Before Tiny Beautiful Things was published, Cheryl Strayed wrote an advice column called “Dear Sugar” for The Rumpus under the pseudonym Sugar.

People sent her letters about love, loss, shame, addiction, family, loneliness—about decisions they regretted, and about the kind of things you never quite manage to tell anyone. Sugar answered them all. And out of a selection of those letters and replies, Tiny Beautiful Things was born.

One of the best things about this book is how you can read it. You can take it in in small pieces, column by column, whenever you feel like it. Or you can read it in one go, like I did. And either way, it’s the kind of book you’ll keep coming back to—because certain passages will hit differently depending on where you are in life.

What pulled me in so strongly is the honesty of Sugar’s responses. She doesn’t hide behind clichés or the kind of empty comfort you’d expect from a typical advice column. She doesn’t “solve” people. She tells the truth—carefully, but clearly.

And somehow, with that honesty, she gives you something that matters even more than advice: the feeling that you’re not alone. In her answers she talks about her own mistakes, what hurt, what helped her keep going—but without ever making it feel like she’s trying to be the main character. It feels more like she’s saying: I’ve been there too. I’m not above this. I’m with you.

Her voice is direct without being harsh, compassionate without being vague.

Because we all know these situations—moments we can’t handle, things we can’t say out loud (or don’t want to). Out of shame. Out of fear of being judged or labelled. Out of fear that we failed, that we’re not good enough. And sometimes what we need most is an outside perspective—one that doesn’t dismiss what we’re feeling or try to make it smaller.

Tiny Beautiful Things isn’t a book that hands you neat solutions. It’s more like a book that sits beside you and offers words when you need them.

If you’re looking for something that comforts without being cheesy, and is honest and direct without ever turning cold, I can only recommend Tiny Beautiful Things. For me, it’s a book I know I’ll return to again and again.

P.S This Book was actually a gift from my sister - so if you're looking for gift : This is a good one ;)

The Power of Habit is one of those books that stays in your head long after you’ve finished it. It makes you realize how much of your life runs on autopilot—how habits quietly shape what you do, how you react, and even what you believe about yourself.

What I appreciate most is that Duhigg doesn’t write about habits in a moralizing “just try harder” way. He shows, through memorable stories (from everyday life to businesses and sports), that habits can be incredibly powerful—and that’s exactly why they’re worth taking seriously. But the book doesn’t leave you feeling stuck. It also makes a strong point: even if a bad habit feels stronger than you are, it isn’t. We have far more influence than we think.

For me, the most encouraging takeaway is this: breaking harmful patterns is possible, and building good habits can be even more powerful than the bad ones ever were. Not overnight, not perfectly—but consistently. And that’s where goals suddenly stop feeling like “a new version of me” and start feeling like something you can actually reach.

If you want a book that’s motivating without being cheesy—and practical without being overwhelming—this one is a great place to start.

I got Originals as a gift—and because I genuinely enjoy listening to Adam Grant on podcasts, it ended up being the perfect present at the perfect time. In this book, Grant explores a question that most of us have asked ourselves at some point: why do some people actually follow through on their ideas, while others (even brilliant ones) keep them safely in their heads? This book stayed with me because it doesn’t romanticize originality. It makes originality feel human, doable, and a lot more practical than the “born genius” myth.

What I like about Adam Grant’s approach is that he doesn’t frame originals as loud rebels who break rules just to prove a point. He’s much more interested in thoughtful nonconformists—people who question the default, but still care about building something that works. That distinction matters. It shifts the focus from personality to behavior: originality isn’t who you are, it’s what you practice.

One of the strongest threads in the book is how we misunderstand risk. Originals doesn’t tell you to quit your job, burn the boats, and jump. It shows that many successful originals are surprisingly careful: they take calculated risks, keep options open longer than you’d expect, and move step by step instead of betting everything at once. That felt refreshing—and honestly, reassuring. Being brave doesn’t have to mean being reckless.

The book is also very good at explaining why timing and execution matter as much as the idea itself. It’s not just “have a unique thought.” It’s: test it, improve it, learn how to communicate it, and find the right moment to push. The stories (from business to social movements) make these points stick—not in a motivational way, but in a “oh… that’s why this works” way.

For me, Originals is a book that leaves you with momentum. It makes you look at your own ideas differently: not as something you either dare to do or don’t, but as something you can build the courage for through small decisions. And it makes a quiet but powerful point: you don’t need to be the most fearless person in the room to create something original—you just need to be willing to question the default and keep going.

If you’ve ever had an idea you believed in, but hesitated to share or act on, this book is a very good companion.