Some years don’t unfold — they explode.One moment, you think you’ve finally found your rhythm; the next, you’re lying on the ground wondering how something so right went so wrong. I’ve had my share of those years — the kind where progress and pain coexist like mismatched roommates. The past year was supposed to be linear. I had plans, schedules, spreadsheets, even color-coded tabs for every phase of my trek training. But life, it turns out, doesn’t care for bullet points. It arrives unannounced, rearranges your script, and leaves you staring …
The Mountain Is Me
There was a time when my life felt like one long argument—with myself, with people who left, with people who stayed but didn’t show up the way I wanted them to. Every disappointment turned into a courtroom where I was both the prosecutor and the accused. Blame had a strange comfort. It gave shape to my confusion, like holding a cracked mirror and calling it proof. I could stay angry instead of admitting I felt small. I could rewrite stories where I tried the hardest, and somehow that made losing feel noble. Blame is a cracked mirror—it …
That Moment You Realize Detachment Isn’t About Others—It’s About You
The first time I tried to detach, I thought it meant building a fortress. I wanted to shut out the world, make sure nothing could touch me. But detaching that way just made me feel lonelier. It felt like I was punishing myself, hiding because I was afraid. Then something shifted. I realized I wasn’t detaching from anyone else. I was detaching from the idea that I needed someone else to tell me who I was. That was the moment I got it: I didn’t have to run away. I could just come home. Detachment isn’t about being cold. It’s about being …
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The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Tried to Build
I’m still learning how to live inside my own head without needing to escape it. Some days I get it right; most days I don’t. It’s not a grand success story—more like a construction site where progress and collapse coexist. I keep thinking strength will one day feel stable, but it never does. One week I’m disciplined and calm, the next I’m negotiating with the snooze button and calling it reflection. I’m not ashamed of that anymore. Growth isn’t a straight climb; it’s a dance between falling and finding rhythm again. When things get heavy, …
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The Five Seconds That Taught Me Who I Really Am
I was standing in my Koramangala kitchen at 9:47 PM, phone in hand, when something shifted in the most ordinary way possible. My neighbor had texted asking if I wanted to join her and some friends for dinner at that new place on Brigade Road. My fingers had already typed out "Sounds great! Looking forward to it!" because that's apparently what I do—automatic yes before my brain can catch up. But as my thumb hovered over send, I heard this quiet voice in my head: "You don't actually want to do this." Not dramatic or mystical. Just …
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When Exhaustion Looks Like Failure
There’s a weight that settles in quietly, the kind that doesn’t announce itself but slowly seeps into everything you do—or don’t do. It’s not about hitting rock bottom or having some grand breakdown. It’s the slow erosion of energy until even the smallest things—like standing under running water, or eating something real —feel out of reach. The to-do lists pile up, the plans circle around and around, but nothing moves forward. It’s tempting to call this laziness. But that’s a lie we tell ourselves when we’re too tired to hold the …
The Quiet Armor: Why Hiding Didn’t Make Me Invisible
At some point, you realize that silence isn’t just peace—it’s protection. Growing up, I learned early that saying anything was dangerous. Defend yourself, and you’re guilty. Stay quiet, and you’re still guilty. The rules made no sense, but I followed them anyway, because hiding behind a closed door was safer than being caught in the crossfire. Being perfect and invisible wasn’t about innocence; it was survival. When every word can turn against you, you stop trying to explain. You fold yourself into the smallest shape you can, hoping no one …
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A House I Can Live In
Proof over plans. Receipts over rhetoric. A rainy trail below Bhrigu taught me a plain rule: confidence isn’t a feeling; it’s proof. Since then, I’ve been paying in small, private promises and building something sturdier than applause. Tonight the ceiling fan hums like it owes me nothing while I run a quiet check:Did I keep one promise today—not a makeover, not a master plan, just one small thing I said I’d do. I did, just about, and my body understands the receipt; my shoulders drop and sleep comes closer. I like starting here …