The path is muddy, rocky, and leads to the unknown. No matter what route we take, our mind always has questions, wonderings, and doubts. The road less traveled always seems easier, shorter, even quicker. The path fills itself with surprises and at times, seems confusing – a combination of wondrous flowers and prickly thorns. Challenging on one side, it can most certainly be uncertain.

Fifty shades of green create a palette. Everyone comes in a different size and shape. Each carries his own baggage and burdens. No two fingerprints are the same but we all share the same expressions of love and fear. All humans are created equal yet each is unique and distinctive. All five brothers share the common mother but practice individuality. Around the same situation, we react differently and each reaction reflects differently. All fifty shades of green harmonize. They all come together and create a garden, fauna, the greenery.

Water sits so calm. Buddists call it nirvana – “an imperturbable stillness of mind after the fires of desire, aversion, and delusion have been finally extinguished.” Hindus rave about moksha – “liberation from samsara, the cycle of death and rebirth.”

Mountain top – the ultimate goal. The tip of the mountain presents a challenge. The goal seems so high, so far beyond the reach. The closer you get, the farther it seems. You will be dismayed, you will lose hope, and you will be beaten down. The goal will still carry its smirk and roll its eyes. One must climb, and keep on climbing until there’s no more to climb.

The sky is the limit. The limitless. Goals are achievable but there’s always an opportunity untouched, and a leaf unturned. A mysterious puzzle, an indefinite staircase, the list of prime numbers, a simple woman, and stars in the sky – all unknown, all incomputable.

One photo tells the story. One photo shows the facets. One photo describes life.

“One must climb, and keep on climbing until there’s no more to climb.” – Roohism

Whenever I am in custody of a dark chocolate, a Thumbs-up, or a lychee, I turtle out my neck, look to my left, right, and left again to gage if anyone else realizes it because I may be forced to share the goods. It’s an awful feeling. You will never find me at a temple but these are the rare circumstances when I religiously pray. My sister however, always bragged, “The best thing about Roohi is her willingness to share everything with a smile.” Earlier, it disturbed me and almost baffled me but today, I realize that even though I was reluctant inside, what mattered were my actions, what mattered was the outcome.

It was August 2000, my first week on the campus and I climbed down the stairs of Joe West Hall. I had read Dale Carnegie, a gift from my brother, and was ready to practice my influence. An old lady was passing by and I remember greeting her good morning and admiring her beautiful scarf. I instantly became a reason for a stranger’s smile and it instantly became a reason for mine. It must have been important for I still remember that early morning.

Selecting a product portfolio can get tricky. My papa and I always disagreed on whether to sell what I wanted to sell or what customers would want to buy. Businesses are planned based on the forecast and not what you can produce. Demand is the driver for the supply. Customers pose a question “How many can you build” and my answer remains consistent. Being a smart-ass that I am, I always reply with a smirk – “How many would you like me to build?” It’s the same in any relationship. It’s not how you feel but how you make the other feel. It’s an art of sucking it up and putting others before you. Make the other happy and you’ll never regret the outcome. It’s a no-brainer; it’s a win-win.

If you see someone crying, share a joke; when one’s thirsty, share a coke; when there’s a frown, brave a poke; make a funny face and Google a joke.

Try it. I say just give it a shot. Just inspect the width of your smile after you’ve made someone’s day and you may just embarrass Julia Roberts.

Offer a hug. Share a burger. Pay for a broken bottle. Cheer one up. Buy a gift. Be a little possessive. Pamper the old. Protect your friend.

Do it consciously. Do it willingly. Do it selflessly.

“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” – Gandhi

My pedometer doesn’t lie. I wanted to appreciate the afternoon and stroll by the lake. As soon as I stepped outside, my first view was of the infinite green grass carpet that continued towards where the earth and sky meet. The ground elevated itself into the sky and then hid behind the frothy clouds. Little lambs filled up the pasture like little sprinkles on a butter pecan icecream. The cool winter 1°C breeze turned my nose into a pale pink color while the body warmed up just to overcompensate. It was a perfect demonstration for ones who know my dramatic nose.

I started walking and while my smile touched my eyes, several thoughts kept invading my mind – the bank account, immediate debits & credits, my overall worth, the near future plans, current desires, and the overall purpose. A quick pause and I apologized to myself for digressing off base. I jolted back to the different shades of colors, almost like an artists’ palette. I realized how the idea of a mirror came about – it must have been while looking at your reflection on any of the 20 major lakes in the Cumbrian region.

At times of high stress, I have trouble falling asleep and so I turn towards my iPhone and open an app. I turn on the sounds of a river, the ocean, a flute, and some drops into a bucket. At times, the chimes do the trick. Lake District is where the geniuses came to record those sounds. I found myself standing at a juncture where water was trickling down a little stream into the lake, while the water in the lake made waves, almost jealous of an ocean. The branches swayed and gifted a free ride to the leaves. I stood there and recorded the perfect merger of these sounds, the sounds that we take for granted, the sounds of nature.

I walked, walked some more, and kept on walking. My shins had started to complain but my other senses dominated over. I kept walking, and then I walked some more.

12.8 kilometers. My pedometer doesn’t lie.

After crossing the Atlantic on a 10-hour flight and zig-zagging down winding roads on a 2 hour drive, I forgave myself surprisingly quickly for not having a strong desire to catch up on work emails. The key to flying east is to force yourself to stay awake until the sun sets, otherwise you’ll live like an owl for the rest of the week. Anything in a seated, comfortable, or warm position would be a murder of today with intent, a combination of mens rea – a guilty mind, and actus reus – a guilty act. Jet lag hates fresh air, daylight, exercise, and a strong will. I fought against myself, stood firm, and said, “don’t argue with me, you smart-ass!”

And so, with my hesitant will, I picked up my headphones and changed into my flat shoes. “Let me roam aimlessly outside the hotel,” I said! While listening to the podcast ‘The Overwhelmed Brain,’ I started walking amidst all this fresh oxygen. I became aware of how raw and pure the air feels – it won’t be too bad if I practice what my yoga teacher keeps yelling about – inhale & exhale. I shifted my senses, paused my brain, and activated my vision. I observed the little flowers on the grass and random thoughts invaded my mind. If I start walking on the grass, would I be crushing these little flowers? But if I don’t, how do I get from here to there? Am I being selfish at this very moment? But what about all the little organisms we inhale just by breathing? What about the ants we crush when we walk and the mosquitos we murder?

Amidst all these thoughts and while trying to focus on the podcast, I experienced an itch to make a U-turn and go back to the hotel; move towards a seated, comfortable, and warm position. I observed and accepted the existence of this itch but it tirelessly returned with an increasing strength every 5 mins. I told myself to keep going, not knowing what lay ahead of me.

In the back of the hotel by the pool there were a bunch of stairs, but when I looked up to see where it led, I couldn’t see. It reminded me of those moments in our life when we don’t know the end result; we know we are moving, but don’t know where. There is a fear of the unknown, and a certain uncertainty. Within microseconds, my mind filled up with negativity – what if there’s nothing there? What if it’s a waste of my time and effort? Why sacrifice my precious calories? Why leave the comfort of where I am where I can see everything? But I kept going.

At the top, this is what I found.

Oct 2005: I was a fresh graduate with a bucket list that started with three bold words: Everest Base Camp. I didn’t know then that it would take twenty-one years of life and ten of the most incredible humans I now know to finally cross it off… cross it off with the very specific, nostalgic sensation of pressing your royal blue Reynolds pen onto a crisp, blue-lined notebook, leaving the ink with its permanent, messy mark all over your fingers.

It’s a stain I’ll wear forever.

And really, who better to share this expedition with—a certified stamp for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that demanded months of sharpened focus and training—than the person who has known me my entire life: my brother.

Now, back in the thick air of Kathmandu, the reality and the true magnitude of standing at the base of the world’s highest peak at 5,364m has finally settled in.

What you see in the photos—the colorful gear, the menacing poses, the mischief in our eyes—is really just the tip of the iceberg. Hidden beneath is the raw grit it took to move, knowing that “one step at a time” was fake news, especially when we had countless steps and kilometers worth of a grind ahead. Trekking 70km while navigating the ‘known unknowns’ of the human body took a toll we couldn’t have predicted quite accurately. It was a relentless, individual battle; every time we looked up, the goal remained at a distance, staring down and questioning our intention, determination, and perseverance—all at once. The knees ached, the body surrendered, and confidence wavered. Every single morning, we had to wake up, give ourselves a chilly shake, and find a way to fake the strength we didn’t yet feel.

We survived -19°C nights where the cold rented our bones, navigating over 70km of grueling terrain and an altitude that brought challenges we didn’t even know existed, turning every breath into a hard-earned victory. From extreme fluid retention and a total loss of appetite to functioning the last three days on just two boiled eggs, the struggle was raw. I remember my entire anatomy shaking vigorously just to swallow a Diamox, my lungs extracting with full force every bit of the 50% oxygen available.

The “teahouse shock” was real… the drastic differential between the Yak & Yeti’s luxurious spoils and the raw reality of Gorakshep. No washbasin, the toilet window slightly open and ventilating the fresh, crisp -19°C air, and the teahouse management shrugging their shoulders with a “I don’t know dude, figure it out” kind of attitude.

But we just didn’t survive… we thrived—simply because we had each other. We made it through on the heavy repetition of monotonous Dal Bhat, the warmth of our shared stories, and a soundtrack of Bollywood hits spanning every decade. Despite the fancy menus presented at every single meal, accompanied by that rhetorical question, “What would you like to have today,?” we already knew the offerings by heart. And yet, each day offered a sliver of hope that some new option might miraculously appear and excite our eyebrows. Dismayed, we’d find the same old Dal Bhat, noodles, or eggs and toast. In the end, if it weren’t for Paddy and his red mirch-masala, we would have all surely died of esophageal boredom.

We were excited for every new view, every suspension bridge, and every peak in sight; at the same time, we were opening up our onion layers, one per kilometer, or one each over ginger-lemon-honey tea. New perspectives, hidden treasures, and Bollywood melodies… right until our guides told us to shut up and focus on conserving our energy (or maybe just focus on what to order for dinner).

We struggled together in the quiet, freezing moments and celebrated loudly at our final party, where we handed out “awards” for the absolute madness we endured. It was a night of pure joy—recalling a Guinness-level “breakup” at high altitude, an Opera Award for a snoring symphony that could’ve woken the dead, and the existential crisis of someone questioning if their HRV should be low or high while gasping for air. We toasted to friends, me included, who got the best of high altitude, and shared a laugh for those who literally left pieces of themselves—mostly via their digestive systems—all over the Khumbu Valley.

It wasn’t just the compounded effect of collective snoring that became a highlight; it was the compounded effect of the individual fire we each carried that pulled us through. Amidst all the masti and the unfiltered leg-pulling, we shared a quiet, subtitled pact: we drafted a goal, and through thick and thin, we were going to dodge the missiles and drones of a world at war just to get to that start line, stick together, and see the finish. Swollen faces, stomachs hollowed to the lining, zero energy, and crushed souls—it didn’t matter. No war, no differences, and no geopolitical chaos was going to come between us and the base of the world’s highest peak. It was us 11 vs. 5,364m.

Back in reality now, I’m breathing okay but the heart is heavy. It feels good to do laundry and to feel like a simple human again, but I’m experiencing an ‘unknown known’—an extreme case of withdrawal symptoms. There was so much to learn from the other ten; I watched mental strength, true grit, and inner force manifest in real-time. It was almost as if I could turn the inner self inside out to see what truly lies beneath the smiles and the laughter—the realization that when the mind conceives the goal, the body has no choice but to follow.

They say you leave a piece of yourself on the mountain, but I think we did the opposite—we brought the mountain back with us. 11 of us went up, and 11 of us came back, inspired and in awe, as a unit, as family. Twenty-one years was a long wait to finally turn that page, but as I look at my hands, I realize the “messy ink” from 2005 has finally dried. Everest Base Camp—the very first item, the three bold words on my bucket list are checked. The sticker on my bottle is earned. The stain is permanent, and the journey? I wouldn’t trade it for all the oxygen in the world.

“Mountains to climb, depths to venture; Oh Time, please walk slower.” – Roohism

I close my eyes and suddenly I’m time-traveling back to my backpacking days in New Zealand. I’m standing on the edge of a glacial lake — the air crisp, the oxygen traveling deep into my lungs, and the view, oh so mesmerizing. The water sparkles like crystals, a shimmering tapestry that looks like a polished mirror reflecting the sky.

A bird flies past at its own velocity. Would a bird flying by the same lake have a similar experience? We share the same water and the same magic, but the same lake is shaped by multiple variables, weaving two very different perspectives. From my side, I see a perfect, flat brilliance; but from the bird’s view directly above, the shades of blue are uncountable — shifting and deepening based on the rocks, the sand, and the hidden depth of every pocket below.

I am looking at my upcoming climb with these eyes, but my mind is stuck in a cycle of lists — all the business tasks that need to be wrapped up before I lose the WiFi signal and cellular coverage for good. I’m still occupied by the mundane, mentally juggling things that haven’t even happened yet. But a dull ache in my legs won’t let me stay still; I need to stretch. I walk to the very back of the plane — the galley, a late-night refuge for the talkative and a quiet rendezvous for the restless.

Baskets of French cookies, caramel candies, and crackers are laid out like a peace offering, but the Indian in me spots the mini Nescafé sachets first. I just wanted a cup of coffee with a familiar smell — a momentary break from the mental to-do list. But in this small, humming corner of the sky, I start talking to a twenty-five-year-old sailor.

As I share the details of my journey, his expression shifts. His eyebrows defy gravity and his smile grows wide. Suddenly, he is looking at me with pure, unfiltered awe. He is a boy, really — newly and freshly stepped into the real world, still hunting for the extraordinary. Despite his eight months at sea, he hasn’t been hardened yet; he still has that raw wonder for heroes. In the span of a single cup of coffee, I have become one of them.

He is captivated, demanding that I post everything so he can live the experience vicariously through me. It hits me then, with a sharp prick of realization: Shouldn’t I be more self-obsessed and filled with pride? I am the same person doing this climb, but while my mind is occupied by a never-ending list of stupid, mundane tasks, I’ve instantly become a hero in his eyes. What if I looked at myself with his vision? What if I decided to finally be the hero in my own eyes?

I owe it to myself to stop letting the ordinary hold me back. It’s time to chuck the list and start imagining the oxygen that’s about to go deep. I need to give this journey the depth it deserves — to shift my perspective and finally look at myself with the same awe as that twenty-five-year-old sailor.

After all, I own being a bit ‘extra,’ and it’s time I started acting like it.

The list is gone. The mountain is waiting. My perspective has shifted.

Once you peeled off the layers — and it took approximately three minutes per layer — each one of us was exactly who we were ~12 years ago.

The same goofy eyebrow raises. The same worse-than-inappropriate jokes. The same desire to do nothing but hang. And the same comfort of being accepted exactly as we are.

We first met in 2003, graduated in 2005, and reunited in 2018. Such a random scatter of lives: a third kid on the way, a thriving café, an engineer in the cannabis industry, bouncing from Dallas to Manhattan. Yet somehow, something magical pulled us back to the ISE clubroom — back to that lazy couch.

Our reunion transported us straight to the hallways of the Engineering building, where the bold, playful version of me roamed free, introducing herself to random strangers: “Hi, my name is Ruhi!” Boom — best buddies! With no words needed, just our smiles took us back to a time when the only excuses we ever made were for staying out longer, laughing louder, and refusing to grow up.

We reminisced about the night we drew a Hitler ‘stache on our drunken friend’s face. About laughing for twenty minutes straight when our buddy mistook wasabi for chutney and downed it in one heroic, fiery gulp. And oh, the post-exam socials, sponsored by Professor Komrosky. We even replayed the night we broke the car entry gate and ran for our lives, only to show up to Economic class the next morning, pretending nothing unusual had happened.

Yes, we all have responsibilities now — the pressure, the act together, the adult packaging. But underneath all the layers, we’re still the same little kids craving freedom, connection, and acceptance. If I could go back in time and change a thing, I wouldn’t. I’d still be the annoying frontbencher, the smart-ass who knew all the answers. And I’m certain none of these backbenchers would change a thing either.

There are two ways to look at layers — the traditional way, where you peel them one by one to uncover who someone really is. And then the other — where life itself adds the layers: adulthood, responsibility, success, heartbreak, society, the whole circle of becoming “someone.”

When you make new friends, they need to peel back those layers one at a time to get to know the real you. But when you meet your old friends, those same layers just slide off. Or do they?
Maybe that’s the real magic of reunions — they don’t just bring old friends back together, they bring back the old versions of us too. It’s like sitting in a time capsule — suddenly, you’re not in 2018 anymore, you’re back in 2003, wearing the skin of your younger self. The goofy one. The reckless one. The one who still thought life would unfold exactly as planned.
And that’s where it gets interesting. Do the same things still spark joy? Or has the gap between then and now stretched so wide that you barely recognize that kid? What was important to you then and what has changed? Did you promise yourself you’d finally be happy when you got that decent job? And when you did — were you? Or were you perpetually looking for the next source of happiness?
Did you know, even back then, that no matter how many promotions you earned, how many new versions of the iPhone you bought, or how many extra zeroes you chased in your bank account, you’d still be hunting for the next big thing — desiring what you don’t have yet and taking for granted everything you’ve already accomplished?

What you thought would bring you joy then… did it? Or are you still seeking? Still hungry for more? Still insatiable?

At the time, you just wanted to pass the exams. Now, you drive a nice car, live in a beautifully decorated home, have a fancy job that makes you walk with pride, maybe a healthy stock portfolio, enjoy the best makeup from Sephora, probably have plans to host people for the holidays. You are, by all measures, the hero version of your younger self. But — are you?

Maybe it’s a good time to pause. To reflect. To do a little reverse gap analysis.

Reunions have a funny way of humbling and flattering you at the same time. They hand you a mirror — not the magnifying kind that shows your pores, but the soulful kind that shows your before. These friends were your biggest fans long before you had achievements, titles, or polish. They loved you when you were raw, broke, dramatic, and a little bit ridiculous. They remember your clumsy confidence and your half-baked dreams. The qualities they adored back then — do you still carry them now? Or did they quietly slip out the back door while you were busy perfecting your grown-up act?

Reunions have a way of peeling those layers back. They remind you that beneath the sophistication and the spreadsheets, the polished conversations and the curated life, there’s still that wild, grinning, slightly unrefined, beautifully unfiltered version of you — the one who laughed too loud and dreamed too big.

If you could borrow one thing from your younger self — a spark, a virtue, a ridiculous habit — which one would it be? And think a little deeper: what if the version of you you’ve been trying to outgrow is still the one holding the brightest spark?

Right between the moment something falls apart and the moment you figure out your plan, there’s a gap — and it’s filled with the unknown. And it usually arrives with a side of nausea.

When you don’t know your next destination, the milestones, or even the way forward, your tummy aches, hormones stage a mini rebellion, and suddenly you’re clutching at the nearest safety net like it’s the last vest on the Titanic.

And the unknown brings with it a few uninvited guests. Ah, this happens to me every time I muster the enthusiasm to meditate. I tell myself, today is the day — sit down, take a few long, dramatic breaths.. and then, just as I think it’s working, the entire cast of Cirque du Soleil tumbles in — each with its own loud personality, a trick to show off, all pulling in different directions, each fighting for my attention. It turns into a Delhi-style traffic jam in my head, where useless thoughts march in like spam emails — relentless, tacky, multiplying by the minute.

And then the “what-ifs” descend from above — dramatic, merciless, until your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out reason. The void becomes a danger zone. Instinct kicks in: we cling to safety, dodge the need to act, put off what needs to be done, and hide inside the soft cocoon of a Friends episode you’ve already seen twelve times.

But honestly — where’s the fun in that?

I was reminded of this recently when I met Nathan Wisdom. We bonded instantly over our love for Italians and their unapologetic devotion to joy: the dinner parties that refuse to end, the scandalously ripe San Marzano tomatoes, the chili oil that interrupts every bite with a raised eyebrow and a reset to the palate, the laughter so loud it shakes the glasses and wakes the neighbors. Somewhere between the tomatoes and the philosophy, Nathan dropped it casually: “Oh, I’ve written a book. Would love your perspective.”

Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t — either way, I took it seriously. I bought the book, waited for Amazon to deliver it, and then let it sit on my desk like a dare. Days passed until one evening felt “right”. Lights dimmed. Blanket pulled. Tea steaming. Chapter One.

I read the entire book, but one sentence has stayed with me ever since. And this one I’ve kept in the vault because it’s not disposable. It’s a treasure.

It’s not the kind of line you casually highlight with a Sharpie and move on. No — this is the line you rewrite in your diary, screenshot and add to your Google Keep, toss into random conversations just to hear other people’s interpretations. You circle it, revisit it, wrestle with it — until suddenly you’re halfway out the shower, shampoo still in your hair, shouting Eureka!

Here it is:

“What is this creating space for?”

Simple. Innocent. Annoyingly brilliant. Devastatingly effective.

When there is a void — when something fails, when life doesn’t go your way, when expectations crumble — we default to the dark side, the victim’s corner. We sprint to the negative and leave no room for anything else. The script writes itself: despair takes over, hope exits mid-show, and in Bridget Jones’ case, it leads to a pint of dark chocolate ice cream.

But this question changed everything. Suddenly, you can actually put down that Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge and ask yourself: what is this situation creating space for? Something else? Something out-of-box? Something that will only connect the dots later?

This innocent little question has widened my thought process, stretched my tolerance, and flipped negatives into possibilities.

A plan fails? A door slams? A path disappears? Fine. I’m no longer willing to stay down.

My old mantra was: get up, dust off, and do it again. Now it’s evolved: get up, dust off, have a little ice cream, do it again — and also ask, what space just opened up for me?

And that shift has turned the unknown from something terrifying into something strangely soothing. No longer nausea, but anticipation. No longer a void, but a clean slate. A blank sheet of paper. A mischievous land of opportunity.

Not an end. A beginning. Not a void, but a launchpad.

From 2017, on his 3rd birthday:

The night before, he would start asking when I’d arrive. He kept asking every hour until I did. When I finally showed up, he wanted to sneak a peek. Shy, hiding behind walls and doors, giving me only quick glances. Almost always, I had to trick him into talking to me, pulling him closer bit by bit. It was slow and patient, but he loved it. He wanted me to catch him, to come find him, and he said yes to everything I gave him.

“I love you, Bui!”

When my 3-year-old nephew said these words, the world stopped. For a few moments, every trouble froze. For those five seconds, I was the center of his galaxy. I felt caught in his magical web, surrounded on all sides by unconditional love — love that doesn’t judge, doesn’t measure, doesn’t hold back.

The older I get, the more I wish I could go back and be three again. To love without limits, without conditions, without expectations. To push back on a world that always asks us to calculate and measure. To stay true to simply feeling a feeling.

From 2025, on his 12th birthday:

Last night, I opened one of my oldest books, Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. My name stared back at me in old, dusty handwriting. And suddenly, on this day, I felt the desire to give him the greatest gift of all: a rusty old book. On its first page, with the smell of wood and ink pressed into it, I would write with my own hand:

Dearest of all, my little Kunnu — September 24, 2025

Sixty years from now, when he is surrounded by gadgets that answer every need yet cannot soften solitude, I hope he sits down and opens this book. I hope he travels back to when he was just twelve years old.

And in that faraway world, galaxies from here, where perhaps the 29th version of Optimus serves him tea (or a single capsule of nutrition)… where the iPhone 78 is nothing more than 23 cameras welded together… where Bitcoin has finally proven to be a major disaster and dissolved many stock portfolios… where his face looks ageless but sharper, his biomarkers perfect, all human-AI puzzles resolved — he may wander into an old wooden library built to hold his memories. He may open the book, one that still carries the same dusty smell of a worn page, and read my name.

He may remember my face. He may feel my love. But most of all, I hope he remembers my mischief — me running after him with a phone in my hand, trying to capture a video he was shy about just yesterday.

And when he does, I hope he feels my love the same way I felt his back in 2017 — without limits, without conditions, without expectations. My truest wish is that he stays loyal to what I once called it: feeling a feeling.

Deep cleaning is downright dangerous. One minute you’re tossing out old receipts, and the next you’re staring at photos from a life that feels both impossibly close and impossibly far. Old laptops, mysterious USB sticks, photos from questionable angles — all little time capsules of who you once were. Half embarrassing, half endearing, all proof that you’ve lived.

One such harmless photo pulled me all the way back to 2005. My bank balance had traveled to a place no one should ever go: below zero. The dark side, where overdraft fees sit impatiently waiting, rubbing their greasy little hands together. Funny how when you don’t have money, the banks are the first to charge you more.

But life has a wicked sense of balance. I was broke, yes, but I had just landed my very first engineering job at Solectron. Finally, an aha moment for me — and for my entire family, who had carried quiet doubts about what would become of me. A job at last. A promise that I’d earned it. Proof that I’d be fine. That I was, in fact, going to become the master of my own destiny. And thanks to my dear friend Irete, I wasn’t sleeping on the street. She gave me her couch, unlimited mushroom garlic pasta, and all six seasons of Sex and the City — on cassette, mind you. Pre-Netflix, but “Roo on a couch binge-watching” was already a movement.

Now, let’s clear one thing: I wasn’t a Carrie. I was firmly Team Samantha. Carrie had her shoes and endless relationship drama; Samantha had her power moves and unapologetic charm. But Irete? She worked at Apple in Cupertino, back when owning a MacBook was practically a secret club reserved for employees. She had a style entirely her own — the only woman I’ve ever known who would iron her bedsheets after spreading them on her queen bed. The kind of woman who gifted me an Estée Lauder Pleasures perfume set and taught me the art of spending on myself — spoiling myself. A woman of style, a big heart, and an infectious smile. We’d already built our bond in college — two Nigerian women navigating the world in our own ways — and that connection only deepened as life pushed us into new chapters.

One night we decided to host our first “grown-up” party. Half the room had just graduated, walking with the shiny new confidence of people who believed they’d “made it.” The other half were in their final semester, sipping wine with that smug look of “almost there, almost cool.”

The night blurred quickly — the wine flowed, laughter filled the living room, and the humor was peak early 20s: relentless teasing, inside jokes, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache. Then came the moment, tattooed in my memory.

A thump. Loud enough to snap me out of my haze. I squinted, trying to focus, following the sound of unstoppable laughter. And there she was: Irete, toppled off the couch, still clutching her drink like a champion, laughing so hard she couldn’t get up. The party paused, but the laughter didn’t.

That’s all I remember from that night — not the details, not the conversations — just the sound of laughter that wouldn’t end. And maybe that’s the point: overdrafts fade, IKEA furniture breaks, but the laughter sticks.

But let me clarify! The abbreviated term ROFL came later. Irete rolled first.

The best kind of wealth is friends who make you laugh until one of you fall off the couch