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 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 …
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 …
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 …
Stop Letting Yourself Off the Hook
If there’s one thing I’ve perfected, it’s the art of the excuse. I could write a book about the clever detours I’ve invented to sidestep my own plans. The thing is, after a while, those little “not todays” don’t sound clever at all. They’re just heavy. They pile up, get dusty, and start to crowd out the part of me that actually wants more from life. No one ever warned me how sneaky excuses could be. They slip in quietly, wearing the mask of logic and self-care, telling me I’ll be ready tomorrow, or that I deserve a break, or that someone …
Reclaiming Self: The Quiet Revolution
The first time I stood in my kitchen and didn’t rush to answer a text, something shifted. The stove was on. My tea was boiling. My name wasn’t being called, and no crisis had arrived. But my phone buzzed, and I didn’t flinch. Not because I was being strong or strategic. I was just... tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from always being reachable, always available, always rearranging life like a Rubik’s Cube that only ever made other people happy. That morning, I watched the steam rise from the pan like a …
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The Sacred Terror of Saying Yes
There’s a particular kind of fear that arrives just before something important. Not the fear of crossing a busy road or checking your blood test results. This one has more gravity. It usually shows up when you’re standing at the edge of something new—arms crossed, breath held, already rehearsing how you’ll explain your failure if things go sideways. I used to think the brave were the ones who didn’t feel this fear. I know better now. The brave are simply the ones who keep showing up with it. I’ve said yes to a lot of things that scared …