Tag: psychology

  • How to Stay Soft in a World That Made You Hard

    I’m tired of this mind of mine, so tender, it bruises with every word. The one that gets hurt at the slightest comment.

    The one obsessed with validation.

    My entire sense of worth seems to hang on someone else’s words.

    I have this maddening urge to explain myself until the other person finally says, “I get it. I still like you. You weren’t wrong.”

    Why can’t I be wrong? Why am I so attached to being right?

    I’m sure my moral compass was shaped in childhood, by parents who believed that making a mistake meant you were a bad person. So to me, being a good human meant being a perfect one. Nothing less of perfection.

    It’s become an obsession: to be right, always right. And when I’m not, I spiral into anxiety. Then I expect others to accept my shortcomings, because I wasn’t raised right, because I have issues, because I am broken.

    And the burden falls on the ones who love me to accommodate my madness, my fears, my tears, my jolts, my frenzy, my apparent lovelessness.

    It becomes a vicious cycle: “Please don’t hate me, I’m not bad”—to—“Go to hell, you’re wrong and imperfect.”

    Self-preservation takes over when someone tries to push me into a corner.

    I growl like a grizzly bear to scare them away, but on the inside, I just want a hug.

    I want to be told I’m still loved.

    I often observe others, watching how they go about their day, without any apparent worry of the world.

    I don’t understand how people live with their imperfections without constantly fearing ridicule or rejection. I can be kind to strangers, compassionate to broken people, accepting of their flaws.

    But in close relationships, I run a tight ship.

    So tight, it’s suffocating.

    And truthfully? It’s exhausting to live with me.

    I’m constantly analyzing myself, putting myself on trial, playing the jury, the judge, the lawyer, the culprit, and the victim. It feels like I’m holding a fragile ship together. One wrong move, and everything sinks.

    Yes, yes,I know I need help!

    But here’s the question that haunts me: Does wanting to be right mean I need help?

    I fear that if I start letting go, if I start accepting things as they are, I’m giving up on myself.

    Accepting would mean my thoughts aren’t really changing. I’ve just muted my voice.

    I fear I’d become a fake. A hypocrite. An inauthentic.

    So what to do now?

    Should I end relationships where I don’t let the other person breathe?

    Should I only stay close to those I can accept easily?

    Should I keep pushing people to be better?

    Where’s the line between nagging and nurturing? Between trying and accepting?

    Why does acceptance sometimes feel like enabling cruelty? And why does trying to fix things make me feel like the villain?

    If I don’t sound urgent, will people even take me seriously?

    How much time are we wasting hurting each other—hurting ourselves—just to be ‘right’?

    How do I handle the casual disdain people seem to have for empathy and accountability? How far do I go in trying to show them a different way?

    What’s the ideal distance in relationships? What’s hypocrisy, and what’s authenticity? What does it mean to “let people be” versus trying to make a relationship work?

    And then I wonder: what is stopping them, and what is stopping me, from accepting?

    Behind the refusal to accept is fear.

    Fear born in childhood, or maybe adulthood, during those moments when you were left alone, helpless.

    When the hand that was supposed to save you pushed you deeper into the swamp instead.

    You felt like you’d die in those moments.

    But you survived. Heroically.

    At a cost.

    You lost faith. In people. Maybe even in God.

    Now, the only person you trust is yourself, because it was you who pulled yourself out. And even when someone offered help, they didn’t reach in time.

    So now, you plan. You judge. You micromanage every outcome. To avoid vulnerability.

    People might think you’re strong, wise, put-together. But really you’re just scared.

    A scaredy crow who can’t handle surprises. You spin like a top, terrified of falling.

    This perfection isn’t superiority. It’s inferiority, wearing a mask. It’s fear pretending to be in control.

    And when you look at others, you wonder: How are they just living? Not micromanaging? Not terrified of mistakes?

    You’re triggered by their ease. Their confidence. Their oblivion. You scoff at them, call them naive. But in quiet moments, you wonder: Who sleeps better? You or them?

    Maybe you’re jealous. Maybe you envy how little time they spend in fear.

    Your fear shows up as control. As nagging. As intensity. You become the party pooper. The energy zapper.

    But there’s an opposite extreme too: The avoiders. The numb ones. Those who were never taught to handle hard emotions. So they freeze. Scoff. Numb.

    They call emotional people dramatic. They label vulnerability as weakness.

    But deep down, they’re as fragile as you. They just express it differently.

    Addictions often live here: in food, screens, working out to look a certain way, alcohol, sex, shopping, even cleaning. Anything to escape the storm inside.

    So there’s a middle path. There has to be.

    One extreme says stop at the sight of trouble. The other says ignore the signs and run. But the middle path says:

    Pause.

    Feel your feelings. Sit with discomfort. Then choose your next move, with kindness, with strength, with clarity.

    Tell yourself when difficulties are looming over your head, that you are strong enough to face it. You are loved enough to ask for support. You are mature enough to know who to ask. You are kind enough to accept failure. And wise enough to begin again.

    You don’t have to feel ashamed of making mistakes and seeking help. You help others feel whole when they think they’re missing something to be happy and worthy.

    I read somewhere, Not making mistakes is not perfection but growing continuously changing continuously as per the lessons is perfection.

    So now to me, this is what a healthy mind looks like: A mind that can handle what life throws at it—with quiet dignity. Even if it stumbles, it rises.

    It knows how to hold itself. And when it can’t, it’s confident enough to reach out. Not in desperation, but in strength.

    It doesn’t dwell in shame. It doesn’t seek constant validation. It simply knows:

    The space it holds on this Earth is already its own, and it doesn’t need to be earned or justified.

    I hope all the broken ones find peace. I hope they’re met with warmth instead of suspicion. That their concerns are treated like real wounds. That they are supported like they never were before.

    I hope they know: They matter. Without effort. Without perfection. Without asking.

    Always.

  • Write Your Own Myth

    Storytelling Isn’t Just for Children

    Storytelling is an underrated art, often dismissed as mere entertainment or something reserved for teaching kids values. But have you ever noticed how we adults still use storytelling to guide our lives?

    Every Conversation Is a Story

    The gossip we indulge in, the content we engage with on social media, the way we talk about people, places, and ideas—our tone, expressions, and framing—all of it becomes a story.

    It reveals who we are: our likes, dislikes, philosophies, spiritual leanings, and passions.

    Even the person who sells you groceries starts forming a story about who you are, based on the narratives you live and tell.

    The Stories We Tell Shape Our Society

    But it doesn’t stop at revealing who we are. The stories we share, whether publicly or privately, shape the worldviews of those listening, consciously or subconsciously.

    A simple chat in a park or restaurant about a social issue gives passersby a glimpse into the kind of world their peers are helping create.

    When One Narrative Dominates

    When you hear only one kind of story, it leads to one kind of messaging. What you hear often becomes the path you follow, especially if you’re cut off from other perspectives.

    Without exposure to diverse cultures and experiences, we may never realize that different problems have different solutions, shaped by entirely different mindsets and traditions.

    The Hidden Influence of Popular Stories

    This shapes society in subtle but powerful ways.

    Stories influence:

    How we raise children

    Where and how they study

    How far people move

    How marriages happen

    What caste or religion is “acceptable”

    How beauty is defined

    How we treat our partners

    What jobs are considered respectable

    How old people should live

    What we expect from the government

    They shape our moral compass, set thresholds for outrage, and influence how we express dissent.

    Stories tell us whether we should only care for ourselves—or for our neighbor, too.

    They don’t just shape our happiness, they define how much abuse is “acceptable.”

    If the common narrative is about enduring suffering, speaking up becomes difficult unless your pain meets a certain threshold.

    The Tone of a Story Matters

    The impact of a story depends on its tone and delivery. Stories which are shared as obvious norms to be followed, quickly become the trend of the contemporary society. They are depicted as norms followed by the wise, rich and powerful of the society, so shouldn’t be questioned by common man.

    Some stories are amplified through loudspeakers, repeated on social media, organically or through paid campaigns, aimed at normalizing certain ideas or instilling fear.

    Others are spread quietly. These may be the stories that challenge the status quo, initiate cultural shifts, or simply deserve to be heard.

    Stories worth attention

    Maybe it’s the ones rooted in kindness, peace, and truth. The ones that don’t center power and ego but instead prioritize community, harmony, and creating space for everyone to thrive.

    Who Gets to Be Heard?

    If stories shape us so deeply, it’s worth asking: who gets to tell them? And who gets listened to?

    Ironically, popular stories often glorify conformity. They celebrate tradition, patriarchy, and dogmatism, while we simultaneously idolize past rebels who didn’t conform.

    History celebrates the antiheroes of their time, while the present vilifies today’s rebels.

    So, why don’t we listen to the rebels of today? Why are they being shunned? Aren’t they the ones trying to wake us up from the Matrix?

    If human and moral values are the mountaintop we aspire to, why are stories of violence, division, power struggles, and abuse interest us the most?

    Stories from Childhood

    If we look back, our ancient stories, even those about gods, often ask us to break norms in the name of compassion. Give up ego. Fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.

    Sometimes, even show kindness to the enemy.

    They teach us to choose right over wrong. And when faced with right vs. kind? Choose kind.

    But they also warn us: don’t be kind at the cost of yourself. Don’t tolerate abuse in the name of goodness either.

    These stories remind us: the power lies within us—to write our story, even if no one is listening.

    Are Our Stories Making Us More Humane?

    So we need to ask: are the stories we’re choosing to believe making us kinder and more humane—or simply repeating the traditional values of our ancestors, too scared or scary to question?

    The Discrimination of Stories

    Some people only want to hear one kind of story. They believe that denying all other perspectives makes their version more real. To them, their story is the absolute truth.

    But stories asking for change are often judged by who tells them.

    Is the storyteller “respectable”? Is the storyteller part of my social group? Are they acceptable by my peers?
    Does their story fit my comfort zone?

    If not, I won’t listen, because listening may require me to change. And change is uncomfortable.

    The Story of Me

    Stories have power. They touch our subconscious. They make us feel, even when we try not to. And those feelings demand reflection.

    What if you hear a story from someone you don’t like, and it moves you? What if it makes you empathize?

    That’s terrifying for some. It blurs the lines between good and bad, us and them.

    We grew up with stories that never asked us to change. We were told to follow them, like characters who never questioned the script. Our beliefs were handed to us. And because we didn’t choose them, questioning them now feels like betrayal.

    After all, we’re not gods or rebels—we’re “good people.” Raised not to be uncomfortable in the society that molded us.

    So we deny the uncomfortable stories. We pretend they don’t exist. We don’t share them, no matter how powerful, because we fear being rejected. Or we fear feeling like hypocrites.

    The story might force us to reassess our beliefs. And that’s hard.

    What if we lose our place in our social circle?
    What if we become the villain in someone else’s story?

    What If the Story of Rejection Becomes Our Story?
    What if they twist our truth and cast us as the demon?

    What if we’re not allowed to share our side of the truth?

    What if our children or descendants are humiliated because we dared to speak up?

    Leap of Faith

    But what if I believe in storytellers beyond my peers? What if stories transcend timelines?

    What I am depends on the audience—good or bad, right or wrong, rebel or revolutionary.

    Maybe I should trust the audience once. Trust their ability to hold space for my truth. Maybe they’re also tired of the same old stories, waiting for a new one.

    A story where the protagonist dares to try a different ending.

    What if you let go of fear and let destiny decide whether you’re remembered as a hero or a villain?

    What if the world, if not today, then someday, uses your story to awaken others?

    Aren’t we all standing on the shoulders of those who dared to write a different story?

    Final Word

    Maybe all that matters is giving your full self to at least one story, one where you are unapologetically you.

    Think you’re not worthy of a story?

    God may have written your destiny, but gave you the free will to shape its course.

    If you weren’t worthy, why would nature bother keeping you alive?

    The very fact that you’re here, reading this, means you have the power to change how your story ends.

    The choice was always yours.

    Maybe I’m the hero, the villain, the antihero, or even a silent spectator, in different stories.

    But I owe it to myself to be the true protagonist in at least one.

    The one that’s mine.

  • The Phoenix in Me

    Long-term trauma leaves you with no idea who you are. You keep coping, imitating, trying to become someone, maybe your ideal self, because you don’t know your original self, if something like that even exists.

    An authentic “you” doesn’t exist yet.

    And then, when you heal a little and build some self-worth, you feel even more lost. You don’t want to copy anymore, but you also don’t know who you truly are. You don’t like being told what’s wrong with you because, deep down, you feel it’s not your fault.

    You don’t know your weaknesses or strengths because, whatever they are, they’ve just been your way of surviving all this time.

    It takes years, sometimes decades, to figure out what you should and shouldn’t be. And while you’re stuck in that process, life keeps passing by. Once again, you feel left behind. Once again, you’re missing the boat.

    People say, “You can be anything.” But how do you even choose what to be? If you had a personality to begin with, maybe you could just hone it. But when you have to build a whole new one from scratch? That’s something else entirely.

    You’re physically clumsy, mentally even worse, and sometimes only you can see that. The weight of that invisible struggle crushes your confidence. The confusion drains you. The embarrassment, of not knowing yourself, becomes something only you can feel, because others have no idea what it’s like.

    It’s a lonely journey. A dark, small, lonely room in the corner of existence. And the only way to turn the light on is from the outside, by letting in acceptance.

    Acceptance of who you are. Acceptance of the hope that you could be anything. No matter how much you want to escape this room, you can’t unless you carry acceptance with you- everywhere, probably forever.

    And yes, acceptance is heavy too. It puts the responsibility on you. But is it worth it? Maybe. I have yet to see. But sitting alone in this room doesn’t feel good either.

    Decades might pass, and only a few will bother to knock on this door. Even fewer, maybe just one, might try to break it open.


    But is waiting for that person really worth it?

    Instead of expecting someone else to save you, isn’t it better to walk out yourself?

    Carry your own burden, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find someone who’s carrying a similar one. Or someone who, even without their own burden, is willing to help with yours.

    Life is difficult, but maybe not as unbearable as it seems. If nothing else, we can learn to be our own best company, carrying ourselves through the weight of it all. And maybe—just maybe—one day, it won’t feel as heavy anymore.

  • Echoes of a Love Long Gone

    Love and human emotions are complex, capable of offering a wide range of experiences even when the circumstances seem similar. The process of loving someone, feeling disconnected from them, and eventually losing interest follows a pattern many have lived through, yet it feels unique every time.

    Loving someone who was once close, not necessarily an ex-partner, but a family member or a friend who no longer reciprocates the same warmth, is a quiet rollercoaster in itself. Keeping up with someone who no longer shares their life with you, who remains a mystery despite once being an open book, can feel like chasing a mirage.

    You think you know them, but then a void appears, an ever-present gap in your understanding. You yearn for just one missing piece to complete the puzzle of your relationship, of their life, of a shared existence.

    You rarely ask those who know them because you don’t want to seem like you care, even when you do. Instead, you subtly seek clues, scrolling through their social media, piecing together fragments of their world. Sometimes, they reveal something unexpected, something you could never have imagined. Other times, a mutual friend shares a detail that leaves you utterly shaken. Sometimes, you learn something that makes you wonder if you ever truly knew them at all.

    But then comes a stage, after much heartbreak, where you finally give up. The love that once burned fiercely now flickers weakly. You realize you will never be part of their inner world, and in one way or another, they have disappointed you too many times. You’re no longer in their close circle, no longer a favorite, perhaps just a number in their contact list, blocked and unblocked more times than you can count.

    After the storm of emotions passes, indifference sets in. Not hatred, hatred may have had its moment, but now, you no longer wish to know more. Their life no longer intrigues you. Their secrets no longer tempt you. Their interests no longer find a place in your world. Self-preservation has replaced your need to be accepted.

    This is where love, long ailing, finally takes its last breath. It hurts, perhaps just a little, but you know better than to give in.

    Months go by. You both have likely removed each other from social media, not because you wanted to, but because they made it clear you no longer belonged in their life, and you couldn’t bear the constant reminder. So one of you deleted, unfollowed, or blocked the other, each choosing a different path.

    But then, unexpectedly, through some forgotten app, a rare notification, or a mutual group chat, you catch a glimpse of their life again. A recent update. A passing mention. And for a moment, it all comes rushing back. A jolt in your chest. A sinking feeling in your stomach. The urge to look away, yet unable to.

    For a fleeting second, the old love is reminded.

    You take a breath. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour, maybe a day. But then, once again, you remind yourself, it’s not worth it anymore. Probably never was.

    And with that, you repeat the one truth you’ve come to learn:

    What is not watered will not grow—no matter how much you once wished it would.

  • Know Thyself, Love Thyself

    While I often believe that childhood surroundings play a decisive role in shaping who we become, I also see many who turn out completely different from what their environment might suggest.

    A strictly traditional family may raise a free-spirited son, an atheist household could nurture a deeply religious individual, and a family bound by societal norms might have a rebellious child.

    Is it genetics? Is it Freud? Questions worth exploring.

    While understanding why we are the way we are is important, the more essential task is accepting who we are. Until we truly understand ourselves, a process that takes years, we can’t begin to grow or build a better life.

    After all, how can you fix a machine without first diagnosing the issue?

    But self-awareness isn’t just about finding flaws; it’s also about learning to love ourselves. Just as we fall deeper in love with someone as we notice and appreciate their little quirks, the more we come to know ourselves, the more considerate and compassionate we become toward our own being.

    The world tells us to love others, but that love must first begin with ourselves. When we understand our true nature, we can treat ourselves with care and make the necessary adjustments to lead a more fulfilling life.

    Is that something to feel guilty about? Absolutely not. Self-love is the foundation for growth and connection. By embracing who we are, we not only improve our own lives but also enhance our ability to love and support others, helping us become better human beings.

  • Ant- The Teacher

    Once upon a time there was a boy named ray. Ray was a very inquisitive boy who always wanted to learn something new.

    Ray’s father was a small time mechanic in the local garage and he did not earn so much that he could keep up with Ray’s learning needs.

    One day Ray was really upset, feeling neglected that his family could not provide him with all of his wishes and needs. While he was complaining to god about all this, he saw a bunch of ants trying to lift a big sugar cube. What he saw inspired him for his life.

    Next day he ran an idea with his close group of friends. That’s how Ray’s Rental started. They started to rent their own toys and books and other things at a nominal price, which kids of their age would require and couldn’t afford to buy otherwise. This way not one person had to endure the burden of the whole thing, just like ants where a group helped to carry the cube not just one ant.

    Not only sharing your burden financially or emotionally helps ease one’s life but also it builds a thriving community where everyone is aware of each other’s needs and every one of the members of the community do their part to make everyone happy.

  • The Romance of Distance

    Time and again, both the wise and the foolish have spoken about yearning, about loving from afar. Philosophers, theologians, ardent devotees, and poets have all mused on how, sometimes, cherishing someone from a distance and waiting for them can feel more blissful than actually being with them.

    Neuroscience explains this phenomenon through arrival fallacy. This refers to the idea that dopamine—the neurotransmitter responsible for motivation and pleasure—is released in anticipation of something rather than in its attainment. Once a long-awaited goal is achieved, dopamine levels drop, leaving a person feeling unexpectedly empty.

    Someone who longed to be with their beloved, for instance, might find themselves feeling strangely indifferent once that desire is fulfilled. This concept has also found a place in spirituality, particularly in Sufism and Vaishnavism, which speaks of how yearning for the divine is often more intoxicating than attaining union with God.

    Many couples talk about how their relationship changed after marriage, how the passion and effort that once defined their love seem to fade. It is as if marriage itself marks the completion of a goal, after which the pursuit, the excitement, and the longing all dissipate.

    A similar feeling often follows major life events. We hear of people feeling numb after accomplishing something they deeply desired. It is simply a “now what?” moment, a sense of emptiness that lingers after a mission is complete.

    Infatuation, too, thrives on distance. There are those who find quiet joy in merely observing the person they admire—never confessing their feelings, content instead with fleeting moments: a brief meeting of eyes, an accidental brush of hands, the lingering trace of perfume as they pass by.

    If it’s a celebrity crush, people can spend years, even decades, dreaming of someone they may never meet.

    It is the waiting, the yearning, that turns people into poets and artists, not the fulfillment of desire.

    Perhaps there is a kind of sweetness in longing. Of course, it shouldn’t consume a person, turning into obsession or unhealthy patterns. But there is a quiet charm in knowing that someone you desire is close yet out of reach. And in a world so focused on achieving, acquiring, and winning, perhaps longing itself is an experience worth savoring.

    Maybe love, in its purest form, isn’t about possession but about presence,whether near or far. And maybe, just maybe, the ache of longing is not a curse, but a quiet kind of grace, a reminder that some things are most beautiful when they remain just out of reach.

  • Children & Parents- Two Sides Of A Coin

    One of the most empowering things children do is follow their parents to the T. For those parents who tell that their kids do not to listen to them, they should know that, even before they realize it, their children are copying their behavior. What is problematic in them is problematic in you. What is lovable in them, they have acquired it from you.

    Even though parental wounds are real, it’s deeply saddening to see how many parents don’t realize that having children is like receiving God’s love language. However we receive our children, it is the greatest gift we can give ourselves. It’s an act of love toward ourselves. I understand that one needs to be healed enough to fully cherish this, but if you’re in a place where you can see your child for what they are, not what they could be, you will feel a glowing ball of love in your heart.

    Your child is here to show you the way you love—they are a mirror of how you love yourself. If what I’m saying hurts you, then perhaps you are also hurting yourself.

    It’s a painful realization that our children must endure suffering that should only be ours. But since we can’t change this, what we can control is how we see ourselves—and in return, how we see our child.

    We owe it to our children to be the best version of ourselves possible. And by “best,” I don’t mean the worldly best, but rather the version of ourselves that we can lean on when we need support. This way, our children will learn to love themselves the way we love ourselves.

  • Prisoners Of The Mind: The Human Struggle

    The trouble with life is that it is made up of numerous moments. When times are good, you enjoy being in the moment, but when things aren’t going your way, every moment feels like a punishment. Life seems like a prison, and you become a slave to it.

    You keep banging your head against the invisible walls of time, trying to understand what led you here. It becomes even more difficult when you consider yourself a thinker-logical and rational-someone who can’t accept an irrational explanation for their problems. Yet, there often seems to be no rational reason for the random unpleasant events in life.

    How and when psychology became a rational branch is something that makes me wonder because, most of the time, when you can’t perform due to an emotionally troubled state, people call you useless or lazy. If psychology is the culprit, why shouldn’t a person see themselves as a victim, victim of their own mind or time, victim of their own evolution, which made them sensitive to others, victim of anything that now seems to be a self-fulfilling prophecy?

    While people strive to be part of groups where they are truly in touch with their inner selves, a person who is authentically themselves at all times is often labeled impulsive. Why is everything paradoxical when it comes to real practices in the world? Every ritual has two sides: one bad and the other worse, yet we are forced to choose.

    When we begin to understand what we lack, we find ourselves at the brink of killing our own ideals. Once we realize that this lack is the cause of our troubles, it becomes difficult to act against it because doing so feels like acting against ourselves, against the truth. And everyone has a different version of the truth, yet everyone wants you to accept their version while you keep wondering: isn’t truth supposed to be absolute?

    Perhaps this is where we make the mistake. Maybe it’s not the truth we are offering or believing, but rather an explanation. And explanations change with time, according to our understanding of the problems.

    Maybe the key to everything is knowledge, awareness. The more we get to know things, directly and remotely related to our situation, the better we will be at accepting what brought us here.

    And maybe, then, our tombstones won’t silently read: “Still searching for a reason.”

  • Masters Of The Stage Or Masters Of Fate?

    I am a novice when it comes to acting. Not only did I hold various assumptions about the talent required, thinking it was no big deal, but I also believed acting was for those who couldn’t do anything else.

    Recently, I had an epiphany, a newfound respect for actors, when I realized that acting isn’t just impromptu. It’s rehearsed. And it’s not just a monologue all the time. There is a group of people working together to present a real-life situation in the most convincing way possible. I now understand why the term “timing” was coined.

    An actor already knows what will come next, yet they still hold the expressions the scene demands. They know their next line, but they wait patiently for their turn, responding as though hearing it for the first time. And while they wait, they don’t look bored or fake their reactions, they seem to be immersed in that character and that’s the mark of a great actor.

    This got me thinking about the mystery in our own lives. What if we knew what was coming next? Could we still stay present and play our part convincingly?

    If we knew we were going to die, get hurt, or lose everything, could we still be as happy in the present moment as we are now, oblivious to the future? Personally, I doubt that about myself.

    If we can’t even be good actors in the small plays of life, how could we expect to be good humans if we knew our fate beforehand? Would living still be as exhilarating if we knew exactly how it would unfold?

    Actors don’t just play one role in their lifetime, they embody many. With each character, they get to live as sinners and saints, lovers and villains. They don’t just recite lines; they feel what their characters feel, diving deep into the emotional and spiritual depths of those experiences. Maybe that gives them an unusual perspective, a glimpse into different kinds of human existence. They witness what it means to be selfish or selfless, cruel or kind, broken or whole.

    In real life, they probably get to choose who they want to be, based on those experiences.

    And that made me wonder—as humans, do we experience something similar? If we believe in multiple lifetimes, could it be that, deep down, we remember the lessons from each? Maybe not consciously, but somewhere in the fabric of our being, we carry those experiences, shaping the way we choose to live.

    If we could see all the beads on the string of life—every role we’ve ever played, every lesson we’ve ever learned—would we finally understand why we are here? Would it make us better? Or is the forgetting just as essential as the remembering?

    It makes me wonder, are we all just actors in the grand play of existence, striving for our final standing ovation?