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A mediocre life

Who decides if a life is mediocre? We talk about “ordinary” like it is a disease. Something to outrun, outgrow, or be ashamed of. As if a life that does not look exceptional from the outside must be empty on the inside. Somewhere, someone quietly set the rules, and we agreed without questioning them. I am terrified of living an ordinary life. But the more I think about it, the more I realise I do not actually know what that means. Is it a life without experiences? Without love? Or is it simply a life where we stop paying attention? The obsession with being extraordinary has made us strangely disconnected. We chase bigger, louder, more impressive versions of ourselves, convinced that meaning exists somewhere else. In the next milestone. The next breakthrough. The next version of us. We do not chase extraordinary lives; we chase validation disguised as ambition. I have realised something uncomfortable. In my fear of mediocrity, I have been missing my own moments. I am so busy meas...
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Burnt Out, But Free

  I feel burnt out. I have no job, no prospects, no kids, no dogs. My husband is immersed in his own demanding role, and I— I don’t have a day-to-day routine, or much that feels like purpose right now. And yet, I’m exhausted. Not in my body, but in my soul. A few days ago, I met some underprivileged people. I listened to their stories. Some of their struggles made me deeply sad. But most of all, I felt angry. Angry at injustice, at apathy, at how easily we move on from other people’s pain simply because it isn’t our own. And here’s the part I didn’t expect: I haven’t been able to move on. It’s been two days, and I still find myself tearing up. The images, the words—they keep looping in my mind. So now I’m wondering: Is this burn-out not from overwork, but from over-feeling? Is it because I empathise too much, listen too closely, absorb too deeply? Or is it simply because I’m too free—with too much time, too few boundaries, and no structure to contain the flood of emot...
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Feel It All: The Power in Feeling Lost

If you’re feeling down, feel it. Feel the fuck out of it. Don’t run. Don’t distract. Don’t scroll it away or pretend it’s not there. Sit with it. Get uncomfortably comfortable with it. Learn its shape. Learn how it breathes, where it lives in your body. Get to know it like you would get to know joy, because this too, is yours. Happiness is yours.So is this sinking feeling. That heaviness in your chest? The ache in your gut that whispers no one loves you , no one likes you —that is real. It’s not the truth, but it’s real. And if you don’t give it a name, if you don’t look it in the eyes, it will keep showing up in different masks. It will live under your skin until it becomes your identity instead of a passing wave. We’ve been taught to be ashamed of sadness. To clean ourselves up, to smile, to "move on." But what if moving through is more powerful than moving on? Feeling lost is part of finding yourself. Feeling down is part of rising again. Let it hollow you out if...
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Bluffs

We tell ourselves such elaborate lies at times—some to keep our spirits alive, most to keep ourselves from falling apart. When do we call bluff on those? We see lies in everyone's eyes but our own. Our true potential might be much lower than we choose to believe, our aspirations much higher than what we can ever achieve. Yet, we persist, convincing ourselves that we are meant for greatness, that the universe is merely waiting for the right moment to grant us our due. Wishful thinking, manifestations—these work for the deserving, for the doer. They don’t work for the talker, the dreamer who never moves beyond their imagination, the one who waits for fate to intervene instead of carving their own path. The world doesn’t reward intention; it rewards action. So, at what point do we stop telling ourselves these tales? At what point do we strip away the illusion and see ourselves for who we truly are? Perhaps, the greatest tragedy is not in failing to achieve our dreams, but in never ...
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Love ruins everything

Love—so grand, so elusive, so deeply misunderstood. It sneaks in like a quiet storm, turning certainty into chaos. The problem isn’t just love itself, but the way we define it—vaguely, personally, selfishly. One person loves deeply, while the other stays for companionship—the comfort of having someone around, not the intense passion. But love always wants more. It wants to be returned, felt just as strongly. But what happens when it isn’t? When one confuses attachment with love, or responsibility with desire? Love, or what we believe it to be, sets expectations. And expectations, unfulfilled, breed resentment. Someone always wants more. Someone always gives less. The balance tilts, and suddenly, what once felt like magic begins to feel like a burden. Yet, we chase it. We fall into it. We swear by it, even when we don't understand it. And in the end, love, or the illusion of it, ruins everything.
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The Wasp

This morning, I saw a wasp in my bathroom. It had been there for two days, buzzing frantically, trying to escape. The source of its hope was the window—light streamed through, promising freedom—but the glass was firmly shut. The wasp kept ramming against the barrier, convinced that the light it saw was the way out. I suspect it came through the exhaust fan, unknowingly trapping itself in an unfamiliar world. It had entered in search of something—perhaps warmth, perhaps sustenance—but now found itself in an unrelenting struggle. Its movements grew weaker, its flight patterns erratic. I wondered if it would find its way back or if exhaustion would claim it first. This tiny creature, in its futile effort, reminded me of ambitious individuals caught in a rut. Just like the wasp, they see the light of success shining in the distance. They dream of breaking free, reaching new heights, achieving what they set out to do. Yet, despite their relentless effort, they remain trapped, unable to brid...
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To Be Seen

 It is one thing to be known and another to be seen . When someone—especially someone new—cuts through your carefully constructed image and holds up a mirror, it feels like a wound opening. The things you’ve hidden, even from yourself, stare back: the insecurities, the fears, the quiet self-betrayals, the loud self-loathing. It is gutting, how effortlessly they pull the truth from you, how their words land in places you didn’t think were exposed. And yet, beneath the sting, there is an odd kind of relief. To be seen so clearly, without pretense or explanation, is terrifying—but isn’t it also a strange comfort? That someone else, even in their uninvited clarity, proves that you were never as invisible as you feared? Did you want to remain invisible, hide behind the facade? Is this feeling uncomfortable, unnerving or calming? Its a bit of all, and you want to feel numb again. But after the heartbreak, after the initial wave of shame or anger, there is something left behind—a fli...
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