humanity
The real lives of businessmen, professionals, the everyday man, stay at home parent, healthy lifestyle influencers, and general feel good human stories.
What it Means to Let Go and For Once Focus on Yourself
I've always been an introvert - a quiet girl who never needed much from people except peace. But somehow, from the time I was little, I became a people pleaser, always pouring from an empty cup. I spent years trying to fill a void I didn't even fully understand, only to realize later that some voids are not meant to be filled - they're meant to be released.
By MelCreatesabout a year ago in Journal
Is That Writer Using AI or Are You Mediocre and Jealous?
I am old hat at SEO writing. It is odd to me for a platform to frown upon writing processes that actually bring in Google search traffic. These days, people are always asking, “Was this written to make money?” The answer is: of course. It’s a monetized site. That’s why we’re publishing here. It’s always been about money, but we are now expected to pretend that it’s not, even though that actually tanks traffic. If you ask me, the only question anybody should be asking is, “Was this written well?”
By Heather Holmesabout a year ago in Journal
Milestone Hunter vs The Wallaby Whirlwind
In the lush lawns of Wimbledon, where tennis balls kiss the earth like well-timed waltzes and history is stitched into every blade of grass, the air is thick with anticipation. Novak Djokovic, the undisputed Grand Slam gladiator, is once again marching toward another jaw-dropping milestone—a record 25th Grand Slam title.
By Omasanjuwa Ogharandukunabout a year ago in Journal
Heritage on a Plate
In every family kitchen, in every grandmother’s recipe, and in every traditional dish passed down through generations, there lies a story—of people, of migration, of survival, and of celebration. Food is not just nourishment. It is memory, identity, and heritage served on a plate.
By Kristen Orkoshneliabout a year ago in Journal
The Woman Who Remembers Everything
In a world where most people struggle to recall what they had for breakfast last week, one woman has stunned scientists and the public alike with a claim that defies logic — she remembers everything. Not just the events of her childhood or key moments of her adult life, but every single second. And more astonishingly, she claims to remember her life even before birth. This woman belongs to an ultra-rare group — only about 0.00001 percent of the global population — with a condition known as Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory, or HSAM. People with HSAM have the ability to recall virtually every day of their lives in vivid, accurate detail, as if each memory is stored in a mental video library they can access at will. For most of us, memory is unreliable. It fades, distorts, and fragments over time. But for someone with HSAM, memories are as sharp and accessible as files in a well-organized cabinet. This woman can tell you what she wore on a specific Tuesday twenty years ago, what she had for lunch, and what song was playing in the background — with no hesitation. What makes her story even more intriguing is her claim that her memories stretch back to a time before she was even born. She describes sensations, warmth, muffled sounds, and even emotions that she attributes to her time in the womb. While this part of her memory cannot be scientifically verified, her overall ability has drawn the attention of neuroscientists who are fascinated by the structure and function of her brain. Researchers studying HSAM have found that people with this condition often have enlarged or differently wired areas of the brain related to memory, particularly the temporal lobe and caudate nucleus. These brain differences may explain their extraordinary recall, although the full picture is still not completely understood. Living with such a memory might sound like a superpower, but it is not without its challenges. This woman has spoken about how her brain never lets her forget — not even the painful or traumatic moments. Every embarrassment, heartbreak, or mistake is as fresh as the day it happened. For someone with HSAM, time doesn’t dull the sting. This constant mental replay can be exhausting and emotionally overwhelming. Despite the emotional weight, she sees her gift as a way to understand life in a deeper way. Every memory helps her reflect, learn, and connect with her past in a way most people never can. She has become an advocate for memory research, working with universities and scientists to help uncover the secrets of the human brain. What makes her story so compelling is not just the rarity of her condition, but the way she embraces it. She keeps journals, helps people reconstruct forgotten memories, and sometimes even assists in historical documentation projects. Her brain is a living archive — a human timeline that refuses to forget. Her claim of remembering life before birth remains controversial. Most scientists believe that consciousness does not develop until after birth, and memories from the womb are unlikely. However, her vivid accounts have opened up new questions about prenatal awareness, sensory development, and the boundaries of memory itself. Whatever the scientific verdict, one thing is clear: her story has pushed the limits of what we believe is possible when it comes to memory. In a fast-moving world where information is quickly forgotten and life blurs into routine, she offers a rare and fascinating glimpse into what it might mean to remember it all — every moment, every detail, every feeling. In the end, she stands not just as a medical marvel, but as a reminder of the incredible potential and mystery of the human mind. Her journey challenges the idea of memory as fleeting and flawed. For her, nothing is ever truly lost. Every heartbeat, every whisper of life — even before she opened her eyes to the world — still lives inside her.
By DigitalAddiabout a year ago in Journal
Why Sole Traders Must Priorities Self Assessment Tax Returns
In the realm of small business and entrepreneurship, sole traders form the backbone of the UK economy. Whether operating as a freelance graphic designer, a local tradesperson, or a digital content creator, being a sole trader brings both independence and responsibility. Chief among these responsibilities is the legal obligation to submit a Self Assessment Tax Return annually.
By Self Assessment Tax Returnabout a year ago in Journal
Where the Floorboards Creak
I hadn’t seen my father’s house since I was thirteen. After he died, I told myself I’d never go back. But then came the letter—handwritten, smudged with something that looked like ash. It read: > “You need to come. The house still remembers you.” No signature. No return address. I should have ignored it. I didn’t. The house sat at the end of a cracked road in western Pennsylvania, tucked into the woods like it was hiding. Even in daylight, it looked dark. The windows were smeared with dust, like the house had cried and no one had cleaned up. I stepped onto the porch. The key still worked. It smelled like time. Mold, paper, and something sweet rotting. Nothing had changed. The ugly wallpaper. The crooked cross above the door. The spot on the stairs where the wood always creaked—even when no one was walking. I wasn’t alone in the house. I felt that the moment I walked in. But it wasn’t someone. It was the house itself. Watching. Waiting. I walked the rooms in silence. My old bedroom was untouched, right down to the stuffed bear with one missing eye. I could still hear my father’s voice in this room, sharp as broken glass. “Silence is respect,” he used to say. “No crying in this house. It invites things.” Back then, I believed him. In the hallway, a new picture hung on the wall. A family photo I didn’t remember taking. It showed me, my father, and someone else—a girl. Pale. Smiling just enough to be wrong. The date written on the frame: July 14th, 2009. But that was the day I ran away. I tried to take the photo down, but it wouldn’t budge. The frame was stuck to the wall like it had grown there. That night, I slept in the guest room with the door locked. The house creaked constantly. Not just random noises—rhythmic. Almost like breathing. At 3:12 a.m., the hallway light turned on by itself. At 3:13, the floorboards outside my door creaked. I held my breath. At 3:14, someone whispered my name. It was a girl’s voice. The next morning, I went down to the basement. I don't know why. Maybe because that was the only place I was never allowed as a kid. Maybe because part of me already knew what I’d find. The air was damp. It stank of rust and mildew. There was a trunk in the corner, half-buried under moldy blankets. Inside: children’s clothes. Drawings in crayon. Hair ribbons. A small shoe with dried blood on the sole. I dropped the lid and backed away. And that’s when I saw the writing on the basement wall. Dozens of names, scratched into the stone with something sharp. I found mine. Right under it—another name: Eliza. She wasn’t family. She was never in that house while I lived there. Unless I forgot. Or was made to forget. I left the next morning. Drove until the trees stopped looking like shadows. The letter was right. The house remembered me. But what it remembered wasn’t just mine. I don’t know what my father did. Or who Eliza was. I only know this: The floor still creaks, even when no one walks. And sometimes, I still hear her whisper. “Come back.” Author’s Note: This fictional story explores the unsettling layers of memory, trauma, and what we leave behind when we flee the past. It draws inspiration from real psychological phenomena like repressed memories, generational trauma, and inherited fear. While entirely imagined, it aims to evoke the eerie familiarity of family secrets and the lingering presence of places we wish we’d forgotten. Sometimes, the most terrifying ghosts aren’t supernatural—they're the truths buried in silence, waiting for someone brave enough to listen. Thanks for reading,share with us your ideas about this story.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Journal
Always Waitin' for a Superman
ALWAYS WAITIN' FOR A SUPERMAN Anne Marie always wanted to be like the princess in the fairy tales at the end where the prince rescues her from her troubled life and they live happily ever after. She felt trapped, like a princess in her tower in her room upstairs for so many hours with no one to hear her cries, or feel her pain. No one cared enough. No one cared enough to be fully invested in helping her succeed. No one cared enough to be by her side through it all. No one cared; and so she felt small. They made her feel like she didn't matter. Her thoughts had no value, nothing ton listen to here.
By Slgtlyscatt3redabout a year ago in Journal
