Tag: selfreflection

  • Mirror and Tango

    Marriage is a maze.

    No matter how much you prepare for it, you still find yourself standing in situations that make you wonder whether you prepared at all.

    The first decade of marriage is particularly interesting. Most couples face some of their toughest storms during the first five years. Many go on to build healthy marriages, but those early years can be surprisingly difficult to navigate.

    Becoming a parent during this period is like facing a tsunami in itself.
    But marriage, with or without children, is already enough of an event.
    It is not just a meeting with another person. It is an intervention with yourself.

    The most amusing characters in this entire story, according to me, are the parents/elders of the couple.
    Typically, anything good about their grown up child is attributed to the family. Any uncomfortable change, however, is attributed to the child’s partner.

    It is exactly how things worked during childhood.
    Anything kind, intelligent, or impressive the child did was credited to the family. Anything rude, rebellious, or unkind was blamed on a new friend.

    It is as if the child has no nature of their own. And to some extent, that is true.

    Children borrow heavily from the world around them. They imitate behavior before they develop a personal understanding of it.They are still forming their perception of the world.They observe, absorb, and experiment.

    A friend, a movie, a teacher, a sibling, or even a brief interaction can influence how they behave, be it temporarily.

    But while behaviors can be copied, feelings usually aren’t.

    What children often imitate/notice is the attention surrounding a behavior. They notice what gets rewarded, what gets punished, what gets a reaction, and they learn from that.

    But marriage is where this explanation starts becoming less convincing.

    There is a general perception that adults become someone else because of the company they keep. After marriage, parents may think their child’s spouse changed them.

    Partners often tell each other:
    “You bring out the worst in me. I haven’t seen myself behaving like this before.”
    I have a slightly different understanding of it.

    I think marriage brings out what was always there. It just never had a vent.

    From the kind of partners we choose to the ways we push our loved ones away, the things that shock other people were often present long before marriage. Nobody created them.

    Marriage simply lowers the energy available to maintain a facade.

    The demons were always there. Now they are sitting on the porch, giggling!

    What I’m trying to say is that marriage is rarely something entirely new behavior wise on an individual level. Especially in its early years, it is a reflection of who we already are and the childhood and the family history we carry with us.

    Marriage brings our vulnerable self to the surface. And to protect that vulnerable self, we do all kinds of strange things.

    We become controlling, avoidant, defensive or critical.

    The healthier we are emotionally, the healthier those reactions tend to be. The more wounded we are, the more dramatic they become.

    So if you think your partner is being irrational, strange, or difficult, spend some time observing their relationship with their primary caregivers.
    You will find a lot of answers there.

    If they were never allowed to express their feelings as a child, they may now express them with overwhelming intensity, because this relationship finally feels safe enough to do so, or they want to define that boundary somehow.

    Sometimes what appears as anger is fear looking for protection. They are frightened on the inside, so they become louder on the outside.

    Some people even thrive on chaos and drama because chaos feels familiar. Peace feels foreign. Predictability feels suspicious. The nervous system often mistakes familiarity for safety.

    If childhood taught them to shrink themselves around money, resources, or opportunities, they may carry that scarcity mindset into marriage and unintentionally pull their partner into it too.

    Sometimes the opposite happens.

    The more restricted they were growing up, the more expansive they became as adults.
    The more silenced they were, the louder they became.
    The more controlled they were, the more fiercely they protected their freedom.

    The point is not to excuse unhealthy behavior. The point is to understand where it came from.

    When you learn to trace a reaction back to the life that shaped it, many things begin to make sense.

    That is why I think one of the most valuable things you can do in the first decade of marriage is to understand your partner’s life before you enter it.

    Not because the past determines the future. But because it reveals the patterns that are most likely to show up in it.

    Marriage

    The longer I observe marriage, the less I see it as a union of two people and the more I see it as a meeting between two histories.

    Two childhoods.
    Two nervous systems.
    Two sets of fears, hopes, wounds, and coping mechanisms.
    The relationship simply becomes the place where they finally meet.

    Marriage is the mirror.

    Some people spend years trying to fix the reflection standing across from them. Others become curious about why that reflection exists in the first place.

    Then the real questions begin.
    Do you feel equipped to hold the wounds that still exist?
    Do you have the patience to keep offering a mirror?
    Are they willing to look into it?

    All these questions can help you decide whether your partner can match the level of awareness you are at.
    Because the most important question of all:
    Are you willing to do the same with your own patterns?
    Because marriage is not just a mirror for your partner.
    It is a mirror for you too.
    And sometimes the hardest reflection to face is your own.

    If both of you are interested in finding and figuring out your own patterns, the chances are you will grow together but if only one of you is taking the burden of growing with changing times then it will look like driving a car with one tire bigger than the others, a marriage that is wobbly.

    This is not a guide on how marriages work, but a nudge on it is more than what looks on the surface. It requires work.

    The real work starts when we are ready and it may require professional help. Whether you do it for this marriage or the relationship that comes later (divorce or another romantic relationship or parenting), that’s a personal choice. But it will always help to learn how much of your behaviour is intentional and how much of it is a response to something at which you had no control.

    In the end, marriage is a lot like a tango. It takes two people to create the dance, but each dancer is responsible for learning their own steps. We are not burdens waiting to be dragged across the floor. We are individuals learning our own rhythm, hoping to find someone willing to learn theirs too.

    And when both people are willing to do that, the dance becomes beautiful.

  • The Lesson I Could Not Rush

    I don’t know why, but one feature in the human behavior manual seems to be this: we learn late.

    Not according to our timelines. Not according to our plans. We learn when we learn.

    And when we truly learn something, it stays.

    So why do we rush the process so much?

    What are we afraid of missing?

    Is it death? Age? Opportunity? Regret?

    Why is timing so important to us?

    I keep coming back to love.

    I think it is love that makes us rush.

    Love for a dream.

    Love for comfort.

    Love for security.

    Love for the people we care about.

    But perhaps fear plays an equal role.

    Maybe we are not only running toward something. Maybe we are also running away from something.

    Love creates the desire to reach a goal.

    Fear creates urgency.

    I can think of many examples.

    I want to build a home for my loved ones. I want them to feel secure. I want them to have comfort. I want to bring that comfort to their life as soon as possible.

    At the same time, I fear the instability that comes from not having a home of our own.

    So I chase.

    Partly because of love. Partly because of fear.

    And somewhere in that push and pull, life keeps trying to teach me faith.

    Perhaps that lesson is being thrust upon me.

    Or perhaps I am secretly looking for it.

    Either way, I have slowly realized that I want peace more than I want speed.

    Because the chasing was exhausting me. Running or chasing both are not sustainable after a point.

    While I was running from fear, I grew tired of running.

    While I was trying to create comfort for my family, I was sometimes creating tension around them.

    The dream was good.

    The urgency was not.

    And slowly I realized something uncomfortable:

    I had become the center of the very tension I was trying to eliminate. I was choosing comfort for them, over the negativity and pressure I was bringing to their life everyday.

    That realization forced me to change.

    Or at least begin changing.

    Maybe that is how lessons are learned.

    Not when life explains them.

    Not when someone wiser tells us.

    But when the consequences of not learning become impossible to ignore.

    For me, the discomfort I was bringing to the people I loved became unbearable.

    And that pain taught me what advice never could.

    It makes me wonder whether the pain we create for others is sometimes life pointing toward what we need to correct.

    And perhaps the pain we create for ourselves serves the same purpose.

    Maybe both are invitations.

    A lesson waiting to be noticed.

    Of course, not everyone learns from pain. Sometimes people simply collect more wounds, more resentments, more triggers.

    Learning is still a choice.

    But humans do learn.

    Slowly.

    Repeatedly.

    Often reluctantly.

    We often think understanding comes first and change follows. More often, suffering accumulates first, and understanding arrives later to explain what our heart already knows.

    Life keeps asking the same question in different forms until we finally answer it.

    And when the answer truly settles into your heart, something changes.

    The chase becomes quieter.

    The fear loses some of its power.

    The lesson stops feeling like information and starts feeling like wisdom.

    Lessons take time

    Perhaps that is why lessons take time.

    Not because life is withholding them from us.

    But because some truths can only be understood when we are finally ready to stop running long enough to hear them.

    Keep searching for your answers.

    Keep engraving your learnings into your heart.

    One day, the peace you spent years chasing may arrive quietly and decide to stay.

    And when it does, perhaps you will be able to help someone else find their way too.

    All in good time, my heart!

  • One Life. Many Truths.

    Humans are rarely one thing at a time.

    We love people we resent. We stay loyal to things that exhaust us. We believe in honesty while still lying to protect ourselves.

    We are systems built to hold contradictions, contrary to popular moral belief.

    You may love your parents, yet you can still be angry at them for something till death. You are annoyed by your best friend, yet you show up every single time they are in trouble while muttering, “Here we go again.”

    We know a particular political leader or party is a nuisance, yet we still go and vote for them. We hate not being able to express our true anger, yet when that creepy boss walks in, we put a smile on our face because that is what diplomacy teaches us.

    We are tired of explaining to our spouses or partners how irresponsible they are, yet we are ready to clean up after their mess every time, both physically and metaphorically.

    We constantly hear our parents complain about their siblings, and eventually we begin disliking our uncles and aunts too, to the extent that we do not even want to see them anymore. Yet when we ask our parents to stop entertaining them, we are the ones scolded for being hard-hearted.

    All these examples reveal a strange dichotomy in human behavior, one that even we fail to understand within ourselves. When others do it, we are quick to call them hypocrites. We believe one feeling cannot exist if another feeling is stronger.

    We pressure people, especially those close to us, to choose one difficult truth over another. Yet we ourselves continue to exhibit contradictory emotions of love and hate without even recognizing it.

    This leads to an interesting truth about the nervous system: human beings find peace not in perfection, but in their ability to hold two conflicting feelings at once.

    Yet humanity is constantly taught in absolutes. Absolute morality. Absolute goodness. Absolute honesty. Absolute loyalty. We are told the ideal human is clear, certain, and unwavering. But if you observe the human mind closely, it begins to crumble under the pressure of perfection.

    The brain is full of conflicting thoughts, mistakes, impulses, imperfections, and moral dilemmas. The more we fight this truth, the more difficult it becomes for us to grow.

    We place chains upon our moral flexibility. Instead of arriving at our own understanding through mistakes, experience, and reflection, we demand that people display only one acceptable behavior and belong to only one school of thought. This creates pain inside us.

    The pressure to choose one truth slowly damages our ability to make better choices. It creates distance in relationships. It pushes us toward only those people who validate every contradiction inside us. And when that validation is absent, it can freeze us emotionally or push us toward addictions, numbness, escapism, or paralysis. Sometimes, it may even create an artist.

    one life many truth

    The behaviors and emotions within humans can be contradictory, but the values imposed upon them are often rigid and singular. We are told we cannot hold conflicting beliefs, even though the human brain naturally does. That is probably the biggest coping mechanism that the human brain has.

    And this contradiction reveals something deeper to me. This conflict of wanting to be a certain way but behaving in a different way reveals something about our inner world.

    I believe the values we cling to the hardest are often born from the places where we were hurt the most. The thing you judge others for most intensely is often the thing that frightens you the most internally. A kind of projection.

    If someone is deeply against theft, perhaps something precious was once stolen from them, emotionally or physically, and they never recovered from it.

    If someone aggressively pushes a healthy lifestyle, maybe they have witnessed an illness destroy someone they love. Maybe they are scared of being dependent on someone one day and rejected while going through a difficult illness. They are scared of being vulnerable. Maybe they took care of someone close and got so deeply hurt in the process that now they don’t want to inflict the same pain of caretaking on their loved ones.

    If someone insists on stable jobs over artistic careers, perhaps they once watched a person struggle financially, or perhaps they themselves were denied the freedom to pursue what they truly wanted.

    Sometimes the values we defend most passionately are not just principles, they are protective walls around old wounds.

    And I experience it is important to give ourselves and others the freedom to discover our truths without shaming contradiction or emotional complexity. Conversation helps us understand that many people behave the way they do to protect themselves, avoid fears they are not ready to face, or survive truths they do not yet have the courage to confront.

    Grace could guide this journey in a gentler way.

    Humans exhaust themselves trying to become morally pure. Is it worth it? Perhaps. But can the journey be gentler? Absolutely.

    We often mistake healing for certainty, as if maturity means becoming unwavering and untouched by contradiction.

    But maturity is not the absence of conflicting feelings. It is the ability to hold them without tearing yourself apart , I believe.

    To love and still feel anger.
    To leave and still miss someone.
    To forgive and still remember.
    To fear becoming your parents while slowly understanding them too.

    The mistake we make with humans is demanding certainty from people who are still trying to understand themselves.

    Contradiction is not always confusion. Sometimes it is evidence of an internal negotiation between fear, morality, survival, desire, love, and experience. Sometimes it is growth in motion.

    Healing is not about becoming emotionally absolute, but about questioning your inherited beliefs, your rigidity, your projections, and your fears until you slowly arrive at a truth that genuinely feels your own.

    Not borrowed.
    Not imposed.
    Not fear-driven.

    But understood through living.

  • My own words of wisdom- Running collection of some fleeting thoughts

    2.

    We learn by surrounding ourselves with people who are better than us. If we surround ourselves with those who lack understanding as compared to us, then we will have no inspiration to be better.

    It is not about who has more money or fame, who is stronger or smarter, but overall who has better values and skills in facing a certain type of situation.

    A child learn swimming faster by looking at people who know how to swim, as compared to those who are standing on the side.

    1.

    “Every day, it is a struggle to return to your thriving state when all you have managed to do is survive.

    Every time you struggle to keep yourself together, a part of you breaks.

    Why is all my strength used only to hold myself together?
    Why is the only mountain I am expected to move the one inside my mind, instead of the ones outside?

    Why can I not show my battle wounds to anyone and still feel like a winner, simply because my battle was with myself and not with an enemy the world could see?

    Every time life pushes me to my knees and I pull myself back up again, people only witness the version of me that fell.
    They never see the fighting.

    Why are all my battles fought alone?”

  • The Person I Post

    The way we exist on social media is different from real life, or so I believe.

    Social media is not just an extension of our social personality. It is also an extension of our internal world.

    It has quietly become a part of our resume, our biodata, our social life.

    Without meeting you, I can already assess you, put you in a box, admire you, judge you, or completely character assassinate you based on your profile.

    I can see who you are friends with, who you follow, who you admire.

    Based on your shares and posts, I can guess your political inclinations, your ideals, your idols, your value system.

    I can also see whether you are a loner or socially desired.

    Whether your life looks curated or chaotic.

    Whether your taste feels refined or whether we may never align at all.

    The strange part is this:

    Without ever truly knowing a person, we can build an entire story about them.

    And that makes me wonder –

    Is social media really the right place to start knowing someone?

    Is it an extension of personality, a mirror, or an aspiration?

    Is it who people are?

    Or who they wish they were?

    Are we presenting ourselves the way makeup presents a face – enhanced, edited, softened, strategically lit?

    Or are we quietly catfishing each other emotionally through aesthetics, captions, and carefully selected vulnerability?

    I remember a time when social media felt like everything.

    If something was not posted, it almost felt like it never happened.

    It was about how you arrived.

    How your life looked.

    Your online presence sometimes mattered more than your real one.

    Social media and me

    And now I wonder –

    Is social media slowly making me live a delusional life?

    Is it making me more aspirational, or more disconnected from reality?

    More authentic, or more performative?

    More expressive, or more aware of being watched?

    Can social media ever give me the courage to fully endorse the actual weird version of myself?

    And harder still:

    Do I have the courage to admit that a part of me genuinely wants to live like the person I present online?

  • You Become What You Fight

    There are people who make something inside you tighten. Your jaw, your chest, your thoughts, your whole being for an instant!

    People who don’t just irritate you, but make you want to correct them, fix them, defeat them, hold a mirror up to their face, make a movie on their behavior and show it to them in an iMax theatre to tell them how it feels.

    We like to believe they are the problem. And sometimes they really are!

    But what if they are also the mirror, mirror of our inner world?

    Carl Jung spoke about the “hero’s path”. It’s the conscious choice to remain good, to resist becoming what one hates. A quiet resistance against internal and external corruption.

    Yes, you are the hero (or heroine).

    And these people, you may call them enemies, are creatures that make you clench your teeth. You wish to change them, or send them to Mars, with no between!

    But they serve a bigger purpose.

    We can’t appreciate light without dark, good without bad, and in the same way, we can’t fully know ourselves without the people we despise.

    They remind us what we do not want to be.

    Joseph Campbell, influenced by Jung, said every hero must confront their “Shadow”. They are the darker, suppressed parts of ourselves. The real victory is not destroying them, but integrating it without being consumed.

    Because sometimes, anger rises fast. It asks you to stoop, to match, to return the same energy.

    But pause – even for a moment – and you’ll see:

    Competing with them makes you more like them, and less like you.

    The reason you hate your enemies is because they have hurt you. And when you try to hurt them in the same way, you become the very thing you despise.

    This is not a sermon. This is just honesty.

    I don’t want to be like my enemy.

    I don’t want to carry the same traits as the person I dislike.

    I want to remain different.

    My enemy tests my moral meter. My belief system. My boundaries.

    The people I dislike show me how firm, or fragile, I really am.

    The values I despise do something strange: they reassure me when I am drifting.

    They force me to check myself.

    If you’ve seen Star Wars, George Lucas built its core on this. The constant pull between becoming the evil you fight, or choosing something higher.

    We’ll talk about forgiveness and acceptance another time.

    You become who you fight

    For now, sit with this:

    Our anger is a psychological mirror.

    At the core of the hero’s path is a difficult realization: 

    We are not just fighting them, we are resisting the part of us that could become them.

    It sounds dramatic.

    But even small unkind choices slowly build the courage to become someone harsher than we intended.

    To become as mean as my enemy.

    To be unkind to those who have meant no harm.

    To be selfish when others are giving freely, without asking.

    To hurt those already broken into a thousand pieces, just to mend my own wounded pride.

    To stand and watch while someone’s world burns, because I had no water to save my own.

    To turn as cold as Antarctica, because warmth would make me vulnerable.

    I am scared to become all of this, just to put my enemy down.

    So yes, I want to thank the people who frustrate me.

    They have made me think harder. They have forced me to question my beliefs. They have given me ground to stand on.

    Even disagreement has shaped my voice.

    There are many versions of truth, many value systems. But being challenged has made me look deeper, why I believe what I believe, and where I still need to grow.

    It has also shown me how small my thinking once was.

    I don’t want a world where everyone is like me. It’s not possible, and maybe not even desirable.

    So the only way I can exist meaningfully in this world is by choosing, again and again, not to become what I cannot respect.

    Not out of superiority. But out of awareness.

    And in the end, as Friedrich Nietzsche warned:

    “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster. For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

  • The Piano We Never Touched

    Most people don’t refuse new things because they are certain they won’t enjoy them. They refuse because trying requires a brief surrender of certainty, of control, of the version of themselves that already knows how to exist. 

    New experiences don’t just offer pleasure; they threaten familiarity. And familiarity, even when it’s limiting, often feels safer than the unknown.

    The more you hide, the more joy hides!

    What people often don’t understand when they refuse to try new things, or ridicule others for trying them, is that they are not rejecting an activity. They are rejecting a feeling. An experience. A possible doorway to joy.

    If someone has already tried something and genuinely disliked it, that’s different. But to decide in advance that nothing new can bring happiness and joy, that everything meaningful lies strictly within one’s comfort zone; that is not wisdom. 

    It is a quiet waste of life.

    How can you know you don’t like something unless you’ve felt it?

    Why experimenting is the key to knowing more

    I’m not talking about drugs or anything risky or harmful to health or society. I mean very basic things. Simple things. New food. A new sport. A different kind of book. A place you never imagined yourself in. Sometimes even a version of yourself you never thought you could be.

    Imagine if the only instrument you had ever known was a pair of tongs, and you believed that was all music could be. You made do. You accepted it. And then one day, you discovered a piano. You wouldn’t just hear new sounds, you would realise how limited your definition of music had been all along.

    This is true of food. Of art. Of movement. Of relationships. Of joy itself.

    Unless you have experienced something, how do you know what it might awaken in you? You might discover a part of yourself, a joy bone, you never knew existed.

    Trying new things

    It may not completely be your fault

    Sometimes, this resistance to trying new things is not arrogance. It is fear. For people struggling with mental health issues, change can feel unsafe. Predictability becomes survival. Newness threatens the fragile sense of control they have built. Avoidance, in such cases, is not a failure of character. It is a nervous system doing its best to cope.

    But there is another kind of resistance. One that comes not from active pain, but from old, unexamined trauma, now fossilized in the form of projection.

    What is not processed stays like a bone in your body

    This trauma is so old and so familiar that it no longer feels like trauma at all. It has calcified. It has turned into a habit, into fixations and rigidity. Into a personality that prides itself on being “practical” or “settled” or “realistic,” when in fact it has simply stopped being curious.

    That’s where the real question lies.

    Are you losing your curiosity?

    When someone does something you haven’t – do you feel intrigued, or irritated?

    Are you genuinely uninterested, or quietly grieving a life you never explored?

    Judgment, more often than we admit, is grief wearing moral clothing. Labels give us a sense of superiority, but they also protect us from looking at what we might be missing.

    Awareness ,of both the life you have lived and the life you haven’t, is what slowly brings curiosity back. And curiosity, when paired with safety, leads to joy. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But steadily.

    An orange waiting to be peeled

    As long as you keep peeling away the layers you’ve built around the possibility of joy, you will keep finding it, sometimes in places you never thought to look.

    After all, the unlived parts of life don’t disappear, they remain veiled. 

    They wait.

    Carpe diem, hooman!

  • The Violence of Casual Words

    I saw my childhood friend standing on the other side of the road. We were meeting after almost two years.

    We both started walking towards each other hurriedly. We wanted to hug already. We had missed each other so much.

    The moment she saw me, she said,

    “Hey, you’ve become rounder!”

    My heart sank.

    I couldn’t say anything. I laughed, even though there was no joke to laugh at.

    If you pause for a moment, this probably reminds you of something familiar. Of how normal it is for us to comment on people’s bodies. How casually we highlight things that someone lives with every single day. We have played both these roles, many times in our lives.

    Acne. Pigmentation. Weight gain or loss. Greying hair. Balding head. Wrinkles. 

    The list goes on.

    What’s common about this list is that most of these things are not fully within someone’s control. They can’t be fixed overnight. They are constantly noticed, constantly judged, sometimes even by strangers. And you can almost always tell these are the very things someone already feels conscious about.

    Society makes sure you know when you don’t meet its standards. And sometimes, it does the opposite, it praises you excessively when you do. You can feel insecure for not fitting in, and strangely, insecure even when you fit in too well. As if having good skin, or the “right” body, itself becomes something to be evaluated. You are always under prying eyes.

    The point is not whether a feature is considered good or bad. The point is this: if something is already costing someone their peace of mind, then as a thoughtful human being, it’s important to stop commenting on it, as your sole right and responsibility to.

    A big no to unsolicited advice.

    A bigger no to pointing it out in public spaces.

    And an even bigger no if it’s the first thing you say to someone you haven’t met in a long time.

    Even if you believe you have an expert solution, pause. 

    Ask yourself – did they ask you? And if you genuinely want to help, ask for permission first. Make sure you are offering care, not discomfort.

    Don’t tell them how easy it is unless you can fix it in a minute.

    Don’t tell them to ignore it, because they already can’t.

    And if you feel an urge to share your opinion anyway, take it to the restroom. Say it to yourself in the mirror. Just because you have the ability to express doesn’t mean others owe you the emotional labour of listening to it.

    Now comes the more responsible and empathetic part.

    Without feeling loved despite their perceived flaws, people never feel safe enough to do something for themselves. 

    Safety is what allows growth, not shame. If the growth is made under pressure, then it leads to dissociation from your true self.

    You are not living then for yourself, you are performing for others. 

    And performers need a break too. You are you, not a performer, born to just get praises from others.

    Violence of words

    The most meaningful thing we can offer another human being is the assurance that they are worthy of happiness as they are.

    When people feel safe, something softens inside them. Not because they were corrected or reminded, but because they were met without judgment. 

    Safety doesn’t make people careless, it does the opposite. It gives them the space to listen to themselves, to notice what they need, and to care in ways that are self-directed rather than defensive. 

    Personal change grows best in environments where dignity is protected. And when care is offered without commentary, people don’t shut down, they show up. For themselves, and eventually, for the world around them.

    Something to remember:

    Most people are not failing at life, they are figuring it out in real time. They are carrying things they haven’t learned how to name yet, making choices with the tools they have today, not the ones they wish they had. 

    In such moments, kindness is not indulgence; it is orientation. 

    When we offer support instead of scrutiny, we give people the steadiness they need to find their own footing. And perhaps that is all care really asks of us, to walk alongside others while they learn, without rushing them, correcting them, or turning their becoming into a performance.

    After all the famous Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, said once,

    “Compassion is a verb.”

  • The House the Brain Becomes

    Language is more important than we think.

    If we cannot speak, express, or label something, we cannot build the quintessential community every human being needs. And I don’t just mean the outer world communities like friendships, families, societies , but an inner world too.

    The inner world community is the harmony between the nervous system and all the other organ systems. It is the one that quietly decides our overall wellbeing. The one that decides what feels safe, what feels threatening, and what feels impossible to touch.

    When something inside us has no language, it exists in isolation.And isolation, even internally, is unbearable, and unhealthy.

    How it starts

    This usually starts during childhood. If we don’t teach children how to name what they are feeling, the feeling doesn’t disappear. As children, the world is new, and so are the emotions that come with it. Understanding them, naming them, and allowing them to be felt is a crucial part of growing up. It becomes a skill that carries through life.

    If humans don’t learn how to name their emotions, it can feel like being put inside a box they cannot come out of. 

    A box full of emotions

    Emotions are overwhelming by nature; they flood the body before the mind can make sense of them. And when there is no language to hold that flood, the only strategy left, especially for children, is to push it down. Acting out emotions is often inconvenient for the adults around such children, which makes the child feel unsafe expressing them. So they suppress it. 

    Not because suppression is healthy, but because it brings temporary safety and apparent relief.

    Over time, the nervous system learns this: don’t try to understand- just shove it away.

    Why shoving it down seems like nothing is wrong when actually everything is

    Shoving down often looks harmless. It looks like a distraction. Watching TV. Reading books. Staying busy. Overplaying. Oversleeping. Avoiding stillness. Avoiding people. Avoiding themselves. Talking too much or talking too little. We tell ourselves it’s alright, that it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just passing time.

    But shoving down is actually like filling your brain with waste polythene bags.

    Each one feels insignificant. Each one polybag (emotion) light enough to ignore. So you keep adding them, telling yourself it’s fine, it’s nothing, you’ll deal with it later.

    The weight of keeping – the interior design of your brain

    One day, you open the bag and realise it’s no longer many small things. It’s one large, tangled mass of useless and not-so-useless things. Some of it you may have needed once. Some of it mattered at one point. But all of it has already done its work. 

    It has left its imprint on your nervous system – on how your body reacts, how quickly you get overwhelmed, how unsafe certain emotions feel without you even knowing why.

    If your brain were a house, you would eventually stand there wondering why you placed so many bags in one corner. They’ve taken up the space of everything else. The sofa. The almirah. The space to sit, rest, and live.

    The dilemma becomes absurd – should I remove the useful things from my house just to make room for this waste?

    The tragedy is not just that these bags are useless. It’s that they are toxic too.

    Even if each one is light individually, imagine how old they are. Polythene bags from vegetables. Milk packets. Clothes covers. Years old. Decades old. Rotting quietly.

    Just like emotions – decades old.

    When you finally start scrummaging through them, you are shocked by what you have kept, and why. And strangely, you don’t know what to do with it anymore. You don’t know where it belongs. You don’t know how to sort it. You don’t know why it’s still here.

    But the truth is simpler than we make it. Throw it. It is not your responsibility to preserve waste.

    Language

    They are not just bags but your emotions!

    Except emotions are not disgusting and toxic. They are meant to be met. They are how the body communicates safety, danger, joy, and connection. 

    Emotions are a language – one we must learn to understand.

    Learn to speak the language of emotions

    This is where outer language comes in. Language is the bin. Language is the door through which things can exit. When you can label an emotion, when you can put a word to it, its job is done. It no longer needs to live in the body or haunt the nervous system. It can move on.

    But when there is no word, no name, no language, you are simply shoving another polythene bag into the next room of your brain. And that one, over time, becomes even more toxic.

    Perhaps language is not meant to explain us, but to release us.

    What remains unnamed does not disappear , it waits, settles, and slowly becomes structure, shaping how we relate, react, and retreat.

    In that sense, language is not expression but movement, a way for inner life to remain fluid instead of fossilised.

    And maybe freedom is nothing dramatic at all, but simply the ability to let experience pass through us without having to become it.

  • How I Learned to Enjoy the Life I Already Have

    “He who knows that enough is enough will always have enough.”
    Lao Tzu

    Scarcity breeds two fears: the fear of never having abundance again and the fear of losing what little you already have.

    There is a Taoist saying, “He who hoards much, loses much”—be it worry or money, I would say.

    This isn’t a note from a financial maestro advising you how to save or spend, but a reflection from someone who believes in thriving mentally, despite the economy we’re living in.

    The fear of abundance means expecting never to find wealth, health, time, or love again, whatever you once lacked.

    This fear can appear as the urge to clutch tightly what you have, no matter how little or much that is, and sometimes it shouts through a vulgar display of excess, stretching your own limits until it backfires.

    The wound that never heals

    This scarcity mindset may be either first-generation or multigenerational. It may have begun after an earthquake that you, or perhaps your grandfather, survived. It could be because of a major event that you or your family went through, something that’s long over, yet still vivid in memory.

    Scarcity trauma can also exist at the community level, even within religion. It may be local or far larger than you think, depending on how many people lived through that catastrophe.
    For example, the trauma of Partition or war is multigenerational and shared across vast regions. It changed people once and for many generations after.

    Sometimes the trauma is not because of any major catastrophe, but as the elder child you were told never to spend a lot, curb your wishes because your father did not make much. You were taught to give up on your wishes because that meant good for the family. You were forced to grow beyond your age.

    Whether that trauma makes you a spendthrift or a tight-fisted person depends on various factors. You may follow the YOLO (“you only live once”) approach or save for the rainy days, sometimes even for your 7th generation.

    The point is, no matter which approach you follow, both are extremes.

    Easier said than done, yes, but if you notice that you’re unhappy either way, whether as a super saver or a super spender, then you’re suffering. You are either always living for the moment or always waiting for the “big day” to enjoy, a day that is not coming anytime soon.

    The brain can’t feel what it never did

    You lash out at your family over a small purchase, fearing the loss of all you have. You lose sleep thinking about that catastrophic event recurring. You try to control every decision, yours and others’ to never “let go.” You might hide financial details, or you may have developed a sharp temper.

    On the other side, the over-spender spoils everyone or only themselves selfishly, like a revenge on the older times. They buy a fancy phone because they never had one but deny their family the abundance, fearing that generosity will invite more demands, which will ‘spoil’ them.

    Some buy endlessly for others, mistaking spending for love, raising a family that doesn’t understand money or its meaning. One wound endured while another wound created.

    Whether you hoard or overspend, you’ve likely become friends with the “not feeling happy” way of life.

    And while you are unhappy, remember that those who depend on you, live with you, or love you are unhappy with you too.

    Is this pain real or is your brain still defending you?

    No one is denying your pain! It happened; it surely did! But what you do with your life now matters just as much.

    One reality is that the traumatic event happened, that phase you had to endure. Another reality is that you are doing well today. You have someone you can care for today. And even if it isn’t someone else, it’s you whom you can care for, in a healthy way.

    I’m not asking people to go big or go small, neither to save it all nor to spend it all. I’m asking for objectivity.

    Reconsider how you manage your finances:
    Is there a heavy feeling of fear, shame, guilt, or regret behind it?
    Is it fair to put yourself through this pain?
    Is it fair to deprive those who depend on you or to never teach them how to handle money with balance?

    Neither too much nor too little—just the art of balance.

    Living in circles

    Ask yourself: Is living in the future or the past worth wasting your present?

    People living with the fear of scarcity often forget that the brain remembers not only the past but also the present. The life you’re living now is being inscribed in memory every day, telling your brain how safe or unsafe you are.

    Many people say, “I’ll save up for that big vacation,” and wait ten years before doing any other thing to make themselves happy. And finally, it happens.

    But what also happens is the void that follows.

    The happiness lasted only until the dream became real. And when the time to enjoy came that vacation, they couldn’t. They were never used to enjoying anything, not even a simple visit to an ice cream parlor.

    The dopamine of waiting faded once they arrived. But the other chemicals of happiness, the ones that make you feel joy and relaxation, did not flow, because they were never did. The body doesn’t feel safe enough to relax and experience happiness.

    Overwhelmed by emotions, they might cry, fight, freeze, or leave, not because they don’t want joy, but because they no longer know how to handle it.

    The tyranny of right moment that you missed

    Sometimes it’s the age, the situation, or the people you are, or aren’t with.

    This is when you should realize that certain things make sense only when done at the right time. No amount of money or power can recreate the happiness that needed the right moment and the right people.

    A trip at 21 to an abandoned fort with your friends, funded by pocket money, feels entirely different from a trip at 40 with colleagues to a five-star hotel in a premium city. It might look great on social media, but it does little for your soul.

    The small Saturday ritual of going on a long drive with your family, eating your favorite snacks, and listening to music will do far more for your nervous system than waiting until 50 to travel to New York with kids who have grown up and grown apart.

    Nobody can enjoy life as a family that never learned to enjoy together.

    It’s not the destination, it’s the objective, the process, the practice for the big thing that matters more.

    Imagine out of fear, despite being able to afford more, you always wore inexpensive clothes or ate only at cheap places. What happens when you finally wear a beautifu expensivel outfit or are invited to a Michelin-starred restaurant? In both cases, you’ll feel out of place.

    Out of shame, you might fidget and eat nervously. Or, trying to overcompensate, you might flaunt your money and behave as if you don’t belong there. You will feel like an imposter.

    Either way, you’ll look like someone unaccustomed to this, not just outwardly, but inwardly.

    The point isn’t appearance; it’s your ability to genuinely enjoy what you always wished for.

    We can live, a little everyday!

    That’s why you should stretch a little, in terms of both time and money, for yourself and for your family and friends.

    Keep yourself accustomed to being happy. So even if you never reach your final goal, you’ll have enjoyed the process so much that it won’t matter anymore. And if you do reach it, you’ll enjoy it even more, it will feel truly worth it.

    So live a little every day. Eat that fancy ice cream. Buy that nice watch. Take a day trip to a resort. Get a comfortable chair for your work desk. Hang good curtains in your room.

    Do one good thing every few months that feels slightly out of your budget, just to remind yourself that you can make it.

    Spoil your family a little. Tell them, “We have enough, and we’ll have more, but we’ll enjoy what we have, even if we don’t.”

    Don’t mock those who spend or those who don’t. Stay true to what you can and can’t do. Don’t become a crybaby of jealousy or insecurity.

    And finally

    Tell your brain: All is well. All will be well.
    You are allowed to be happy right now, with whatever you have.

    There is no fixed criterion for happiness, only a mindset.
    And if the heaviness returns, remind it gently that,

    You’re strong enough to handle it. You can make it work.

    Trust the process, and keep going.

    And this makes me think of Philip Doddridge when he said,
    “Let us live while we live.”