“Serendipity is my favorite word, it sounds so perfect for what it means, doesn’t it?” The words rolling off my tongue as I excitedly share with C. A small smile plays on my lips every time I articulate these syllables, like a secret meant only for my loved ones to hear. At first, the word was nothing more than a flicker to me; it was as subtle as a glance that lingered long in the air. I stumbled upon it when I was nine, googling words that sound as pleasant as they look. I don’t remember the details much, but it definitely piqued my curiosity and quickly became my favorite word.

It’s all a bit strange but, well, I don’t mind it. Some people think it’s goofy, some find it interesting and want to hear more, others might call it plain silly and laugh at my small fascinations. Behind the soft beige aesthetic on my profile, the real me is that I geek out on things most would never even think twice about, haha. It’s a strange kind of joy, one that is tucked away like a little treasure in the corners of my mind. It is subtle, though, almost enigmatic to 99.9% of people who know me, but somehow, once I feel at ease with someone, it always spills out. It’s odd. I think a lot, and usually, people get deep into their life dilemmas or experiences, but things that linger in my mind apart from those ‘real issues’ are things that are small and strange—more importantly, they are insignificant, like the word ‘serendipity’.

I’m not ashamed of it, though. It’s about noticing—noticing that perfect word, that perfect moment, that perfect alignment of everything even when you didn’t expect it. Think about a fresh-smelling flower, or the sight of your friend radiating with a genuine smile, or even the unspoken warmth of strangers looking out for each other on the confusing, impoverished streets of San Francisco. The way I get intrigued by the little things, in those seemingly trivial moments—perhaps at least once in your life they've caught your attention too—are worthwhile thoughts to me. If anything, it’s these moments that make life feel more than just a string of days leading into another. To be fair it is silly, perhaps even quirky because who has time to pay attention to these things? But, in my defense, it doesn’t take time. It’s in the pauses, in the fleeting seconds, in the simple things that most people overlook, that life reveals its true beauty. 

As I continue talking to C, I realize I’ve drifted a bit from my original thought, finding myself quite embarrassed for being amused by a word I accidentally shared.

“It’s funny,” I continue, “how life has a way of showing you these little serendipitous moments, even when you’re not looking for them. Or when you think you're not ready for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not just a word. The word itself isn’t what matters to me; it’s the meaning behind it. It reflects how I understand life—how you might understand yours. Have you ever found or looked for serendipitous moments in your everyday life?” 

I pause, then laugh a little, feeling the warmth and silliness of this conversation. 

“By definition, serendipity is the occurrence of a happy or fortunate event by chance, often when you least expect it. To me, it always feels like I’m waiting for something—something big or meaningful. And you start to doubt if it’s ever going to happen because, well, time. There’s so much I want to do, so many passion projects I want to take on, but it feels like it will take forever. I don’t have enough time in a day. Life has begun to feel more mechanical, more routine, and I don’t like it. It’s as if everything I have to do is planned or anticipated rather than discovered at the moment.” I pause, reflecting. “I don’t want too much of that. It’s all too structured. I want my life to flow with a natural rhythm, to build a sense of serendipity. I need those fortunate accidents that inspire creativity, push me to growth, or spark innovation; Sometimes, noticing the small things can inspire me to do something meaningful for others or create something I can call my own. But because it’s taking time, I always feel like it’s not happening. I feel like I have to create space for those unexpected blessings and moments of joy to flow naturally into my life. But then, to be honest, these little things have already been falling into place slowly, in ways I can’t always see or understand until much later—or explain to anyone. That’s serendipity, right? The beauty of life unfolding in ways you could never have planned, without realizing it.”

There’s a soft silence as C considers what I’ve said, their eyes flicking to the side where the light is slowly fading, casting long shadows on the floor. The sound around us—the occasional hum of a passing car and the rustling of leaves outside—are muffled, as though the world itself is holding its breath. We sit close, but not too close, each of us lying on separate pillows in the corner nook. C wears a white linen shirt, its fabric catching the last of the daylight, flowing softly in the gentle, golden haze. I, on the other hand, lean back, my legs stretched out in front of me, wearing an oversized white tee that falls loosely over my shoulders, the soft cotton crumpled slightly at the edges. There's a quiet comfort in our contrasting stillness—his poised, my relaxed. Quiet and unhurried. It was nice for a brief moment until I can feel myself wanting to crawl into a hole, a very strong post-yap clarity settling in. Oh my god. I shared a little too much, a little too soon. I sound like an aging monk who has lived most of his life in a temple, preaching about how enlightening and fulfilling life can be while living off a diet of rice and herbal teas. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake by opening up, literally going off on a tangent and accidentally thinking out loud. (Ed Sheeran, hi—love that song by the way, big fan hehe)

But then, I catch myself.

Because isn’t this what I’ve been talking about? Those fleeting moments that catch you off guard? Maybe this—this feeling of uncertainty, of wanting to withdraw—is part of it too. The way life nudges you out of your comfort zone, showing you things you didn’t know you needed to see. And as I look at C, I realize I do in fact want to share this side of me with them. Because, you know, what C thinks matters to me, and it’s those small, almost imperceptible moments that feel like I am catching something special without realizing it.

I look at C again, and something shifts inside me. There’s this warmth, this quiet intimacy to it all, a subtle sense of belonging in their presence. It’s not loud or grand, but it’s there, woven into the spaces between words, the safety of these silences that say more than any conversation could. I think back to the times when we tried to plan. We’d try to force things, to make the moment fit, to check off all our boxes, but it never felt quite right. And, ironically, it’s when we didn’t plan at all that things fell into place perfectly. Like how we met—how we came together—just by being in the same place at the same time. Or that random moment when I tapped C on the shoulder, both of us hilariously drunk out of our minds, and it somehow turned into the start of something we never expected. 

There’s something beautiful about those moments, the ones that seem so insignificant at the moment, but in hindsight, feel like the exact thing was supposed to happen. The way life doesn’t ask for permission to surprise you; The way things fall into place without any real effort, like a puzzle you didn’t even realize you were putting together. And you would mess up, but you keep trying, fixing, sometimes even starting all over again, until the last piece clicks into place. I used to think I had to plan everything, but now I see that maybe it’s the things that catch you off guard that are the most real. I like serendipity because things that happen without expectation, like that one random tap on C’s shoulder, in this moment, together, are moments that make life feel like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be.

***

Looking back at that conversation, I realize I wasn’t talking about a word, I really was talking about life, about those fleeting yet profound moments when everything falls into place, and you can’t help but feel that something greater is at work. Serendipity, in all its quiet, unspoken beauty, has been the framework for my life. It’s something that pulls me through a bad day just by appreciating the little, normalized beauty in the present. It spills into my perception of the world: grounding me in the pursuit of something greater without forgetting to appreciate the moments, all by noticing what makes us profoundly human, and the things that feel profoundly genuine.

The thing is, I didn’t always have this mindset. It all began because I yearn for the day I get to create. I’m someone who is constantly overflowing with ideas. I love storytelling. I love art. I love music, photography, design, and writing. There are a couple of passion projects I worked on privately as my creative outlet, but as more important priorities piled up, I couldn’t carve out small pockets of time to devote to them. I felt so stifled and would literally feel dead inside, not knowing why I was doing what I was doing, but simply, just, doing. I remember sometimes I felt like life was a tornado and I was just a cow :D being spun around for cinematic value :D. And because that was how my life felt to me, I mentally and emotionally lost touch with myself (sounds dramatic but seriously, if you lose that one passionate thing that kept you afloat amongst how ugly life and people can get sometimes, you don’t connect or trust anyone, including yourself). I got very scared of not just failing, but even trying; curving back into my avoidant self and making terrible decisions to run away.

This is all quite vulnerable for me to share so I won’t get deep into it *scary*. 

But, let me tell you what brought me back home with myself. A serendipity encounter on the most random nine-to-five day: a short conversation with a retired designer at Sweetgreen who encouraged me to start a blog and pick up writing again, which has been my passion since young as it was my teenage dream to be a journalist. He was sitting alone at the corner table, his presence almost regal in its solitude. His attire—a tailored charcoal blazer, a brown Fedora hat, green pants, and an effortlessly draped silk scarf—to me, spoke of a man who had long since mastered the art of individuality, a quiet nod to an interesting being. As he took slow, deliberate bites of his meal, his eyes wandered over the room, content but never hurried. And I, who was also at Sweetgreen alone, muscled a bit of courage to approach him. Little did I know that this conversation would shift my perspective so much.

He could tell my eyes were empty and distant. I was pale and emotionless according to him, as if there was hollowness in myself. Then, he shared with me his designer background and I immediately geeked out, showing him a couple of things I wrote and designed in the past that I rarely… felt safe to show anyone. He smiled so brightly, telling me to put myself out there, not because I needed my work to be seen or feel seen, but because when your passion is revealed instead of hidden, it becomes a bridge that connects you to the world, letting both your creativity and your soul breathe freely.

I thought of my grandma, how he reminded me of her—always knowing the right words to say at the right moment, with a kind of effortless wisdom. She had a way of speaking that was so gentle and thoughtful, and she would always reach into your heart and find the words you didn’t even know you needed. It spurred me to reflect on myself—the topics I was avoiding to talk about, the hurt I felt, the difficulties I couldn’t face, and the regrets I still can’t let go of. A part of me is still broken from her passing, but in that conversation, through him and his words, I sort of reconnected with that childlike sense of wonder I’d once had.

This blog wouldn’t exist if that conversation hadn’t happened at Sweetgreen. I was honestly having a terrible few months, trudging through the hours when everything seemed almost too much to bear. I had been stuck in a rut, disconnected from the things I once loved, seriously feeling like nothing was clicking and just trying to get my shit together lol. But then, out of nowhere, that encounter with a retired designer who had no information about my private life spoke to me with so much patience, understanding, and wisdom. I didn’t leave that conversation feeling all motivated, haha. It was such a small part of my day, and to be honest I’d normally brush it off. But something about it—how it came from a stranger, someone of an age like my grandma’s, who didn’t know me at all yet seemed to understand me so well and told me exactly what I needed to hear—struck a chord with me. I left that restaurant and everything within me just clicked. It wasn’t dramatic or life-changing in a typical sense, but it was enough to make me see things differently. Since that day I’ve promised myself to live an intentional life, to try to understand why things happen the way they do, even the small, insignificant ones.

It’s silly, I know, maybe overly romanticized too, but it brought a refreshing sense of novelty, perspective, and connection into my life that isn’t bound by expectations. At its core, it taps into a reminder of our common humanity—our innate need for connection and everything that makes us profoundly human. It’s what’s taught me the kind of person I want to be with acute attention to my daily life. When I think about the people who have taught me the most about kindness and myself, it’s not the ones with the loudest voices or the most impressive stories. It’s the quiet ones, the ones who don’t need to be seen to feel seen. They are the ones who never rush in with solutions, but who lean in, reach out to you, quietly listening, asking what you need in the most unassuming and unconditional way. And surprisingly sometimes, it comes from people you don’t even know. To me, that is serendipity, the moments that find you when you’re not looking for answers and/or from people you least expect, as if life itself is reminding you to slow down, notice, and breathe in what matters most.

I also learned that true connection—the kind that leaves a mark—almost never starts with someone offering help and isn’t bound by familiarity. It begins with a genuine curiosity about who we are or who they are, what we want, and where we are, even if we don’t have all the answers. There’s no backstory, no judgments, no layers to peel away—just understanding and empathy. I know it all sounds a bit idealistic, but I think appreciating the little beauty in your everyday life is a skill. It taught me that sometimes it isn’t about perfection, but about presence. It’s in the pauses between sentences, the look shared across the room that breaks you and your friends hysterically laughing, the way time seems to stretch and bend when you’re truly engaged, that makes me feel like I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Perfection often feels like a destination, something to strive for, but presence—the ability to immerse yourself in what’s happening, to feel it deeply—is where the richness of life is found. It’s the difference between rushing through a moment focused on the end result, and pausing to truly experience it, to savor the small details that might otherwise be overlooked. To me, it’s a skill that can pull you through a bad day and gradually evolve into a richer, more mindful life. It makes everything feel more profound, more honest, and more textured. And even if others don’t get it, I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything.

Truthfully, now that I’ve poured it all out, I hope you find your little moments of serendipity ◡̈ . Even if your view of the world is different from mine, I hope you never brush off the small things that spark your passion. After all, life is made up of present moments and real connections. Find them, hold on to your loved ones, and to that part of you that still gets excited about the small wins.

PS: Serendipity. I hope this word reaches you like a little gift too.

With love and an insane amount of gratitude that you read this far,

Christa