So apparently, I’ve been diagnosed with something serious. No, it’s not low iron (although that too). It’s Main Character Syndrome, a chronic condition where you genuinely believe your life is a cinematic masterpiece, despite clear evidence to the contrary (like the fact that your most dramatic moment last week was dropping your samosa).

And I’ve chosen to lean into it. Hard.

Because somewhere between spiraling in bed and dramatically sipping chai while staring into the middle distance like I’m in a tragic biopic, I’ve realized something: if life insists on being chaotic, boring, and occasionally soul-crushing, the least I can do is give it an aesthetic soundtrack and some slow-motion montages.

I mean… if I’m going to suffer, I might as well do it beautifully.

Cue intro music. Fade in.

Look, I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I think I’ve discovered the secret to happiness. Or, well, a close cousin of happiness. Like the kind of happiness that wears a secondhand scarf, drinks overpriced oat milk lattes, and cries during ads for life insurance. Basically: I romanticize every dang thing in my life like I’m starring in a painfully slow, overly aesthetic film directed by Wes Anderson’s less talented cousin.

It started innocently enough. One day, I was staring at my reflection in the microwave while reheating day-old biryani, and I thought, what if this moment is symbolic? What if I’m not just heating leftovers, I’m metaphorically warming up the fragments of my life, trying to make sense of my emotional leftovers? What if I’m… the protagonist?

Spoiler alert: I am.

Main Character Energy: Delusion Level 9000

People think romanticizing life means sitting on rooftops reading poetry and wearing linen. Wrong. Sometimes it means crying over spilled chai and still pretending you're in an indie coming-of-age film where the tea is a metaphor for lost innocence.

I now treat my morning walk to the tapri like it’s an Oscar-nominated performance. I step out in my pajamas like I'm in a “before she made it big” montage, nod at the uncle who always wears Crocs (a character in my story now), and order my chai with the energy of someone who just got dumped via text and is finding solace in caffeine and character growth.

Every detour, delay, and disaster? Plot twist. Every minor inconvenience? A side quest. The broken nail? Symbolic of fragility. The pimple on my chin? A tragic flaw. The fact that I’m still single? Character-building.

Domestic Chaos but Make It Cinematic

The other day, I unclogged the bathroom sink while listening to Arctic Monkeys and whispered to myself, “She didn’t just clean the drain. She cleaned her emotional baggage.”

I mop the floor with earbuds in, pretending I’m dancing alone in a post-apocalyptic rom-com where I’m the last woman alive and still obsessed with playlists.

Even staring blankly at my laptop counts as an intense moment of inner turmoil. Like maybe I’m a tortured genius with writer’s block. (Or maybe I’ve just opened Canva for the 12th time today and still have no clue what I'm doing.)

Delulu, But In a Meaningful Way

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t this just plain delusion? And to that I say, YES. But it’s a productive delusion. Harmless delusion. The kind that helps you survive capitalism, heartbreak, and badly timed acne.

When you romanticize your life, you're not escaping reality. You’re just wrapping it in twinkly fairy lights, giving it a playlist, and choosing the filter that makes it all feel a little less chaotic.

Because sometimes, pretending you’re the star of your own aesthetically confused movie is the only way to get through an 8 a.m. class, a freelance rejection, or the haunting emptiness of an online cart you can’t afford to check out.

Normal Things That Are Now Cinematic, Thanks to Me:

• Eating toast in bed = lonely Parisian girl who just got ghosted.
• Looking out the window dramatically = thinking about life, not just your neighbor’s laundry.
• Walking past your crush without saying hi = unspoken tension of a slow-burn romance.
• Cleaning your room = metaphorically rebuilding your soul.
• Crying in the shower = the emotional climax of Season 2, Episode 4.

The Key to Happiness? Romanticizing Every Dang Thing Like You're the Protagonist of a Wes Anderson Film

Let me just say this: life is not always a Pinterest board. Sometimes it's a mess of unpaid bills, weird WhatsApp forwards from relatives, and 3-day-old leftovers in the fridge that are now a science experiment. But somewhere between “my life is falling apart” and “I just spent 25 minutes choosing an Instagram filter for my chai,” I’ve found the secret to happiness. Or at least, a placebo that works.

Romanticize. Everything.

Yes, even that tragic moment when you’re cleaning hair from the bathroom drain. Especially that moment. Pretend you’re in a sad indie movie, washing away the remnants of a lost love. Or that you’re a mysterious woman with an unspeakable past, whose only companion is a slowly clogging sink.

You get the point.

Main Character Energy: Activated

You don’t need a European vacation or a dreamy lover who writes poetry and makes pancakes. (Although, like…if you know someone, DM me.) What you need is to pretend that your life is cinematic. Like, the limited series version of your reality, where you wear oversized sweaters, drink aesthetically steaming coffee, and walk slow-mo through a bookstore while a French jazz tune plays softly in the background, even if what’s playing is your neighbor’s baby crying and your chappals squeaking against the wet floor.

The secret? It’s all in the narrative you create.

I romanticize washing dishes. I light a candle, blast some Frank Sinatra, and pretend I’m in a 1950s kitchen being emotionally betrayed by a man named Harold. I romanticize my 10-minute walk to the grocery store like I’m off to meet my long-lost soulmate in Aisle 3 next to the Maggi packets. Spoiler: It’s usually just a very aggressive auntie blocking the cart lane, but still. It’s the vibe that counts.

Daily Dramas = Emotional Depth

Missed the train? That’s not a problem, that’s character development. You’re being delayed for a reason, maybe to avoid crossing paths with your evil doppelgänger, or maybe so the universe can give you a meet-cute with a fellow exhausted commuter. Either way, you’re not “late.” You’re on your divine timeline, babe.

Your friends cancel on you? Cool. Now you’re the brooding heroine who eats dinner alone at a roadside stall, thinking about life’s ironies, while making intense eye contact with a stray cat.

And honestly, as a (fictional) bestselling novelist of emotionally unstable yet lovable protagonists, I can tell you this: once you start treating your sadness and inconveniences like the plot arc of a complex character, it doesn’t feel that bad anymore. Everything gets softer around the edges. It feels meaningful. Because, like all movie characters, most stories find their way to a happy ending. And that thought? That’s pure comfort. It’s a coping mechanism that doesn’t just numb you, it makes you better. Wiser. More poetic. And slightly unhinged in the best possible way.

Romanticizing Isn’t Delusion, It’s Survival

Listen, I’m not telling you to ignore your problems. This isn’t toxic positivity. You’re allowed to cry and eat cake for breakfast while muttering “I’m fine” like a psycho. But in between that, allow yourself to see the poetry in your chaos.

Because when life is boring or difficult or heartbreakingly ordinary, you can either drown in it… or you can make it beautiful. Pretend you’re the narrator of your own life story, and the camera is always rolling. Would the audience root for you? Absolutely. You’re the underdog, the anti-hero, the chaotic queen with a glittering soul.

And the best part? You don’t need a filter. You are the filter.

Aesthetic or Die

Life is short. Wear the scarf. Write the dramatic journal entry. Sip your coffee like it’s the blood of your enemies. Smile at sunsets like you're in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Talk to plants. Cry at poems. Play sad songs in the shower like you're in a breakup scene, even if you're just mad about running out of conditioner.

Because romanticizing your life isn’t about pretending everything is perfect, it’s about seeing the magic in the mess.

And honestly? That’s the kind of delusion I’m here for.