LEE SHERMIN

Learn the Feeling Don't Learn the Language. Learn the Feeling. We've been taught to chase knowledge, to memorize facts, to master grammar and equations. But what if we've been chasing the wrong thing all along? Don’t learn the language. Don’t learn the knowledge. Learn the feeling. When you're learning something new — a language, an instrument, a craft — pause and feel. Let your body flood with that warm, buzzy joy. That peaceful satisfaction. That sense of curiosity and wonder. Why? Because feelings create habits. The joy, serenity, excitement, and cocktail of positive emotions you feel *in the moment* of doing something? That’s the real teacher. Your brain remembers that high, and it wants to chase it again. That’s how mastery starts. Not with duty. Not with discipline. But with delight. Harness the p...

If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be writing about my time at the Institute of Mental Health (IMH) with anything close to fondness, I would’ve laughed (then probably cried). Back then, walking into IMH felt like the greatest tragedy. Like I’d failed my family and myself.  But here’s the plot twist: it wasn’t the end of my life, not by a long shot. It was the beginning of something strangely beautiful. Don’t get me wrong—being a patient at IMH was tough. The walls weren’t always comforting. The nights were long. And the questions in my head? Endless. But in that raw, stripped-down space, something softened in me. I began to notice the little acts of kindness—the nurse who remembered my name, the doctor who really listened, the other patients who just got it without me having to explain. I saw love there. Not the sappy, rom-com kind. But the fierce, quiet kind. The kind that shows up in crisis. The kind that shares a banana when you haven’t eaten all day. The kind that lis...

Reclaiming Our Spark: In an Age of Celebrity-Worship, We've Forgotten Ourselves In this day and age of celebrity worship, we’ve unknowingly handed over our creative birthright. Scroll through social media, flip through the TV, or walk past a magazine stand — we're constantly bombarded with curated images of fame, talent, and perfection. We admire them, applaud them, and secretly wish we could be them. Somewhere along the way, we’ve bought into a lie: that greatness is reserved for the chosen few — the big names, the stars, the ones with millions of followers. We tell ourselves, “I could never sing like that,” “I can’t dance,” “I’m not creative,” and slowly, we accept a version of ourselves that is smaller, quieter, and dimmer than who we really are. But the truth is — we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten that we are all born creators . That spark we see in the ones we admire? It lives in us too. Before we learned to compare, before we learned the words “not good enough,” we wer...

Who needs a horse with hooves of fire  Or rockets soaring ever higher?  I’ve got a snail, all cool and slick,  With armor made of stone and stick.   He’s not too fast, I must confess—  We crawl through mud, we crawl through mess.  But slow, you see, can still be strong;  The shortest path can take too long.   His eyes pop out on little stalks,  He leaves a trail on all our walks.  He hums a tune (or maybe farts?)  But this brave little snail has got some heart.   We do not fight with sword or gun,  We fight with jokes, and joy, and fun.  Our battles bloom with daisy bombs,  We march with music, singing songs.   The generals, they point and sneer:  “What kind of warrior rides from here?”  But still we slide past rage and roar—  Two peaceful rebels in a war.   So if you’re lost in battles loud,  And tire of pleasing every crowd,  Just find a snail, and tak...

Before you hush another's cries, hold your own trembling voice with grace. Before you wipe small sticky hands, wash your heart in a quiet place. You are a garden, overgrown— weeds of shame, and roots of gold. Pull softly at what’s no longer true, let your soul's bright green colour come through. Tuck yourself into bed tonight, with lullabies you never knew. Wrap arms around your longing child, say, “Darling, I believe in you.” Forgive the days you rushed along, too weary to play, too sad to speak. Your breath is sacred. Take it slow. You’re allowed to rest. To be. To seek. Parent yourself like someone dear— like the child you once were, still. Feed your hope, comb out your fears, and meet yourself with gentlest will. Only when your well is full can your love spill out and stay. To teach a child to dance in light, you must find your sunlit way.

FAMINELY There is a kind of hunger that doesn't start in the stomach. It begins in the space between a newborn’s cry and the silence that answers it. Not the comforting hush of a held child— but the cold absence. The still air. The flicker of a screen lighting a mother’s face as she scrolls past the sound. The breast is replaced by a bottle that is tilted by a hand that is thinking of other things. The eyes that once locked in primal bond are now distracted, tired, gone. The father steps in, shoulders slumped with the weight of not-enough. He smells like exhaustion— like trains, like missed moments. He looks at the child as if trying to remember what it was he promised. He doesn’t stay long. Just long enough to touch the air near the crib, and vanish into the next demand. We were meant to be touched. To be sung to, sweated on, suckled, rocked until the boundaries between self and other dissolved. Instead— we are weaned on distance. Soothed by algorithms. Raised by convenience. And...