Author: Saba Javed

The Spring That Colored My Hands I remember that spring in my early twenties, new to the city with just a suitcase and a dream. The air smelled of cherry blossoms and wet pavement. At a market stall, jars of pastel nail polish colors lavender, pink, yellow caught my eye. I bought three shades: blue for lost days, peach for confidence, rose like my grandmother’s lipstick. Painting them on felt like whispering, “You can be soft and strong.” Fall’s Gentle Pull Back It’s September 24, 2025, and fall’s golden haze is settling in. I’m drawn to pastel nail ideas, not…

A Cold Coffee Run and a Search for Something More I remember that gray February afternoon in 2023, Milwaukee’s wind slicing through my coat like it was nothing, standing outside a Water Street coffee shop, fingers too numb to swipe my phone right. I’d just left a job interview a part-time boutique gig and felt like a fraud in my faded wool sweater, carrying the ghost of last winter’s rain. That’s when wantable clothing popped up in a desperate search for something to make me feel less invisible. Wantable, a styling service promising curated outfits delivered like a gift from…

A Rainy Morning and a Flicker of Hope I remember that gray morning in early 2023, rain hovering in the air, undecided, as I stared into the foggy bathroom mirror after another restless night. At thirty-five, the exhaustion felt unfair work bleeding into family chaos, the kind where you’d plan a run but end up scrolling through feeds of people glowing with some secret vitality. That’s when AG1 greens, or Athletic Greens as it was then, slipped into my life via podcast ads. “What is AG1?” I whispered, half-mocking my own desperation, as if a green powder could mend the…

A Closet Full of Chaos I remember that spring in 2012, standing in my underwear in a cramped city apartment, staring at a closet that felt like a stranger. I’d moved for a job that never panned out, hauling boxes of clothes up three flights of stairs, each sundress and sweater a piece of who I thought I’d become. The air smelled of rain and lilacs, and sunlight slipped through the blinds, soft as a whisper. But nothing fit not for the job interview at noon, not for the coffee date at four. My half-hearted spring capsule wardrobe from the…

That Rainy Day I Took the Scissors I remember that rainy afternoon in my cramped Brooklyn apartment, the kind where the windows fog up and the world outside softens into a gray haze. It was late fall, maybe 2012, and I was twenty-four, a little lost after a breakup that left me staring at my reflection like it belonged to someone else. My hair was long then, a heavy curtain I hid behind, but that day, something shifted. I grabbed those dull kitchen scissors the ones that could barely cut paper and started snipping at the front, whispering to myself,…

A Flea Market Spark I remember the first time I slipped into a pair of colorful sneakers that weren’t just safe, scuffed-up white ones I’d worn to death. It was a sticky summer evening in 2012, fresh off a breakup that had me hiding in oversized sweaters. I was wandering a Brooklyn flea market, the air thick with the scent of old books and pretzels, when I saw them: bright, multicolored tennis shoes, electric blue and sunny yellow, like a paintbrush had danced across my gray life. They were probably knockoffs, but I remember thinking, “What if I let a…

A Rainy Night That Started It All I remember that rainy February evening in 2010, my tiny college apartment humming with the faint pulse of my neighbor’s vinyl through the walls. I’d just ended a relationship, the kind that fades quietly, leaving you with a bowl of cold ramen and a heart too heavy for the TV’s glow. The Grammys came on, Beyoncé blazing across the screen, her voice cracking something open in me. I sat there, thinking, “What would it feel like to sing your scars into something that heals others?” That night, under a worn blanket, I promised…

A Rainy Day That Shifted Everything I remember that rainy afternoon in 2020, feet sore from a long cafe shift, when I ducked into a boutique. The saleswoman, with a smile that felt like she knew me, handed me heels that didn’t hurt strappy, low, but enough to lift my spirit. As I buckled them on, something clicked, like I could stand taller without apologizing. That memory floods back now, scrolling through feeds of high heel crocs and balenciaga crocs heels, wondering if this is what it feels like to blend comfort with that fierce spark. Why Crocs with Heels…

A Rainy Night’s Promise I remember the first time Boston fed my soul, not just my stomach, on a rainy October night in 2012. I was a broke BU freshman, heartsick from a breakup that still twinges when I think too hard, wandering the South End with a friend who swore we’d find the best dinner in Boston. We landed at Myers + Chang, a buzzing spot back then, splitting dumplings that burst with heat and sweet. We laughed until the rain stopped, the city lights smearing like watercolor. I remember thinking, maybe this is what best Boston dining means…

A Rainy Night with Ferris I remember catching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on late-night TV, sprawled on a lumpy college apartment couch, springs jabbing like they wanted out too. It was a rainy spring night in ’87, the kind that traps you indoors, and there was Matthew Broderick, all sly grins and fearless charm, ditching school like it was a revolution. I laughed, spilled my cheap wine, staining the cushion I’d later call “artistically distressed.” At 19, I dreamed of my own wild escapes, and Matthew was the spark. Years later, over morning coffee, I’d wonder if that same spark…