Adulting

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...

  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...

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...

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 ...

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.

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...

 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...

Love isn’t just one thing—it shifts, stretches, fades, and sometimes sneaks back in when you least expect it. At first, it feels unstoppable, like it’ll always be exciting, always be enough. But time has a way of testing that. The little things pile up, the spark dims, and one day, you realize love isn’t just about feeling—it’s about choosing. Choosing to stay, to try, to see the person beyond the version you first fell for. Sometimes, love doesn’t end with a crash but with quiet distance, with silences where laughter used to be. But falling out of love doesn’t always mean it’s over. Some love softens into something quieter but still real. Other times, it’s waiting for a reason to reignite—or a reason to let go. And that’s the hardest part: knowing when to hold on and when to walk away. Do you fight for it, even when it feels one-sided? Or is love also about knowing when to stop holding on? And when you can’t decide, you look for help—to guide you, to take you back. You call out to you...

Should we have choices at all? Choices make life difficult. The moment we choose, we create a parallel life—one that haunts us, whispering what-ifs in the quiet moments. It’s almost as if the things we don’t get become the most important, while everything we do have slowly fades, losing meaning over time. The romanticizing of another partner, the over-glorification of another career, the longing, the deprivation—yes, deprivation. "If I had her, I would be happy." "He would make me feel like a million bucks every day." "If I were an artist, I would finally be free." "My career would've been better if I were in the US." "If I had a child, I would find meaning" These thoughts creep in, re-shaping reality, making the present seem dull, lesser. Maybe it isn’t about the choice itself. Maybe it’s about the hunger. The chase. The quiet desperation for something just out of reach. Is it a need to be challenged, to struggle, to prove somethin...

  I now know why people recommend waking up early; it gives them ample time to have a mini existential crisis before getting on with their day. This morning, I sat by the window, the sky blushing faintly with dawn, and questioned, for the third time this week, why I even bother. It was therapy day, after all. I shuffled into the bathroom, the tiles cold beneath my feet. A quick shower and my essential skincare routine—because if nothing else, at least I could convince myself I was taking care of something. Dressed in my favourite pajama set, I stared at my reflection. My smile didn’t quite reach my eyes, but it was close enough. Breakfast was nothing fancy—a hot cup of chai and yesterday’s leftovers. It doesn’t sound glamorous, but trust me, it isn’t as bad as it seems. Besides, chai makes everything seem better, even mornings like this. The world is full of strange people if you ask me, but I might be the strangest. I am this independent woman who doesn’t need other people for ful...

 There is a story dying to be known.I can feel her everyday, I feel her when I am about to fall into the silence of sleep at night and in the mornings when my subconscious is up before I am . I feel her sometimes when i do my chores, working in the kitchen or folding laundry. I know she is  there, like a spirit looming, i know she is trying to be known. She trying to create an identity, i can feel it. I sometimes can read her in my dreams.  I still struggle and wiggle to find her, look for her from the corner of my eyes, as she prances around in my house, I will catch her one day, hold her hand as she gleefully looks at me and I will know all about her, like I know she knows all of me.  Until then, I know I should take guidance from many before me who have managed to find their stories.I should read more cause reading is probably the only way this story will get wings. She is pleading, almost begging me to read more so she has a chance to live, so she can change...

It is your 36th birthday. 36, not a number of any consequence. It does not make one question ones life choices as much as one does on their 30th nor does it make one feel as old as one does on the 35th. It is one of those birthdays, that come and go, one of the birthdays which will probably not be remembered. It is a day in ones life, another day of existence and, well, household chores, if you are a woman.  If 35 was the year of urgency, 36 is the year of calm I think. Most Indian parents and peers have given up on you. No one is forcing you to get married or have kids anymore. No one, including probably you,  expects you to do anything drastically different in your career or with your life.  If you haven't achieved it by now or started on a different path already, no one expects you to take it now or even believes that you will.  You do mourn, like on each birthday, you mourn over what this year could've been, what life could've been. But the mourning itself is per...