viewIt hurts me in ways I can't fully explain—seeing him upset, disappointed in himself, burdened by things that are out of his control.
There’s a certain sadness in a man’s silence when he feels he’s failed, even if no one else sees it that way.
And when it’s someone I love, that pain seems to echo in my own chest.
I wish he could see himself the way I do.
That he’d know his worth isn’t measured by moments where things don’t go as planned.
That my love for him isn’t tied to what he can give, but simply to who he is.
And yet, there he was—shouldering more than he should, caught between caring for others and trying to do something kind for me.
He didn’t hide it.
He didn’t pretend.
And maybe that’s what made my heart ache the most:
his honesty, his frustration, his quiet guilt.
Loving someone means feeling their sorrows like tremors through your own bones.
I wish I could take some of the weight off his back.
I wish he didn’t feel so responsible for everything.
I just wish he knew that being loved means he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.
The Little Popcorn.
viewIt was my birthday, and Maryam—my cousin—and her daughter Narges and her other kids came over.
They meant to surprise me, but thanks to a little slip from my parents, I already had a clue.
Still, I kept quiet and let it happen.
Dinner was grape leaf dolma, rice, and a kind of skillet-cooked ground beef with onions and spices (hard to describe, but definitely not kabab or cotlet).
There was also cake, lots of strawberries, and my saffron-ginseng infusion.
Maryam gave me a beautiful matching stainless steel necklace and bracelet.
Narges gave me another necklace—simple, pretty, and thoughtful.
We took pictures, made videos, and tried to bottle up that feeling of togetherness while it lasted.
Later, Narges and I spent some quiet time at my place.
Not a bad night at all.
I really didn't expect them!
Remember writing in this blog that when you don't expect, it comes back to you.
The Little Popcorn.
viewI finally finished everything for my welcome pack video!
Writing and editing the different parts, moving things around, translating it all into good Persian, and then turning it into audio using my cloned voice in ElevenLabs—it wasn’t exactly easy.
But it’s done.
One more thing off my mind, and that feels really good.
The Little Popcorn.
viewI’ve been exploring Jungle AI lately and I’m honestly blown away.
The multiple-choice questions feel like a real human designed them—smart, well-crafted options, and not just that.
It explains why answers are right or wrong, gives analogies, even builds mnemonics.
So many amazing features packed into one platform.
And the wildest part?
Any student, anywhere in the world, can now study any subject for maximum $10—if they truly want to learn.
Sometimes I think… how different things could’ve been for us.
We had almost nothing.
And for blind students like me?
Studying was even harder.
The Little Popcorn.
viewI’m officially a Certified Life Coach now!
After months of challenges, emotional ups and downs, health issues, painful family stuff, and the huge shift from teaching English to becoming a coach — I finally made it.
Today, I received my Life Coach Certificate from Universal Coach Institute, trained by the amazing Master Coach and founder Ayisha Amatullah.
It wasn’t easy.
Nothing about it was.
But I kept going — through every doubt, through every bad headline, every sleepless night, and every quiet moment I almost gave up.
This is more than a certificate.
It’s proof that I can grow, even when it hurts.
It’s the first brick in building something that matters to me — a way to help others while staying honest to my own story.
From someone who grew up in a metropolis and moved to a small city just five years ago — losing most of her friends in the process —
who’s been writing poems since the age of 8, learned Python just for the joy of learning, and now helps others navigate life’s changes…
I’m just getting started.
The Little Popcorn.
viewCoaching operates in a regulatory gray zone—no government oversight, no universal accreditation.
Anyone can call themselves a coach.
But organizations like the ICF set self-regulated standards.
They offer credentials (ACC, PCC, MCC) that demand training, experience, mentor coaching, and exams.
Europe’s recent Professional Charter aligns eight bodies to unify ethics, but globally, the ICF remains the heavyweight.
Clients rarely ask about credentials, though corporations might.
Renewal?
Every three years.
Bottom line:
Certification adds polish, but trust hinges on results, not just badges.
And that's why I've never really been drawn to ICF-accredited certifications.
The price tags—often thousands of dollars—plus the requirement to renew every three years just don’t seem worth it to me, especially when many non-accredited schools offer the same curriculum.
I’ve also watched quite a few coaching sessions online by certified ACCs and PCCs—some of them with thousands of views—and I was honestly shocked at the basic mistakes they made.
This isn’t to say ICF credentials have no value.
They can be a good framework for some.
But for me, they’ve never felt convenient or cost-effective.
Just like a doctor from a prestigious university can still make serious errors, coaching ability depends so much more on the individual: their willingness to learn, take responsibility, care deeply about the work, and stay humble.
That said, having some kind of training and certification is still essential in this profession—just not necessarily an ICF one.
The Little Popcorn.
viewI’m practicing not to feel guilty about spending money on my own fun.
I’ve decided to step off the “100% straight line” a little.
Always acting strictly by the rules, having zero secrets—it makes life feel flat, predictable, and honestly, a bit stupid.
Not every secret or little indulgence has to be shameful or illegal.
Sometimes, bending a tiny rule or keeping a harmless pleasure to yourself can add a spark of excitement.
It makes life feel less rigid, and it helps shake off that feeling of being overly simple or painfully transparent.
Here’s to a little mystery, a little thrill, and a life that’s not entirely lived on the surface.
The Little Popcorn.
viewMy birthday’s still a few weeks away—over two weeks to the real one, a full month to the one on paper—but my parents already got me a gift: a pair of gold earrings.
I love anything my parents give me, I really do.
But I’ve never liked getting gold as a birthday gift.
I’ve told them so many times.
I’m tired now—exhausted, honestly.
The thing about gold is, it’s not just a gift.
It becomes something you might have to sell one day, when life gets heavy.
And selling a birthday gift... that hits different.
It hurts more.
I’ve sold every piece of gold I ever got for my birthday.
I can’t even remember what most of them looked like, even though I wore them for years.
But there’s one gift I’ll never forget.
One Valentine’s Day, back when I was in high school, my mom gave Behnaz a book of Hafez poems outside the school.
Then, when we got home, she handed me a CD: the audiobook of For One More Day by Mitch Albom, translated into Persian by Gita Garakani, narrated by the warm, unforgettable voice of Mikaeil Shahrestani.
She had no idea what the book was about.
She’d just picked it up on the way back from dropping off one of my Ghalamchi practice exams.
But that book made me cry so much the first time I finished it.
It’s about a mother’s sacrifices—what she does to keep her family together.
And somehow, without knowing, my mom gave me the perfect gift.
I still hear that voice in my head.
I still love that story.
I even read it in English later.
Books are just... the best kind of gift.
The Little Popcorn.
viewFew days ago, tragedy struck once again in my country.
A massive explosion followed by fire at Shahid Rajaee Port in Bandar Abbas took more than 70 lives, injured over 1200 people, and destroyed several buildings.
The blast was so intense that windows shattered across a radius of kilometers — homes, cars, everything.
And yet, it feels like just another page in a long, endless book of sorrow.
Here, grief isn't shocking anymore.
It's routine.
Our history is a cycle of mistakes and mourning, played on repeat while those responsible remain silent and untouched.
We live surrounded by ruins — not just of buildings, but of trust, of hope.
And somehow, life goes on as if nothing happened.
As if it’s normal to wake up to broken glass and broken hearts.
The Little Popcorn.
viewFrom iron to bronze.
I've entered level 3!
It's starting to become a routine.
The Little Popcorn.