Over the past few months though, sleep stopped feeling restful. I started having dreams that would stay with me long after I woke up. Some were difficult, others comforting enough that waking up from them felt difficult too. Either way, once I was awake, it usually became hard to fall back asleep again. Most nights I ended up scrolling on my phone or watching something random until I was tired enough to sleep again, only to wake up exhausted the next morning.

The last time I remember sleep feeling this unsettled was when I was a child. I still remember when my parents first made me sleep alone. I was terrified of it. One night, after hearing me complain once again about bad dreams, my mom placed a Bible under my pillow before I slept. I still remember that night because, for the very first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. For years after that, I kept doing it. Somewhere in my mind, I believed that as long as the Bible was under my pillow, I would be okay. Somehow, it worked. The bad dreams stopped, and eventually sleep became effortless again.

As time passed though, that habit slowly disappeared. Especially after moving away from home. Life became busy, routines changed, and eventually I stopped thinking about it completely until a few weeks ago. After another rough night and barely getting any sleep, I remembered it again. By that point, I think I was just exhausted. I missed what sleep used to feel like. So before going to bed, I placed a Bible under my pillow again, hoping maybe it would help the way it used to when I was younger. But it did not really change anything. I still woke up during the night, and I still struggled to fall back asleep.

One night, after waking up again, I reached for my phone only to realize that it had completely run out of charge. Since it usually takes a while to turn back on after dying, I just lay there in the dark waiting. And for some reason, instead of getting frustrated, I started praying. Not formally. I was really just talking to God. Somewhere during that conversation, I fell asleep. After that, the same thing happened a few more times. Whenever I woke up in the middle of the night and could not sleep, I would pray for a while, and before I realized it, I would be asleep again.

At first, I almost felt guilty about it. Part of me wondered, “Are my conversations with God really so boring that I keep falling asleep during them?” Around the same time, our church had started a series called “Conversations With Christ,” and one Sunday the preacher mentioned that sometimes he would wake up early to pray, only to fall asleep again shortly after. He said he once felt bad about it until someone responded, “Ain’t that the most peaceful way to fall asleep?” That line stayed with me because I think I finally understood it.

For the past few months, I have been praying a lot for peace. Not for answers or for everything in life to suddenly make sense, but simply for peace. The kind that does not depend on circumstances going well or life feeling stable. The kind of peace that can only come from God. And I think I slowly realized that peace is not the absence of difficult things. It is not having a perfect life or a mind free from worry. Peace is being able to rest even when life does not feel settled yet.

Looking back now, I do not think there was anything magical about having a Bible under my pillow as a child. I think it simply reminded me that I was safe, that I was not alone, and that God was with me even in the middle of fear. Maybe that is why those late-night conversations with God helped me sleep again years later. Not because they instantly solved anything or suddenly made life easier, but because there is something deeply calming about remembering that even in uncertainty, you do not carry everything alone. And maybe that is what peace really is. Not a life without storms, but the quiet reassurance that even in the middle of them, you are not alone.

So I sat with the question for a bit. And the word that came to me this time was faith.

It’s interesting, because “faith” is something I’ve said lightly in the past. I remember telling someone I cared about, more than once, “Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith.” Back then, I think I meant it in a hopeful way. But I don’t think I fully understood what that actually requires from you. It’s easy to say that when life is stable, when things are working out and when the ground beneath you feels steady. But I’ve come to realize that faith isn’t really tested in those moments. It’s tested when things fall apart.

A couple of months ago, I found myself talking about this with a good friend, trying to make sense of what I was feeling and why things that once felt certain now felt distant. That’s when she gave me the book “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist”. I didn’t go into it trying to find answers to everything. I just read it as I was. What stayed with me was a simple thought — that everyone places their faith somewhere. Even choosing not to believe rests on something. That didn’t suddenly clear things up for me, but it made me pause and think more honestly about where I was placing mine.

Lent has always been a part of my life growing up. Back then, it was clear and structured. Abstaining from meat, following what was taught and waiting for Easter. After moving to the US, life changed, but in some ways, it stayed simple, even to this day. I didn’t really think much about Lent anymore. Life was already simple in a lot of ways, and I guess I told myself that was enough. This year felt different. Being around others, the question came up naturally — what are you giving up this Lent? I didn’t overthink it, but I chose to give up something I genuinely enjoy. It might seem small, but it made me more aware of how often I reach for comfort without even realizing it, and how much of my day runs on habits I don’t question. In that small act of giving something up, I found myself pausing more, noticing more, and sitting a little longer with things I would usually avoid.

Someone once asked me what I usually look forward to during Easter. My answer used to be simple — the food. Appam and Stew, Biryani, the kind of meal that feels earned after weeks of restraint. But I think I understand that a little differently now. What makes it meaningful isn’t just the celebration itself, but everything that leads up to it. The waiting changes how you experience joy. Over time, I’ve also realized that not all seasons carry the same kind of meaning. Some feel light and easy to hold onto. Others take you through things you didn’t expect. Easter has started to mean more to me because of that. Because, Easter doesn’t begin with celebration. It begins with sacrifice. With betrayal. With pain that doesn’t make sense in the moment. It carries the weight of what Jesus went through — not avoiding suffering, but walking through it fully. And yet, it doesn’t end there. The resurrection doesn’t erase what came before, but it gives it meaning. It reminds us that even when something feels lost, the story isn’t over.

Looking back over the past year, I think I’ve started to understand that in my own life, even if only in small ways. To let go of things I thought would stay. To sit with uncertainty longer than I would like. To keep moving, even when I don’t have clear answers. I don’t think I have everything figured out. But for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m not standing still anymore. There’s a quiet sense that I’m moving in the right direction, even if I can’t fully see where it leads yet.

If last year was about holding onto hope, this year feels more like learning to walk with faith. And maybe that’s what this season is reminding me — that even in the waiting, even in the silence, even when things don’t unfold the way I hoped, God is still present in the middle of it all, shaping things in ways I don’t fully understand yet. Easter reminds me that the story didn’t end at the cross. And maybe that’s what I’m still learning to trust — that what feels unfinished or uncertain right now is not where it ends. May this Easter bring you that same quiet reminder, and a hope that stays with you long after the season ends.

The year began on a high note, unlike any New Year I had experienced before. It was marked by presence, warmth, and a sense of fullness that felt rare and honest. There was joy in how it began, one of the best beginnings I could have asked for. It set a tone I didn’t yet realize would stay with me.

As the months went on, life unfolded well on the surface. I felt wanted. I felt valued. I gained perspective, not only about people, but about places. I experienced a side of California I hadn’t really seen before, even after years of living there. Shared moments, unhurried conversations, and simple presence.

And then, suddenly, I found myself back in a familiar dark pit. But this time it was different. I wasn’t alone. And yet, it felt like no one could truly understand what I was carrying. I could see a faint light. Not something close, not something guaranteed, just enough to notice.

What followed wasn’t a confident chase toward that light. It was more honest than that. The absence of life, the stillness, the lack of movement all gave me courage. Courage to leave what was comfortable. Courage to move. Courage to step away from a team and an environment I had invested deeply in. These weren’t decisions driven by excitement or certainty, they were about refusing to stay numb.

But it felt like the harder I tried, the farther that light moved away. Effort didn’t bring clarity. Speed didn’t bring peace. Eventually, I stopped running. Not because I had given up, but because I needed to breathe. That pause changed how I saw everything. In slowing down, I noticed a kind of beauty I hadn’t known how to see before. Not beauty in outcomes or resolutions, but in presence. In restraint. In learning that meaning doesn’t always reveal itself through pursuit. Sometimes it appears only when we stop demanding answers.

I chose to invest in myself. It wasn’t about reinvention. It was about continuation. Starting an MBA, traveling often, building stability piece by piece. Taking care of practical things I had postponed. Continuing forward, even when progress didn’t look dramatic from the outside.

2025 wasn’t a year of big announcements or obvious milestones. It was a year of depth. Of clarity that arrived slowly. Of moments that mattered not because they lasted, but because they changed how I see. I’ve also learned to be grateful for the darkness, not because it was kind, but because it taught me when to pause. When to listen. When to stop chasing light and simply let it exist.

As I step into 2026, I’m not carrying resentment or regret. I’m carrying appreciation. For growth. For lessons learned the hard way. For the people and moments that shaped me, however briefly.

Some light walks beside us for a while.

Some teaches us how to see.

For all of it, I am thankful.

Basically, if you are an author on more than one paper, you pay.

I want to preface this by saying I am not a “star” researcher. I am just a regular member of the community who loves this field. I am not against any initiative that genuinely advances our community or solves the very real problem of reviewer burnout. However, as I digest this news, I can’t help but feel a mix of skepticism and concern.

What strikes me first is the flat rate itself. In the US, \$100 might be a line item in a large grant. But in countries like India, or for labs in developing nations, \$100 is a significant amount of money. I come from a background where funding was tight, and I remember my time in the lab where literally every dollar counted. We had to make hard choices about equipment and travel. Adding a price tag to the submission process, the very act of trying to share knowledge, feels like it ignores the socioeconomic reality of a global scientific community. We should not be enlarging these differences; we should be bridging them.

Beyond the financial aspect, my biggest worry is that we aren’t asking why we have so much submission volume in the first place. We seem to be trying to tax the problem away rather than solving the deeper issues. The explosion in paper counts is often a symptom of systemic pressures, specifically the administrative practice of “bean counting” that drives the “publish or perish” culture. We are often judged by the sheer count of papers at top venues. By charging a fee, we aren’t fixing these structural incentives.

There is also the issue of access to mentorship. As a graduate student (and even now), I viewed the peer review process as a critical learning tool. Every piece of feedback I received helped strengthen my work, and I was always grateful for it. By charging for submissions that don’t fit the “primary” criteria, we are effectively telling students and researchers that if they can’t pay, they don’t deserve that feedback. A review shouldn’t be a luxury product; it is the lifeblood of academic growth.

Finally, I find the “reviewer workload” justification slightly ironic. Isn’t everyone who submits already obligated to review? If the community is doing its part, why is the burden still so high? Furthermore, we are the AI community! Are we really saying we aren’t advanced enough to utilize our own technology to assist with the first round of review or triage? It seems strange to charge human fees to solve a problem that our own research is trying to solve.

I want IJCAI to succeed, and I want our reviewers to be happy. But I fear this initiative solves a logistical problem by creating an inclusion problem. Research should be judged on merit and the quality of ideas, not on the ability to pay an entrance fee.