There was a winter morning in Uttarakhand when my fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. I hadn’t eaten. My face was windburnt. The room I was in smelled like wet wool and eucalyptus balm. But I had to write.
Not because it was a good idea. Not because anyone was waiting.
Because if I didn’t, the story inside me was going to rot.
It wasn’t a “content plan.” It wasn’t strategic.
It didn’t start with a hook and end with a takeaway.
It was a raw, blood-tinged truth that had been pulsing behind my ribs for days. I remember staring at the screen and typing a sentence I immediately wanted to delete—not because it was wrong, but because it was too damn real.
I’ve written many things that were clever. Smooth. Balanced.
But the ones I return to—the ones that sit in my throat when I walk or run or just try to fall asleep—are the ones that left a mark. On me.
I didn’t grow up imagining I’d share my insides with strangers.
In fact, for most of my life, I thought being private was safer. More dignified.
Why tell the world you’re hurting when you could just get on with things?
Why admit that your anger has teeth, your love has no boundaries, and your shame is older than your voice?
But something shifted when I realized silence was costing me more than the risk of being misunderstood.
There are stories I’ve written that still make me nauseous when I reread them.
Because I remember exactly how it felt to hit publish.
The physical recoil. The loop in my head:
This is too much. You’ve said too much. You’re going to regret this.
And sometimes I did regret it. Temporarily.
Until the messages came. Not the flattering ones. The real ones. Quiet ones.
People who didn’t know how to say “me too” so they just said, “Thank you.”
That was enough.
No—it was everything.
I don’t write for reach.
I don’t write for the algorithm.
I don’t care if a sentence is aesthetically pleasing.
I care if it lands like a punch to the gut.
I care if someone reads it and forgets to breathe for a moment because it reminded them of something they’d buried under politeness or survival.
And I know the difference. I’ve written both kinds.
The kind that wins praise but leaves you hollow.
And the kind that makes you physically ache—but leaves you more honest than you’ve been in weeks.
Most people won’t tell you this, but truth doesn’t care about your reputation.
It doesn’t care about your brand.
It doesn’t care how long you’ve gone without crying.
Truth will break into your life like a storm at 3 a.m., flood your plans, short-circuit your peace, and whisper, Say it anyway.
And if you do—if you say it not because it’s smart or strategic but because it’s real—you’ll feel a silence inside you that doesn’t ask for applause.
Only acknowledgment.
So I write.
Not for applause. Not for catharsis.
I write because some truths start to rot if you don’t release them.
And when people ask how I decide what to share, I never quite know what to say.
It’s not a decision. It’s a reckoning.
I write the thing I’m afraid to write.
Because if it still lives in my body after all this time, maybe it’s not mine to keep.
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