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there’s a story about st. agnes that has always stuck with me—not just for its imagery, but for what it says about god’s tenderness and the dignity he grants his children. agnes, a young girl of immense faith, was martyred at only 12 or 13 years old. her life is filled with these moments of quiet defiance and deep devotion, but there’s one part of her story that feels particularly beautiful.

as the legend goes, agnes had refused a wealthy suitor who sought to marry her. her heart was devoted to god alone, and she had no interest in riches or worldly power. furious at her rejection, the suitor denounced her as a christian—a dangerous accusation in roman times—and she was dragged before the authorities. when threats and bribes failed to sway her faith, they subjected her to humiliation, stripping her of her clothes and attempting to parade her through the streets.

but here’s where the story turns miraculous: god caused agnes’s hair to grow long—so long that it became a cloak, covering her body and shielding her dignity from the eyes of the men who sought to degrade her. she stood there, draped in her hair, unyielding and untouched. later, when they tried to burn her alive, the flames wouldn’t consume her, bending away as if even fire recognized her holiness.

what moves me about this story isn’t just the miracle, though that alone is striking. it’s the intimacy of it—the way god intervened in such a specific and protective way, caring for her dignity in the midst of cruelty. there’s something so deeply human about the gesture, like a parent shielding a child from harm, ensuring she knew she wasn’t alone even in her suffering. it’s a moment that radiates love and honor, a reminder that even in the darkest circumstances, god sees and treasures us.

it’s also such a gentle kind of power. it’s not about vengeance or smiting her oppressors; it’s about agnes herself, about preserving her dignity when the world sought to strip it away. and the imagery of her hair—something so personal, so intrinsic to her—becoming her protection feels like god saying, “you are enough as you are. i will use what is already a part of you to shield you.”

what i find even more profound is how this story contrasts with how society often views women. so often, women’s worth has been tied to how they look or what they can offer others. but in this moment, agnes’s beauty isn’t a commodity—it’s transformed into something sacred, untouchable. her hair becomes a symbol of her autonomy, her faith, and her closeness to god. it’s a reminder that women are not objects to be paraded or possessed; they are beings of infinite worth, beloved by the divine.

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maybe we should stop hiding behind “it’s just nature.” how often do you hear that—someone excusing violence or selfishness or predatory behavior with a shrug and a smile: “well, it’s just human nature.” or worse: “animals do it too.” it’s a way to sidestep accountability by claiming we’re no better than wolves or sharks. but it’s dumb—because we’re not just animals.

animals, by and large, don’t have the options we do. when a lion hunts down a gazelle, it doesn’t pause to weigh moral pros and cons. it’s hungry. full stop. humans, though, have layers of complexity: we can empathize, reason, plan, and choose. to say we can’t do better than “just following our instincts” is to ignore the very thing that sets us apart—our capacity to imagine consequences and act accordingly.

yes, we come from nature, but part of being human means transcending certain base impulses. if a friend betrays you and they say, “hey, it’s just in my nature—every man for himself”, that’s not wisdom; it’s a cop-out. it’s refusing to own the fact that we can reflect on our behavior and decide if it’s good or harmful. we have ethics, laws, community standards precisely because we’re not locked into the rigid survival logic of an animal. we choose to uphold or break those standards.

you might argue that certain impulses—like aggression or greed—are rooted in our evolutionary history. sure, maybe. but evolution also gave us altruism, cooperation, the ability to create moral frameworks. if you’re going to invoke biology, at least be honest enough to acknowledge we have a range of “natural” behaviors, and we can pick which ones to honor.

so no, “it’s natural” shouldn’t be a free pass. is it “natural” to cheat, steal, or hurt someone weaker? maybe, in some raw survival sense. but it’s also “natural” to show mercy, form alliances, and share resources. invoking nature to dodge responsibility for wrongdoing cheapens our own humanity. we’re more than beasts acting on urges; we’re beings capable of empathy and reason. that’s the difference. if you do something terrible, don’t blame the wolves; blame yourself for choosing the wolfish path when you had the option not to.

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sometimes i wonder if our species ever really left the wild. we claim we’ve outgrown the brute struggles that shape an animal’s daily life, yet turn on each other with a casual cruelty that suggests otherwise. war, betrayal, exploitation—these aren’t anomalies; they’re recurring themes in human history. we hurt each other for profit, for power, sometimes for nothing more than the twisted thrill of it. a part of me wants to say we’ve made no progress at all from the days when our ancestors fought over scraps in the savanna.

but then i look at nature—at hurricanes, at predators stalking their prey, at the simple fact that most living things spend their waking hours trying not to die—and wonder if i’m being unfair by calling humans “uniquely evil.” isn’t the lion just as vicious to the gazelle? except the lion isn’t malicious; it’s hungry. to call nature “evil” is to assume it’s out to get us, when in reality it seems mostly indifferent. you don’t matter to the storm. you’re just in its path.

that’s the real paradox: human cruelty feels different because there’s an intent behind it that we don’t see in nature. a tsunami isn’t malevolent; it’s a natural force. but a person who schemes or abuses or murders? that’s a being with self-awareness, presumably capable of empathy, deliberately choosing harm. so we recoil at that choice in a way we never do with tornadoes or grizzly bears, because we know we could do otherwise. we could choose compassion. and when we don’t, it’s a special breed of horror.

yet, sometimes humans can be more generous, more protective, more loving than any creature on earth. that’s the knot: maybe we’re “evil” to one another precisely because we’re also capable of the opposite. free will cuts both ways. a lion can’t be anything other than a lion, but humans can be angels—or devils. maybe that’s why people say “man is wolf to man,” but i think the comparison sells wolves short. a wolf rarely kills for reasons other than survival. we do it for a thousand arbitrary motives, or none at all

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so i found myself thinking about why we do “good” things the other day—like, do we do them for the results, or because we just know we should? it all started when i walked past this homeless guy who asked if i could spare some change, and i ended up handing him 2 euros. now, a classic utilitarian take might say, “hey, that improved his situation a bit and cost me next to nothing. win-win, right?” but then i remember kant, who’d probably be like, “that’s cool, but were you truly respecting him as a fellow human, or just trying to feel good about yourself?”

it got me thinking how some people do good deeds mostly for the warm, fuzzy feeling—or maybe even for a little moral grandstanding. but for kant, the question’s deeper: are you genuinely treating someone as a full person, or just a means to your own emotional reward? i’m not saying i’m out here writing philosophical treatises in my head every time i give someone money, but it did make me pause.

when you zoom out, it’s kind of a big debate: utilitarian folks say “focus on the outcome,” while kantian folks say “focus on respecting each other’s humanity.” sometimes those two views line up just fine, like when donating a few euros helps someone and you truly care about them. but other times, you see how they might collide, especially in those heavy, moral-dilemma scenarios (cue all the extreme what-if examples).

in the end, i’m not trying to solve that philosophical tug-of-war, but it helps to check in with your own motives. giving a homeless man 2 euros can be both a decent thing to do and a moment to reflect on whether you’re doing it from genuine kindness or out of a need to pat yourself on the back. maybe that honest self-examination is the real moral step forward, no matter which side of the theory aisle you lean on.

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so i’m currently enrolled in this pure math class, and honestly, i’m not sure i’ve ever hated anything more in my academic life. i mean, i expected it to be hard—everyone warned me that pure math is like diving head-first into abstract nonsense. but i don’t think i realized how much it would absolutely crush my will to live.

let’s talk about the problems we’re doing. right now, we’re working on proofs involving group theory, and i swear it feels like the professor is speaking another language. there’s something about showing that every group element has an inverse, or that some subgroup is normal, and my brain just shuts off. i’m not kidding—i look at the definitions and it’s like i’m seeing them for the first time, even though i’ve “learned” them three times already. i thought math was supposed to be about numbers, but apparently, we’re dealing more with letters than anything else. i’m basically drowning in the Greek alphabet every lecture.

and don’t get me started on these “elegant proofs” that are a single paragraph long. the professor acts like it’s the neatest thing in the world, but to me, it’s just more cryptic wizardry. i’ll see something like:

let g be a finite group of prime order p.

consider a non-identity element x in g.

notice that the order of x must be p.

thus g is cyclic.

and i’m sitting there thinking, “cool story, but how did we jump from step 1 to 4 in literally four sentences???” apparently, i’m missing some big chunk of intuition that pure mathematicians have. to me, it’s just “p means prime, so i guess it’s special.” i’m sure it’s “obvious,” but it’s the opposite of obvious to me.

the worst part is that i’ve spent hours reading the textbook, and it only frustrates me more. every definition references two or three other definitions, so i’m constantly flipping between pages trying to piece together a single concept. it’s like reading an instruction manual where you have to gather each sentence from a different part of the book. by the time i find all the relevant pieces, i’ve completely forgotten why i needed them in the first place.

so yeah, i’m struggling—big time. i’ll spend an entire night trying to solve a single proof question, only to realize i got stuck on step two of twenty. and even when i do figure something out, it’s usually because i peeped at a hint or asked a friend who actually “gets” this stuff. meanwhile, i’m left feeling like i just survived a boxing match.

why is it so dumb, you ask? because half the time, i don’t even see the point. i get that pure math is supposed to be foundational, and that it teaches you how to reason deeply about abstract structures. but i’m just sitting here like, “why do i need to prove something about these random sets and operations if i’m never going to use it in real life?” and yes, i know the typical response is “it trains your mind to think logically and abstractly,” but i swear i do enough mental gymnastics trying to figure out how to pay rent and schedule classes without messing up.

anyway, rant over. i’m still slogging through it, hoping something clicks or that i at least make it through the final without spontaneously combusting. i have mad respect for people who love pure math, but it’s definitely not for me. at this point, i’d rather do any other kind of math—heck, give me a hundred calculus problems with real numbers and real applications, and i’d be happier than dealing with another “suppose g is a non-abelian group of finite order…” statement.

if you’re reading this and you love pure math, more power to you. maybe one day, i’ll look back and think i was being dramatic. but right now, i just want to graduate without losing my mind.

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so i’ve been diving into schopenhauer’s counsels and maxims, section 38, and it basically amounts to this: “stop trying to fix every misguided opinion you come across.” no joke, he likens the effort to bailing out the ocean with a spoon—totally futile and bound to wear you out.

he also advises against correcting people’s errors mid-conversation, even if your motive is altruistic. apparently, it’s shockingly easy to offend someone, and once you’ve done that, good luck patching things up. schopenhauer’s basically saying: “ask yourself if it’s worth the fallout.”

my favorite bit is his strategy for when you overhear two people having a downright absurd chat. his recommendation? envision them as comedic characters on a stage. that mental shift can save you a lot of frustration—just imagine them bantering in a shakespearean farce instead of feeling compelled to set them straight.

lastly, he warns that if you see yourself as the world’s grand instructor—someone determined to teach everyone “the truth”—you’ll likely face serious backlash. people don’t typically appreciate being told they’re wrong, no matter how right you may be (he’s probably channeling a bit of socrates here).

overall, the takeaway is that social life isn’t really some grand arena for constantly chasing ultimate truth. you might think you’re doing a public service by correcting every misconception, but schopenhauer says you’ll probably just invite conflict or damage relationships. maybe it’s better to let some discussions go—if only for your own sanity. thanks for the reality check, schopenhauer.

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i miss how cute i looked here

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i have a sore throat fml

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my husband cannot cook at all but he is cute

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this my lawyer im going to jail dawg

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Non est ad astra mollis e terris via

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fog at the cemetery

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täna sõin hommikuks lihtsalt natuke puuvilju, apelsini ja õuna. lõunaks tegin kerge salati tomati, kurgi ja salatilehtedega, veidi oliiviõli peale. õhtuks keetsin pastat brokoli ja paprikaga. suht lihtne, aga täitsa maitsev.

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i’ve been thinking a lot about how we tend to separate the sacred from the everyday, and how that split between “spirit” and “matter” can get us into trouble. marion woodman talked about it in one of her lectures—this idea that western culture especially has elevated spirit as something pure and holy, while treating the body (and everything “earthy”) like a second-class citizen. we see it in the myth of eve and the serpent, where matter—literally “mother”—got shoved into the realm of sin and darkness, and spirit got to float off into the realm of light.

thing is, this attitude isn’t just about a bible story. it’s also about how we view ourselves. whenever we shove down our anger or jealousy or lust or grief, telling ourselves we should “rise above” all that, we’re basically saying our human messiness isn’t acceptable. and that, i think, is where addiction often steps in. if you’re stuck in a world that doesn’t want you to feel what you feel, it’s easy to see why so many people look for ways to escape—from booze, from food, from shopping, from endless doom-scrolling.

one of the coolest parts of woodman’s talk is her emphasis on honoring the feminine as embodied in this figure she calls the “black madonna.” it’s a symbol of the divine that’s fully down here with us on earth, not hanging out on some cloud. the black madonna is strong, messy, rooted in the body and the soil, and she’s not afraid of darkness—she sees it as the place where new things are born. that’s such a radical shift from traditions that say you have to follow strict rules and keep your “bad” impulses in a box if you want to stay spiritually clean.

that brings me to organized religion and why i think it’s so often part of the problem. don’t get me wrong—there’s value in having a community and a shared set of values, especially if it gives you comfort and a sense of purpose. but in many cases, these institutions have historically doubled down on the spirit vs. matter split. they push heaven or some transcendent realm as the “real” goal while treating the earth, the body, and especially women’s bodies as corrupt or lesser. and that has huge consequences, because if you think your body (and by extension the entire physical world) is just a testing ground for your soul, you might not care about it as much. you might ignore its signals, blame it for your problems, or see it as a temptation that has to be beaten into submission.

all of this can lead to a lot of shame, fear, and guilt—sometimes to the point where people give up on themselves or adopt a hyper-judgmental attitude toward everyone else. nobody wins in that scenario. personally, i think the best way forward is to reclaim our wholeness. we can still be spiritual beings, but let’s do it in a way that doesn’t make us hate our humanness. there’s something magical about realizing that the “divine” might be right here in the sweat and tears and mud of our everyday lives, not off in some perfect sphere.

when we start to pay attention to our own bodies—listening to that inner voice that says, “hey, i’m hurting, can we slow down?” or “i’m craving sweetness, but maybe it’s not actually chocolate i want, it’s emotional warmth”—we build a bridge between spirit and matter. we learn to hold tension between higher ideals and lower impulses, and in that tension, something new arises, something that actually respects both parts of who we are. that’s what woodman calls the emergence of a “third thing” or a new consciousness. it’s that moment when you’re no longer killing off half of yourself just to stay “good.”

honestly, i believe if people stopped treating this planet (and our own physical forms) like some moral prison we’re trying to escape from, we might actually solve a lot of global problems. we’d probably treat each other with more compassion, too, because once you accept you’ve got your own messy darkness, it’s harder to judge someone else’s.

anyway, that’s what’s been on my mind lately: that maybe if we can end the war between spirit and matter—if we can embrace our bodies, our emotional depths, and the earth as sacred—we might finally find a little more peace within ourselves and with each other. it’s not an easy road, especially when so many people keep telling us we have to choose between our souls and our bodies. but i think it’s worth trying to prove them wrong.