A few years ago, I published this essay about how I had finally quit biting my nails. I look back on it now and wrinkle my nose in distain for my younger self. How foolish! How naive! Who was I, to think I had quit this compulsion I’ve harbored for 30 years?

I confess: I am still a nail biter. That little blip in 2023 when I had stopped was a cute little respite.

Now I wear press-ons. This is probably not good for me in the long term, but they’re a lot harder to bite than my natural nails and they look way nicer.

I hate that I bite my nails. I feel so ashamed of it because I know it’s disgusting and it’s completely irrational. It never eases my nerves. In fact, it gives me more to worry about because 1) germs and 2) I assume that anyone who sees my stubby little fingers will think I’m a little nervous freak. Maybe I am a nervous little freak, come to think of it. And how could anyone—myself included—love a nervous little freak?

The only thing that comforts me in my shame is knowing that everyone has compulsions. We all do things we wish we wouldn’t, but we simply can’t help ourselves. It’s a form of self-sabotage. We are driving the car in the crash we can’t look away from.

Sometimes, these compulsions are so bad professional medical help is necessary. But there is a huge grey space below that threshold. What is the difference between a compulsion and a quirk? Or extreme dedication? Or just letting our nerves or frustrations or hurt get the best of us in an act we immediately regret? It’s a space I’ve been exploring a lot recently.

With that, welcome to this series of fictional short stories. I’m calling it Compulsions. Enjoy!

Healed.

Doug broke it off with me last March while I was doing my intervals on a treadmill. He texted me to say that after 6 months, he wasn’t sure if he’d enjoy the sex with me down the line.

This came the day after he agreed that our arrangement—without labels, of course—was working for him. Because this was the most commitment I had ever received from Doug, I rewarded him with some tasteful nudes.

“I just don’t think we’re what each other is looking for,” Siri read to me in her neutral, robotic voice. My shock caused me to lose my footing and I flew off the treadmill, bruising my elbow on the lockers behind me. Thank goodness this was Planet Fitness, a Judgement-Free Zone.

My ego? Crushed. My self-esteem? Subterranean. On top of everything, his name was Doug. What kind of 29-year-old man was named Doug? Maybe that’s why he didn’t like the sex. It’s not exactly a moan-able name.

I cried on my way home, sipping the protein shake a concerned staff member had passed to me as I hobbled away and promised not to sue. I was hurt and ashamed. Not only had I spent half a year trying to convince a Millennial man with a Gen X name to like me, but I failed.

But all that’s in the past now. I’m nine months recovered from that insult. I’m thriving. I’ve had sex with two more people, neither of whom had any complaints, and I haven’t fallen on a run—indoor or outdoor—since.

I also have a new boyfriend! Well, maybe. It’s early on—only two months. He’s in his 30s and has an age-appropriate name: Arik. He seems to like spending time with me, and I enjoy myself well enough with him, even though one of his rotating jokes is just using a Jar Jar Binks voice. I am willing to overlook that, considering his enthusiasm for cunnilingus. We’re talking hours here. That’s all time I don’t have to contend with the voice of a Gungan.

I barely even think about Doug anymore. Well, except for recently. All these memories of getting to know him kept popping up as I’ve been getting to know Arik. It’s okay, though, because I read an article that said it’s normal to have flashbacks of traumatic relationships when you’re entering a healthy one.

That may actually have been a TikTok, but I’m sure it was based on an article somewhere. The person speaking into her phone with a ring light said that it’s all part of the healing process.

And I am healing just fine! Arik recently agreed to let me come with him to buy new shoes. That’s definitely a sign that it may be serious one day.

Because I am moving into this new, recovered phase of life, I decided to unblock Doug on Instagram. I remembered it was his birthday recently. He’s a Capricorn—famous for being stubborn and blunt with squishy emotional cores. I wanted to tell him that I forgive him for what happened between us, it being the new year and all.

To my shock, I found that he had reposted several pictures on his story of his “girlfriend” Veronica wishing him a happy birthday. Or maybe girlfriend, without the quotes—he hard-launched her in one of his subsequent stories.

This was an outrage! A committed relationship, after he told me the most he could handle was coming over for a night every couple of weeks? After I was the perfect low-commitment non-exclusive girlfriend. Well, okay—“girlfriend.”

I clicked on Veronica’s Instagram page. She was beautiful. There are videos of her busking in a subway station with her open guitar case decorated with dollar bills. She curated a capital-l Look, wearing things like a statement poodle skirt or horn-rimmed glasses or a noxiously bright lip. Sure enough, there are Doug’s heart eyes emoji comments littered her posts. One even had the filthy drooling emoji. What a simp.

My first thought was he chose her over me because I’m not artsy enough. I hate this about myself. Curse my parents choosing to have sex in the new year to have a pragmatic Virgo daughter! I will always be too much for the creative types to whom I am drawn.

But then, because I am mature, I remembered that Arik liked my sensibility. He appreciated the dinner reservations I made and the offer I made to replace his boots with the hole in the sole.

A lump formed in the back of my throat. I quickly re-blocked Doug. No need to subject myself to that anymore.

But then I remembered something my favorite therapist on TikTok told me: It takes years to overcome an anxious attachment style, which Doug clearly had. It all made sense—Doug didn’t choose to be happy with Veronica instead of me, he simply wasn’t happy! This was all an Instagram facade!

Silly me. I bet Doug was doing just the same and working at that bartender job he had in between gigs. Doug was an artist, too. An actor, actually. My understanding was that his biggest role was as Gary the Snail in a nationally touring version of “Spongebob: The Musical.” I never told him I knew this because frankly, it’s embarrassing, and I wanted to protect his dignity because I am very compassionate.

I decided that I would still be the bigger person. He didn’t deserve a DM explaining my forgiveness! No—these kinds of conversations are best had in person.

I called Arik to ask if he’d like to get a drink at the Irish pub where Doug works. Of course, I didn’t tell him Doug would be there—that would be weird. Arik initially declined, but then I reminded him that it was in the same suburban strip mall as a Nordstrom Rack, so we could get him some new shoes.

He perked up instantly. “Okee-day!” he chirped, and I wasn’t even bothered. I picked him up 20 minutes later.

My astrology app said that Mars was in Libra and sure enough we were in luck! As soon as we walked into the bar, empty except for a few older men glaring at each other from afar to avoid any potential small talk, I spotted Doug wearing his uniform green bow tie and tan apron. He had cut his hair, but it was now slicked back in a weird way that heightened his widow’s peak. Sad!

Arik and I took two stools covered in a green shiny plastic on the other side of the bar from Doug. “Exsqueeze me!” Arik called, and I immediately started rummaging in my purse for nothing. I was hoping to have a little more time in between Binks outbursts.

As Doug approached us, I looked up in time to see a brief flicker of recollection on his face. Then surprise. Got ‘em! I tossed my hair, which had grown at least four inches since he last saw me, and I cricked my neck. I willed my eyes not to tear up as I made polite but determined eye contact.

“I’ll have a Guinness, please,” Arik said, mercifully in his regular voice.

Doug nodded and turned to me. “Hey, long time, no see. What will it be?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you worked here—I’ll have the same as my boyfriend,” I said, flashing a smile and letting that sink in for effect.

Neither man responded to my words. Arik was looking around the bar curiously, as if he only realized how strange it was that we were some of the only people here on a Wednesday afternoon. Doug nodded and turned to get the drinks.

I decided that it would be better to get it all out there so we could all be adults about this. “Just so you know, I forgive you!” I blurted.

Doug turned back. “What?”

“I get that you’re still probably hurting from the way things ended between us,” I said, using my gentlest, most gracious voice. “I just wanted to know that to tell you that I forgive you in the hopes that it’ll help you move on.”

“Oh, um, thanks, “ Doug said. “I’ll get those drinks for you.” I noticed triumphantly the pink creeping up his neck as his gaze moved away from me. Good! He should feel some remorse!

Rather than leaving to go grab our drinks, though, he smiled and waved at someone behind me. I turned.

Adorned in layers of bright and mismatched outerwear, there was Veronica. Her cheeks were perfectly rosy from the cold. I was annoyed, but then I realized it was probably a calculated, exaggerated blush application.

The old me would have been flustered. Thank goodness I’m healed. I retained control of the moment.

“Hi, babe!” she called. “Thought I’d visit you at work!” I groaned inwardly. Of course she’d be sweet and peppy.

She kept her smile as she made her way toward us, noticing how we were all clustered together. She had to know we all knew each other; the sexual tension was palpable, probably.

Veronica picked the stool right next to us to sit down. “Hi, I’m Veronica,” she said as reached up to ensure her try-hard beret was in place.

“I didn’t know that,” I replied coolly, and I stood up to leave. Nice save, I thought as I confidently strode out the door, leaving my coat and my boyfriends behind.

If I’ve caught you on the last year of 2025, congrats! You made it!! I bet you did more than you thought you could this year 💜 If you’re reading this on New Year's Day, what a journey we’re about to begin. I hope you feel optimistic and ready for it.

Let’s get into it:

Harold was three fingers deep into me as he told me how worried he was for his son.

“He’s a 14-year-old kid, but people don’t see him that way,” he said with a deep, velvety baritone. “They just see a 6’1’’ Black man—and he just doesn’t get that. Now swish that around for me,” he added, removing his dental tools and allowing my mouth to close.

I vocalized sympathetically as I used my cheeks to move around the water and remaining tooth polish in my mouth. Harold brought a mobile sink over to me and I spit. “That sounds really hard for you as a dad,” I said.

Harold clicked around on the computer behind me and sighed. “Yea. He’s a good kid, you know? Anyway, nice meeting you! The dentist will be with you shortly.” With that, he left the room.

I toyed with my paper bib and ran my tongue along my teeth after Harold left. Part of me wished we could have continued talking—or at least that I could have listened more. Regardless of the speed of that interaction, it felt far more real than the usual chitchat about the weather or upcoming holiday.

It seemed like maybe Harold needed to get it off his chest. I suppose people coming in to have their teeth cleaned are the perfect recipient for such confessions; there’s not a whole lot we can do to change the subject.

I’ve never minded being on the receiving end of a stranger’s divulgence. This is a good thing, because my conversation with Harold is one of many surprisingly deep, brief encounters I’ve noticed recently. Sometimes they’re heavy, but other times they’re just little portals into another person’s life. Each one is an unexpected blip of vulnerability, like a cat arching its back and brushing your leg before scurrying off.

A person at the hair salon told me she finally left her abusive ex after two years, even though she knew it’d be hard to be a single parent to her two kids. Young women on the metro told me about their plans for a queer night out after finding themselves, at all places, at Catholic University. A librarian told me he had no idea how he was going to meet the expectations of his 7-year-old daughter, who told him that afternoon she expected him to have 32 cupcakes for her class to celebrate her birthday the next day.

I understand the appeal of confessing something to a stranger. It’s extremely low stakes; we’ll probably never see each other again, or at least not for a long time— enough of a window for us to forego acknowledgement of any previous interaction. I do it too, sometimes. Shout out to James, a newcomer to my running group who listened to my angst about a recent visit to see my in-laws.

Of course, you could just anonymously put your secrets out on the internet. This eliminates all risk of any future embarrassment of being known. Lots of people go this route—just check out any relationship Reddit forum, any online advice forum, or if you’re feeling spicy, New York Mag’s weekly Sex Diaries. There is a confession for you to read or contribute to of essentially any genre, so long as you have a connection to the web.

In fact, that was the whole appeal of the internet when it first became widely accessible. I’m old enough to remember the advent of sites like Post Secret, where users send in brief confessions on a postcard that would be displayed on the site. It’s still up and running today. I guess it goes to show that everyone still likes confessing things, and many more of us love reading them to feel less alone.

I’d argue, though, that it’s because of the proliferation of places online for us to all be anonymous that in-person connection matters more. Being a random handle online can be freeing—but the experience becomes cheaper when everyone can do it.

It also becomes more isolating. Some people feel more empowered to say the ugliest things imaginable because of the lack of consequences. That, combined with the proliferation of AI, I’d argue that internet is quickly becoming a deeply inhuman place.

It’s hard to escape this detached iteration of the internet. Before Covid, we had gradually moved the majority our lives to the internet for convenience. That accelerated immensely over the pandemic out of necessity. I would argue that was also one of the many reasons that time was so unbearably miserable, aside from all the grief and omnipresent fear for our lives.

Now, nothing is forcing those interactions back to real life, aside from in-office mandates. But in my experience, connections forged by capitalism are often inauthentic and unsatisfying.

I have close friends and family that I speak with regularly. I love them dearly, and interactions with them make up a huge proportion of my social life.

But they’re also usually over the phone, unless we’ve made specific plans to meet up. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely prefer a world where I can reach a friend on the other side of the world with the press of a button than one without that luxury—but that means there’s less incentive to participate in our actual physical communities.

Sometimes the moments that recharge me the most in a day are those small surprises I share with strangers. A little humanity, as a treat. We all just need to witness and be witnessed to the unremarkable moments of life in between the Big Things and Horrors.

I don’t plan to unload heavy thoughts to people I see randomly in my neighborhood—nor would I welcome a drastic increase of being the recipient of those types of interactions in 2026. But I think I’d like to try to stay open to others next year. It may be awkward or inconvenient sometimes—but that’s a pretty great price for the smallest unit of community.

What else have I been up to?

My plan was to write an essay per month in 2025, and I straight up forgot in November. Ah well—it was the holidays, and I am human.

I saw Oh Mary! earlier in the month, and closed out with seeing the Trans Siberian Orchestra in concert yesterday. Both had me in tears laughing, although I don’t think the latter was intended to be funny. 10/10 would recommend both.

Honestly, the bandwagon rules sometimes.

This month I also read some of my favorite books of the year. I finally read Frankenstein, the Mary Shelly classic, and it holds up 200+ years later! I am also deeply into The Game Changers series, aka Heated Rivalry, and those boys have ruined my life in the best way. Thankfully, I’ve been able to lean on my other new obsession of Dungeon Crawler Carl to balance it out.

Follow me on Storygraph for more of my recent reads.

That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️

If you’re new here, welcome. This newsletter came about from my health reporter days when I wanted to find a way to give life to the fascinating tidbits that got cut from my stories. Now it’s evolved into a space where I write about what I learn wherever I can.

Happy Halloween, dear readers. I’ve always been pretty fascinated with monsters—specifically, those we label as the Devil.

My favorite kind of stories are those about characters who make deals with Devils. For a story to fit this genre, it has to follow a set arc. We start with a protagonist we can root for. They’re ambitious, they’re underdogs, and they’re crafty. We see ourselves in them.

Immediately, something shifts. Circumstances change, and our hero finds themselves in a dire situation. Their determination morphs into desperation. They have no way out or no clear path forward and alive.

Then, just when it seems they’re trapped, they’re given a life-line! A supernatural being comes into their life and offers them a way out. For a price, our hero can have all the time, power, or success they need.

But there is a catch: This supernatural being is the Devil or a god—some dark power, it doesn’t matter what kind. The price will cost our hero a lot. More than any benevolent being would ever charge.

Is there such thing as reason when the stakes are so high? It’s not clear—but it also doesn’t matter. Because in these stories, our hero makes the choice to trade a part of themselves for the solution in front of them.

It’s fine at first. They get out of their bind, and maybe even choose to use their newfound resources to help others.

Predictably, however, the other shoe falls. Our now anti-heroes lose autonomy over their bodies, their relationships, or even their minds. Regardless of exactly how it happens, they’ve traded a key part of their humanity. And then, even if they get what they needed, the outcome is wasted on the person—or monster—they’ve become.1

On a superficial level, I like these stories because they always make me ask myself if there’s a world where I’d make such a deal. Would I trade the person I am today to have the power to realize my deepest desires, or alleviate my worst anxieties? It’s kind fun to dream this way, like asking yourself what you’d do if you won the lottery. It shows you where your values are.

Whenever I conduct this thought experiment, I quickly remember that I don’t buy lottery tickets. I probably wouldn’t make a trade with a dark power, either—not that one has ever asked.

But the more I’ve read these stories, I’ve noticed they have other similarities, too.

Importantly, every time I read these, I realize the Devil character is…honest. They’re upfront that they can give power, and that they will take much more. Even with all that on the table, our heroes still choose to engage with them because of their desperate circumstances.

Our heroes remain sympathetic throughout the story, too. Sure, they may become morally grey and make some selfish or otherwise questionable choices—but they’re at least relatable to us. They never quite become unrecognizable, even as they embrace their power.

The real villains, I think, are the ones who created our heroes’ desperation to begin with. And they are never the focal point of these stories.

They’re the ones in the background, creating systems to that allow them to hoard wealth and opportunity. Or, they’re upholding systems that are already in place, and hiding behind the fact that they aren’t carrying out direct violence against others. Most importantly, they’re almost never brought to justice.

In The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang, Rin makes a deal with a fire god to wield flame to fight for the rights of her people as a 20 year-old soldier. In I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast is Me by Jamison Shea, Laure, a Black ballerina in Paris, makes a deal with a blood river god because she recognizes that she will forever be dismissed because of the color of her skin. In The Secret Life of Addie LaRue by V. E. Schwab, Addie makes a deal with the Devil to avoid getting married off as a child bride.

The real villains do the vilifying. They drum up a frenzy about the dangers of the Devil and paint those who deal with them as monsters. The fear they create is very real—no one is saying the Devils don’t come with a touch of evil, or at least insurmountable greed—but it’s all just a distraction. The real monsters hide in plain sight.

When I observe the state of the world, I see situations that are becoming increasingly dire. Maybe they’ve been there for a while, but they’re not really getting any better for anyone, except for the ultra-wealthy.

The news is also filled with stories of those standing up to some of the systems in place. Sometimes, these retaliations involve terrible violence. I’m not saying violence is the right answer—but I am saying that when people are desperate, it can be harder to hold on to the parts of our humanity that would ordinarily prevent us from doing such awful things.

The discussion around the perpetrators of these radical actions focus on the acute crime itself. I think this is because it’s easier to digest as a story. Violence is wrong. Theft is wrong. These are things we can all agree on. In moments of real-world retaliation, we can see a clear “bad guy” as a single, comprehendible entity.

But the chatter around the systems that created that the perpetrator is a lot quieter. I think this is because it’s a lot harder to conceptualize, say, the people in the positions of power who feel untouchable because of their wealth, or the systems of oppression that feel insurmountable because of the centuries of momentum behind them.

I think that’s why I’m fascinated so much by these fictional stories of dark deals. They allow us to externalize the mechanism by which desperation dehumanizes us. It’s easier to wrap our heads around one bad guy, rather than circumstances we could never tackle on our own.

Sure, these stories are ultimately about our hero’s downfall. It’s sad to see them be consumed by this supernatural trade that was doomed from the start. But arguably…weren’t they already doomed? Wasn’t their trade just a way of taking a bit of agency back?

Thank goodness these stories are just fiction.

What else have I been up to?

October was a big running month for me! I ran both an ultramarathon and a regular marathon. Holy cow!

The strange thing about my running is that sitting here writing about it, I’m never fully confident that it was actually me out there. Like, logically I know that I was on the course. I paid the entry fee, I laced up my shoes, I lost many toenails as a result.2

But there’s something out-of-body about running. It makes makes it hard to reconcile the person covering the distance with the one writing about it later. I’m not sure what this means exactly, but I’ll get back to you when I have a better idea.

Follow me on Storygraph for more of my recent reads.

That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️

If you’re new here, welcome. This newsletter came about from my health reporter days when I wanted to find a way to give life to the fascinating tidbits that got cut from my stories. Now it’s evolved into a space where I write about what I learn wherever I can.

Hello friend, welcome to Scrap Facts. I’m Katherine, and I’m glad you’re here. Do you like this new logo?

For the last year and a half or so, I’ve set an early alarm at least once a week in order to make it out to the track.

I both love and dread these mornings. There is nothing like the sense of accomplishment of completing a track workout because they are so hard by design. B there’s also a unique anxiety from seeing exactly just how hard it will be when I check the paces the night before. I also feel a teensy bit of annoyance with myself when I realize that not only am I using my own free will to orbit a soccer field in precise intervals, but also that I am nervous about it. Bed was always an option.

But I still do it, and yesterday was no different. I woke up early, dawdled around the house just long enough to make me late for my self-imposed start time, and then arrived at a local track wearing spandex shorts, an oversized shirt I got for free from a 5k long forgotten, and a pair of running shoes more expensive than any of the heels I own. I took a deep breathe while I tried to wake up my muscles and relished the perfect temperature and low humidity.

I waved to some other track regulars—some friends whose names I know, others I just see often enough to know by face. I stripped down to my sports bra after warming up, and I after settled into a pace just on the wrong side of uncomfortable for my first rep as the sun came up I thought, “AI could never.”

I have truly tried my best to ignore Artificial Intelligence. In every think-piece I’ve read about AI and what its doing to our brains, medicine, business, the planet, etc. it seems like it has only two purposes: To save time, and to make some Silicon Valley nut a lot of money.

AI first started coming up at my job. As a journalist, AI was constantly threatening to replace us. It still does, although mostly at publications who don’t seem to care about the factual nature of the stories on their site.

Now that I’m a writer in a corporate environment, I get ads all the time for services that promise to use large language models to “make me more productive.” In theory, I’m all for tools that help me do my job faster, because I’d like to be done with the work day sooner.1 But given the amount of fact-checking and rewriting these tools require, this is a dubious claim at best.

Lately, AI has been pushing its way into my hobbies. Not only does this feel icky, but it seems to miss the point: Why would I want to take less time doing what I actually love?

Take reading books.2 Over the last four years, I have transformed back into the kind reader I was as a kid. I really love words and their structure as an art form, and I like experiencing perspectives I’d otherwise never know. Non-fiction tells us about the world or what happened in it, but fiction tells us how it happened to people—how they grew and felt and loved during it. Not that there has to be a point to reading a book; sometimes it can just be a brief escape.

Writing is similar. I write daily—sometimes a sentence, sometimes paragraphs, sometimes pages. I use both pen and paper and my computer. Most of what I write will never make it to anyone else’s eyeballs. It’s okay. I usually just feel better because I have written. The best I can describe it is like a big mental sigh.

That said, I always complain that I want to read and write more. I lament that I’ve been stuck on the same book forever or that I’ve written and rewritten an essay over and over and it still isn’t right.3

Theoretically, AI could solve these problems: it could simply tell me what happened in the book, or it could just do the writing and editing for me in a matter of minutes.

But I think we’d all agree that that would be silly: The point of my hobbies is never to have read the books, or to hit publish on a post. It’s to experience the storytelling or to make sense of feelings and ideas I otherwise cannot. Getting to the good part of being done only comes through the entire process. The pleasure is in the time spent. For activities that we truly enjoy doing, AI is useless.

And this brings me back to the track, where I can be found running for miles and going nowhere.

If the purpose of artificial intelligence is to save time, running is the anti-AI—genuine stupidity, you might say. Given all of our other choices from getting from point A to point B, running is one of the least efficient way to get there. Plus, once you arrive, you are very sweaty. Don’t even get me started on races, in which you pay three figures to start and finish in the same place. But you do get a banana, so there’s that.

Still, I love it. Running gives me a time where I feel the most at home in my body. On my best runs, I am both perfectly in tune with and completely separate from my physical form. Not every run will be that joyful, but even if something is off I can trust myself to make the right decisions for me in the moment.

I love the exercise of planning for the worst-case scenario and then remembering that actually, so many things can go surprisingly right. I love supporting other runners, regardless of their pace or distance or experience. I would never say that everyone should run—if you don’t like it or can’t, don’t do it!—but I do think everyone should have a hobby that brings them that peace.

I find that the only time running makes me truly miserable is when I think too much about the end—specifically, the time it should take to get me there. Instead of chasing goals, it feels like they’re chasing me. It feels like I’m supposed to be able to control exactly how this moment will go, and I just can’t. Some things, like the weather, I have no say over. And sometimes, you just have a bad day!

To me, track to me feels like the embodiment of the practice of running, rather than the outcome. Track workouts are almost nothing like a real race; as far as I’m aware there is no competition in which participants strive perfect splits instead the fastest times. So really, when you’re cranking out loops upon loops, it’s in service of just that moment and that moment alone. The build up of strength will come later when you recover, and over the weeks and months when you do it again and again.

Lately, it seems like running has gotten really big in the Zeitgeist. When I go online, I see so many young professionals in their 20s or recent divorcees in their 30s training for a long-distance race in a picture-perfect coordinated outfit and those wrap-around sunglasses.

It’s great to have a goal! Having something to train for forces someone to adopt a regular practice, which often involves prioritizing yourself. It’s an incredible feat to give yourself that dedication alone, regardless of what happens during an actual race.

But I’ve also wondered if there is a relationship between people picking up running as a hobby amid the rise of AI. Maybe, running provides an additional mental break because there are literally no technological shortcuts to make running easier. You cannot bypass the process, because the process is all there is. There will never be an AI for that—and it’s kind of a relief, to have to be present instead of thinking about optimizing your way to an end.

Not that I haven’t tried. Being online is a great way to connect yourself with new and old friends across the world, but the price is that its constantly baiting you to compare yourself to others. I totally get caught up in my own goals, and I’m often frustrated and discouraged when I don’t achieve them. This is most acute with running, I think, but I also feel bad about myself when I think I should be better read or more prolific and beloved with my words, just because others are.

When this happens, I usually shop around for a product or app that will probably not solve for any of these perceived short comings and will definitely be over-priced. I regret it later.

I’m 33 years old now. I am a a little more than a third (or maybe more??) of the way through my time above ground. I’m so daunted by how quickly it is going by, and I’m struck by how much time I’ve spent worrying about how long it will take me to accomplish various tasks instead of just enjoying things. The older I get, the more it seems like if you don’t enjoy the process, the outcome is never going to be worth it.

I am trying so hard to achieve so many things. I may or may not be successful. But at the end of the day, I just want to be the kind of runner who runs, the kind of writer who writes, and the kind of reader who cannot leave a bookstore or library empty-handed. I want to celebrate the fact that I chose this life as much as I could, rather than how I could optimize it. I want my joy to be something that AI could never steal, and certainly never replicate.

What else have I been up to?

I spent the last two weeks of August in Vietnam! It was amazing.

Aside from being with my favorite person, a true highlight was being able to take a 15.5 mile tour around Hanoi with a local. This was through Go! Running Tours, which I’d recommend if you like to run and find yourself traveling.

We saw so many cultural pinnacles and drank so much great juice along the way. The next day, we had a pho breakfast with Minh and his two kids. It ruled.

There were literally no stakes in this run, but it still made me so proud. Who knew that I would be the kind of person who could chose to spend their free time that way, and that get to know someone I never would have otherwise? Who knew I’d be fortunate enough to be physically able to do so? Honestly, it means more to me than most of the finish lines I’ve crossed in my life.

When I travel, I like to read books by authors who have a deep connection to my destination. When I was in Vietnam, I read:

• The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen. This won the Pulitzer prize in 2015 for literature, and I actually gave it to Minh, my running tour guide. It’s a bit dark, especially at the end, but I think it’s important—and also Mihn said he liked Russian literature, so I figured he wouldn’t mind.

• A Bahn Mi for Two by Trinity Nguyen. A queer YA quick read by a Vietnamese-American author that also serves as a love letter to Saigon and its street food. We didn’t get to go down to Saigon, but Vietnam absolutely had the best food I’ve ever eaten. (I would never share a street bahn mi because they are simply too good.)

• The Green Lotus Bud by Sơn Tùng. I only found one bookstore that featured Vietnamese translations into English, and this was one of them! This is the fictionalized retelling of Hồ Chí Minh’s childhood.

Follow me on Storygraph for more of my recent reads.

That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️

If you’re new here, welcome. This newsletter came about from my health reporter days when I wanted to find a way to give life to the fascinating tidbits that got cut from my stories. Now it’s evolved into a space where I write about what I learn wherever I can.

Hello friend, welcome to Scrap Facts. I’m Katherine, and I’m glad you’re here.

For the last two years, I’ve drawn 13 tarot cards on January 1. Each card represents a theme for the month—something I may be faced with, or something I’ll need to face or learn. The last card represents the overall theme for the year. Every day, I journal a bit on what I think that month’s card could mean for me.

I’m not saying I believe in the clairvoyance of the cards. I put them in the same basket as astrology or crystals—you take what resonates and leave the rest.

That said, I’ve found my decks to be right about the way something unfolds more often than not. I can’t prove they’re right. It could be just the placebo effect or confirmation bias. But I also can’t disprove their messages. Besides, even if it’s all placebo, the effect of placebo is real and that’s what counts.

There are 78 cards in most decks, and each of them represent qualities or feelings that may relate to us or an upcoming experience. So far this year, I’ve journaled on letting go (The Hanged Man); the ways I can practice being fair and analytical (The King of Swords); and even what makes me the happiest at home (The Nine of Pentacles).

But all year, I’d been dreading July’s card. The Death card.

There are technically no bad cards in tarot. Even if a card brings up unpleasant feelings, it really serves as a reminder to us for how we can get through hard things.

The Death card isn’t about literal death, but rather uncomfortable change. Think a breakup, a job loss, a family emergency—anything that results in a major shift in how our lives had been playing out before. The Death card reminds us that we can either accept the change we’re faced with and move forward, or fight it. One way or another, though, it’s happening.

I absolutely hate change. This is either because I am a Virgo (a grounded earth sign), or because of my generally nervous disposition (a combination of genetics and upbringing).

I find peace in routine. Adapting, on the other hand, has always been painful and clunky for me. It takes me a while to wrap my head around that I even have to rethink my plans.

The way I typically cope with change is simple: plans. If I can simply prepare for everything that will happen, I can mitigate some of the worst parts. And yes, we famously cannot predict everything about the future, but this is where the tarot cards come in. They may not be definitive, but I’ll take all the help I can get.

I’d already planned for some change in July. For example, I’d be entering year 2 of a long-distance relationship, starting with a few weeks of a 11-hour time difference. Not my favorite.

But what if the Death card was telling me something else would change? I like the life I’ve built for myself. It has family, friends, community, and hobbies in it. Sure it has problems, but I know what they are. Or, they’re not big enough to worry about.

Every time I’d go to journal in July, I’d start thinking about what went well, and then I’d think What if this is the thing that will change? What if life will simply stop going well and I have do deal with a new problem completely unprepared? What if I am not savoring this moment properly?

Tarot journaling became an exercise in anxiety. The Death card became the monster under my bed—close by, unknown, and probably spooky.

A friend of mine who is into tarot (and is also a scientist—duality!) gave me a different perspective. I love the Death card, they said. It reminds of us the snake that tries to get back into its shed skin. It’s scared because it doesn’t know what’s happening. But it’s just growth! This could be you!

I appreciated this metaphor. I do not know if this actually happens—my friend works in health care, not herpetology—but I instantly wanted to comfort a hypothetical snake. This distracted me from my general existential dread for a bit.

But then I remembered how I feel when people tell me simply not to stress about stuff. What do you mean, don’t stress? I get that my life isn’t that interesting. Most of my day-to-day and even major life events are pretty routine as far as humanity goes. But they are new to me, and therefore full of the unknown.

I brought this up to Ben, my husband, to ask him what change I could be missing so we could try to prepare together.

As it turns out, though, Ben also vibes with the Death card. He loves change, either because he is a Sagittarius (an adventurous fire sign) or because of his generally curious disposition (a combination of genetics and upbringing).

He pointed out to me that we already are embracing change. We know that our relationship is changing, he pointed out. We’re literally planning for it while I go away to school. Sure we may deviate from it, but having a plan to begin with makes it a lot easier to improvise as needed.

I’ve found that when I’m actually in a moment of stress, I can improvise. The problem I have is much more with the anticipation. I am scared all the time about the future, and it feels silly because there is no one thing to fear. It’s general unease. I’m sure there’s some evolutionary reason to be change-averse, but I find it tiresome.

I wish I were simply more preemptively adaptable! Ben says that, instead I could think of it as brave: being scared and unsure and going on anyway.

By the end of the month, I had finally come around to the idea that maybe, I had pigeonholed myself into thinking that I can’t handle change. I’ve done this before—I told myself I’d never be a fast runner and that I’m a bad driver, but it turns out I was just anemic and need to concentrate more. Maybe I actually can navigate unexpected change, and the only thing stopping me was my belief about my own rigidity.

Recently, I went to go look at the picture I took from my January reading to see what card I’d be drawing inspiration from this month.

It turns out, I didn’t draw the Death card for July 2025—I drew the Mother of Cups. I think I must have drawn Death in July 2024 and just held onto it for this month. Instead, the Mother of Cups reminds us of the importance of our intuition (though she also gets a bit defensive when pushed).

My whole Death-card journey in July was self-imposed. And technically, by not verifying which card I had drawn for July, I was going with my gut, as the Mother of Cups encourages us to.

But that said—the card I drew for all of 2025 was the Two of Pentacles. Which reminds us of (drumroll please): Balance and Change. In my favorite deck, the description of the card reads: “Even if you fear this change, face it with the grace of a newly-formed butterfly…a world of possibilities balanced upon your delicate wings.”

What else have I been up to?

Over the last year, I’ve been working hard to get on top of my finances. I’ve kept a diligent spreadsheet of all my expenses, loan repayments, etc., and I’m really proud of how that effort paid off (heh) over time. It felt like an insurmountable task at first, but month over month, I chipped away at it.

Writing down every single expense showed me where I’ve been putting my money. I realized I can redirect some of my spending to organizations doing work to help right some of the massive injustices we’re watching in real time.

Two projects I donate to regularly are the Trans Lifeline and Dahnoun Mutual Aid. The first is a non-profit, peer-to-peer support and crisis hotline for the trans community in the U.S., and the second is a mutual aid group run by Palestinians living in Gaza.

I’ve set up a small monthly donation because it’s easier for me to float. I think of it like a subscription to a streaming service. It’s not much, but I truly don’t know what I’m supposed to do other than take note of what’s happening across the world and help what I can while sustaining my job, health, home, and family. I only include this in case you, reader, are struggling with where to start too.

Follow me on Storygraph for more of my recent reads.

Follow me on Instagram for the rest of my life.

That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️

If you’re new here, welcome. This newsletter came about from my health reporter days when I wanted to find a way to give life to the fascinating tidbits that got cut from my stories. Now it’s evolved into a space where I write about what I learn wherever I can.