There’s a difference between being happy and being at peace. I didn’t always get that. I confused the two, like most people. I’d post a smiling selfie from a trek and get heart emojis, but deep down I’d be spiraling because I hadn’t worked out in two weeks, had eaten junk for three days straight, and spent the whole morning doomscrolling on Instagram comparing myself to people who looked fitter, more consistent, more in control.
It’s a cycle I know well.
Chase a high. – Hit a wall. – Blame yourself. – Repeat.
And I’m not even talking about big life stuff. I mean that feeling when your mind is buzzing and you can’t sit still.
You open five tabs, abandon all five.
Start a journal entry, delete it.
Check your phone, feel worse.
It’s this low-key anxiety that just hums in the background like bad elevator music.
At some point, I got exhausted. I mean the kind of mental fatigue where even rest doesn’t feel restful. That’s when I started craving peace—not the kind you read about in spiritual books, but a break from my own mental chatter. A little breathing room between thoughts.
So I did something that scared me. I stopped filling every minute. I sat still. Without a plan. No to-do list. No podcast. Nothing. And it felt horrible at first. I thought I’d gain insight or have some profound moment. Instead, I met my monkey mind in full swing. It was chaos. Thoughts flinging themselves around: old conversations, things I should have said, what I haven’t achieved, people I think are judging me, my weight, my routines—or lack thereof.
But here’s what shocked me: the more I just let the thoughts run, the more I realized I didn’t have to follow every one. I didn’t need to believe everything my brain said. I didn’t need to solve every thought. I could just… let it be noise.
I remember one morning after Kuari Pass. I hadn’t even unpacked, but there I was, sitting on the bathroom floor, googling “how to get back on track fast” while eating a spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar. That trek was supposed to be a victory. I had finished strong, emotionally and physically. But within two days, I had reduced it to a blip, because my brain had found new reasons to panic. That was the moment I realized: my peace was entirely conditional. And those conditions were always changing.
And then there was this random afternoon in Kashmir. A solo trip. I had walked into a tiny tea stall, ordered whatever they were brewing, and sat there with a paper cup and some freshly baked local cookies. I didn’t expect much. But that snack led to a quiet conversation with an old Bengali couple who were reminiscing about their younger days. And just before I left, a kid selling pens came by, cracking jokes I wasn’t prepared for. There was no agenda, no performance. Just strangers, snacks, and small talk. For once, I wasn’t thinking about how to capture the moment or explain it later. I was just in it. That’s when I first felt the kind of peace I’d been trying to earn for years. Turns out, it wasn’t earned. Just noticed.
And that was the shift. Peace stopped being this spiritual-sounding word I didn’t quite understand, and became something I could feel in my bones. A conversation over tea. A laugh with a stranger. A quiet moment where my brain wasn’t dragging me through a swamp of unfinished business.
Now, when the anxiety builds—and it still does—I ask one thing: Do I want to keep thinking this, or do I want my peace?
That question alone calms me down more often than not.
I’ve started protecting my energy like it’s rent money. No small talk with people who drain me. No debates I don’t care about. I don’t pretend to have opinions on everything. I’m okay saying, “I don’t know.” Or “I don’t care.” Because I literally don’t have the mental bandwidth.
I’ve accepted that desire—whether it’s wanting to be fitter, richer, more in control—is just delayed happiness. It’s like signing a contract: I will not be happy until I get this thing. That realization hit hard. So now I try to pick just one thing I’m allowed to obsess over at a time. Not because I’m zen, but because I’ve learned the hard way: too many open tabs in your mind will crash the system.
I’ve stopped pretending I want to optimize my life in every direction. I don’t need to be high-performing in all areas. I just want to feel good in my body, write something that means something, spend time with kind people, and not wake up already feeling behind.
When I’m anxious, it’s usually because I’m not in the moment. My brain is stuck in “next.” Next task. Next message. Next meal plan. Next thing I should be doing. It’s like my brain thinks happiness is on the other side of doing more. It’s not.
So I walk. Or I take a cold shower. Or I delete Instagram. Not because I’m disciplined. Because I’ve seen what happens when I don’t.
I’m learning to trust this version of me—the one who is trying, failing, forgiving, and starting again. The one who’s slowly getting better at saying no. At saying yes only when it feels real.
I still overthink. I still spiral. I still get hit by waves of self-doubt. But now, I sit with it a little longer. I let it rise and pass. I try not to turn every uncomfortable feeling into a project.
Peace isn’t something I’ve achieved. It’s something I choose. Over and over. Sometimes every hour. Sometimes every minute.
And when I forget—because I do—I come back to this:
Would I rather be thinking this, or be at peace?
That question saves me. A lot.
So no, I’m not always happy. But I’m learning how to be okay anyway.
And that, for now, is enough.
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