Yesterday, as I was going through what seemed like the most severe after-lunch dip in recent memory, I logged on to ADPList to meet a designer from Denmark. It’s miraculous, the effect unexpected kindness can have on the body. After 30 minutes, I skipped out of my meeting booth ready to take on the rest of the afternoon, which I did, and it rocked.

Ever the snob I am, I made it one verse into Taylor Swift’s freshly-dropped “THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT” for saying out loud on the tram “no, I can’t do this” before deserting my goal of listening to it in its entirety.

Something is happening in the neighborhood. It’s not a new thing, it’s just more vibrant now, for me at least, I think. My friend, while walking his dog, is assaulted around the corner. Three kids beat his eye socket with a metal bat, shattering it. Various cameras film it. Nobody is caught. To watch someone develop PTSD right in front of you.

In a fortnight, I’ll be celebrating one year of employment at Gerimedica, the healthcare technology provider I was keen to join last spring. Coincidentally, I’m working on one of my professional development goals right now: turn coworker feedback into concrete goals for the second quarter. It seems a fitting moment to reflect on the past year as a whole.

Isn’t it one of God’s cruelest jokes, Manuele, our ability to feel imposter syndrome? When I read your post — late, obviously, because RSS feeds and I will never quite be best friends — I was struck by your openness on the matter. You feel like you don’t know shit. Samesies! I suppose most of us suffer from imposter syndrome every now and then, even the famous ones to whom we compare ourselves:

Today was the first time in my life when someone asked me if I was experiencing menopause. “It’s the only explanation I can give for why you might be tired.”