning everything from your abilities to your worth.

VR goggles. AR filters. Holograms on your coffee table. These used to sound like props from a sci-fi film, or maybe something your teenage cousin was hyped about on Christmas morning. But quietly—and quickly—virtual reality (VR) and augmented reality (AR) have been seeping into the cracks of our daily routines. Not in loud, flashy ways, but in subtle, almost invisible ones.

There was a time when I believed the standing desk would solve all my posture problems. No more hunching over a laptop like a gargoyle. No more tight hips or post-lunch energy crashes. Just strong core muscles, perfect ergonomics, and a smug sense of wellness superiority.

I didn’t stumble into minimalism because I wanted a perfectly curated closet or because Instagram convinced me white walls were the only path to inner peace. It was more like this: I couldn’t find a single pair of earbuds that weren’t tangled, I had unopened mail from six months ago, and I realized I was treating Amazon Prime like a form of emotional therapy.

Before I cared about things like wrist support or natural light, I worked from a barely-there desk wedged between my bed and the window unit. My “office chair” was the one that came with the apartment. My monitor? A 13-inch laptop perched on a stack of cookbooks. I told myself I was fine—because technically, it worked. I could send emails, hop on Zoom, crank out deliverables.

I used to end my day the way I thought most productive people did: with one last scroll through email, a glance at tomorrow’s to-do list, and maybe a podcast that I half-listened to while cleaning the kitchen. It felt like I was winding down, but truthfully? I was just mentally multitasking my way into bed, bringing every unfinished task, unspoken thought, and unchecked tab with me.

The moment I realized my to-do list was running my life—not the other way around—I was halfway through a second cold coffee and already behind on tasks I hadn’t even written down. My list had morphed into this ever-growing scroll of shoulds. “Call back dentist.” “Respond to that email from last Thursday.” “Finally start meditating.” It was full of good intentions but offered none of the rhythm or relief I actually needed.

I didn’t intend to overhaul how I shopped for groceries. I didn’t follow a new minimalist trend or print out a 30-day challenge. I just… moved to Europe for a while and had no choice but to adapt.