self-care

The Quiet, Messy Work of Becoming Yourself Again

I’ve been watching people try to pull themselves back together, and the real moments—the ones nobody posts about—always stay with me. They don’t look inspiring. They look painfully human. A friend once told me she sat on the floor of her shower for half an hour because the water felt steadier than she did. She didn’t plan it or dramatize it; she just couldn’t stand upright that day. Another person said she brushed her teeth three times in a row because she kept zoning out mid-way and forgetting if she’d even started. She laughed when she …

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The Six Truths That Finally Forced Me To Stop Lying To Myself

The funny thing about “personal growth” is that it doesn’t tap you on the shoulder dramatically. It sneaks up in a much ruder way. You’ll be doing something ordinary—washing dishes, scrolling, pretending to work—and suddenly you hear your own thoughts and think, Oh god, I’ve been running the same pattern for years and calling it destiny. That’s how it happened for me. Not a crisis. Not a transformation. Just a quiet, slightly humiliating moment of clarity where I realised the gap between my intentions and my behaviours had become… …

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When I Stopped Overloading Myself, Everything Started Working Again

There are days when the mind finally stops fighting you. The noise settles, the tension lifts, and you get a small, steady glimpse of the person you’ve been trying to become. Today felt like that. Not because I did something heroic, but because I finally took some weight off my own neck. I reduced my goals. It sounds ordinary, but it changed everything. For the first time in weeks, my head wasn’t buzzing with panic or shame. No looping thoughts, no internal tug-of-war, no desperate need to redesign my entire life at 2 a.m. My mind …

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The Season of My Own Making

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 …

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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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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 …

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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 …

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I Stopped Paying for Quiet

The kitchen light is harsher than the hour deserves, the mug is filled higher than it should be, and my thumb hovers over a message that promises to smooth the room for a few hours if I’m willing to carve a small piece out of myself to pay for it. Steam fogs my glasses and turns the counters soft around the edges, and in that blur the old bargain clears its throat: send the tidy sentence, soften the tone, buy the calm. I know the script by heart and I also know the bill that follows, because the quiet that’s purchased always mails a receipt …

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