A ritual of reconstruction

One thing about me is that I would redo my puzzles, over and over…but it's not about getting better or finishing faster than last time—but rather about a sense of control, maybe creation.

There's something meditative in the ritual—the methodical sorting of edge pieces, the gradual assembly of familiar fragments into a whole I've already seen before. Each piece finding its only perfect place in this temporary universe. I find profound comfort in this predictable chaos, this controlled disarray that always resolves itself when my hands intervene.

It brings me a sense of accomplishment and comfort at the same time. The satisfaction of completion paired with the certainty of process. Once it's done, I deconstruct it and wait till I do it again… The unmaking almost as satisfying as the making—both acts equally within my power.

My brain focuses on it and it only. The world beyond the table edge blurs and fades. I have found that it's one of the top things that gives me a break from reality—a gentle dissociation, almost, but one that builds rather than dissolves. In this space between worlds, my thoughts can settle like disturbed sediment in still water.

As a kid, adults wouldn't get why I kept doing one puzzle over and over. Their confused faces, their suggestions of new puzzles, new challenges. As an adult, they still don't understand, I guess, but I've stopped needing their comprehension. This unique comfort belongs to me alone.

Whatever is happening and whatever I'm feeling, a puzzle can get my mind off of it. Not through distraction, but through translation—converting anxiety into order, uncertainty into pattern, helplessness into agency. In a world where so much remains unsolvable, these deliberate problems with guaranteed solutions offer a rare certainty: that every piece belongs somewhere, and I have the power to find where.