Bollywood taught us that love looks like running through airports, dancing in the rain, dramatic confessions at railway stations, and someone finally saying “I love you” when the background music reaches its peak.

And honestly, I love that kind of love. Who doesn’t?

But the older I get, the more I think the real stuff happens when the background music stops.

It’s in the little things. Someone remembering how you take your chai. Someone noticing you’ve been unusually quiet on a call. Someone saving you the last piece of your favourite mithai. Someone asking if you’ve eaten, not because it’s a cute thing to say, but because they genuinely want to know.

It’s someone remembering that you hate being disturbed when you’re upset, but also know you secretly want them to sit beside you.

I think there’s something incredibly intimate about being loved by someone who pays attention. Not the kind where they memorise your favourite colour to impress you, but the kind where they slowly learn you without even realising it.

They know when your laughter is real and when you’re just being polite. They notice when you say “I’m fine” a little too quickly. They remember the stories you told them months ago, even the ones you assumed they weren’t listening to.

And suddenly, you don’t have to explain every little thing about yourself. Someone has been listening all along.

Maybe that’s what we miss when we talk about grand gestures. We spend so much time looking for the big, cinematic moments that we forget love is often hiding in the most ordinary ones.

It’s the person who orders food for you because they know you’ll say “kuch bhi chalega” and then reject everything on the menu. The person who walks on the road-side of the footpath without making a big deal out of it. The person who notices you’re overwhelmed at a family gathering and quietly asks, “Chalein?”

No grand gestures but Just someone making your life a little easier because they know you.

And maybe this is why I find the way animals love us so beautiful. They don’t understand our long explanations or our carefully constructed versions of ourselves. They just notice us. They know our footsteps, our moods, our silences. On days when we come home happy, they celebrate with us. On days when we can barely get out of bed, they sit beside us anyway.

Sometimes, I think they understand something about love that we spend years trying to learn.

Of course, not everyone who loves you will know how to notice these things. Some people need to be told, and that’s okay too. We cannot expect someone to read our minds and call it love. But there is a difference between someone who listens when you tell them who you are and someone who is genuinely curious enough to keep learning you.

And I think that curiosity is underrated.

Because being loved isn’t just about having someone who knows your birthday, your favourite movie, or the name of your childhood best friend. It’s having someone who notices the little changes in you. Someone who wants to understand why you are the way you are, instead of simply asking you to be easier to love.

Maybe the deepest “I love you” isn’t always spoken. Maybe sometimes it’s a hand reaching for yours before you even realise you need it. Maybe it’s someone bringing you a chai or coffee when the day has been particularly cruel. Maybe it’s someone noticing the version of you that you haven’t shown the rest of the world.

Sometimes, the most romantic scene is simply two people sitting in a kitchen at midnight, sharing Maggi, talking about absolutely nothing or getting a Bumblebee tights as a birthday present just because you casually once mentioned that how much you miss and loved them.

And maybe it’s my favourite feeling which issss

feeling at home.

We all carry something from our past.

Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is painful. Some of it we remember clearly, and some of it has become so normal to us that we don’t even realise it is affecting us. Our childhood, our parents, the way we were loved, the things we were told, the things that were never said, the relationships we had, the things we went through all of it shapes us in ways we carry into adulthood. It shows up in how we regulate our emotions. How we communicate. How we handle conflict. How we love people. How we react when someone gets too close. How quickly we trust. How easily we forgive. How difficult it is for us to ask for help.

And very recently, I realised something uncomfortable about myself.

Some of the mistakes I have made and some of the mistakes I find myself almost repeating today are reflections of my past. Of my childhood. Of the way I was parented. Of things I thought I had already moved past.And the strange thing is, I consider myself a fairly self-aware person. I know my patterns. I know what triggers me. I know when I am overreacting. I know when something I am doing isn’t healthy. I can sometimes even trace it back to where it came from.

But knowing what is wrong doesn’t automatically teach you how to make it right. And that has been a difficult realisation for me. Because sometimes I know exactly why I behave a certain way, and yet I still behave that way. I know where the fear comes from, but I still feel afraid. I know why I struggle to communicate something, but I still struggle to say it. I understand the pattern, but I don’t always know how to break it. Self-awareness tells me, “This is the problem. But it doesn’t always tell me what to do next.

And if this is true even for someone who spends a lot of time reflecting on herself, I often wonder about people who haven’t had the opportunity or the space to do that reflection. I feel sorry for them. There are people walking around with unresolved experiences they don’t even recognise as wounds. People who think they are simply “difficult,” “too emotional,” “too detached,” “too angry,” “too needy,” or “bad at relationships,” without ever asking themselves where those behaviours came from. And sometimes those unexamined parts of us become someone else’s problem too.

We carry our childhood into our friendships. Our relationships. Our marriages. Our workplaces. Our parenting. And maybe sometimes what we call a personality trait is actually a wound we never dealt with.

And isliye I believe we all need therapy.

This isn’t me saying everyone needs to sit on a therapist’s couch because something is wrong with them. Quite the opposite. Maybe therapy shouldn’t be something we seek only when we are falling apart. Maybe sometimes we can go simply because we want to understand ourselves better.

Because we want to communicate better. Love better. Handle our emotions better. Understand why certain things affect us so deeply. Stop repeating patterns we don’t want to pass on.

I need therapy.

Not because I think I am broken or dukhi but because there are parts of myself I understand but don’t yet know how to heal. And maybe you need therapy too. Maybe we all need a space where we can say the things we have been carrying for years without having to explain, defend or minimise them.

It’s realising that you cannot always fix it alone. And there should be no shame in that.

You do not have to wait until you are in crisis. You do not have to prove that your pain is serious enough. You do not have to arrive with the right words, a clear diagnosis or a perfect explanation. You can simply begin with, “I don’t understand why I keep feeling this way,” or, “I want to understand myself better.”

So do it for yourself. ❤️

I never wanted to be anyone’s ideal and honestly I don’t think I ever will.

I’m an imperfect person and I absolutely love my imperfections both professionally and personally. I cherish the parts of me that are still a work in progress. As a content creator, I sometimes see comments telling me that I’m someone’s “ideal,” and while it is incredibly flattering, it also makes me a little uncomfortable because I know what you see is only a part of me. Like most creators, I usually share the good parts of my life the days when I’m dressed well, doing work I love, travelling, creating something, or simply feeling happy. But there is so much that never makes it to the internet.

I get annoyed easily. Sometimes I want to scream at people. I’m not a perfect partner, daughter, or friend. Maybe I never tried hard enough to be perfect in any of these roles because maybe I never wanted perfection. I say I love my job and then complain about it almost every other day. I love creating content but there are days when I want to delete my account, disappear, and block everyone. I say I’m kind, but there are times when I walk past people and situations where my kindness could have mattered. I say things I shouldn’t. I look happy doing things that I’m sometimes only pretending to enjoy. There are days when I pretend to be fine, kind, patient, or okay when I’m really not. I say I love my freedom but there are nights when I cry thinking about what that freedom has cost me andddd yes, I sometimes share things I believe in even on days when I don’t follow them myself.

But none of that makes me a bad person. It makes me a person.

I think the one thing I can say about myself with certainty is that I am self-aware. I know my words. I know my actions. I know when I’ve been unfair, when I’ve been selfish, when I’ve been kind, and when I could have done better. And I try, as much as I can, not to let a bad mood become someone else’s bad day. I don’t always succeed, but I try. That, to me, matters more than pretending to be perfect. So if you look at me and think I’m someone you want to become, I hope you don’t copy my life or put me on a pedestal. I am not someone who can be your ideal. I am filled with contradictions, mistakes, bad days, guilt, selfishness, softness, anger, kindness, and everything in between.

But if there is anything worth learning from a person like me, maybe it is this: learn to forgive people, including yourself. Learn to let go of guilt when you have genuinely done what you can to make things right. Be kind whenever you can. Say what you feel instead of making people guess. Give respect to those who give you respect. Prioritise yourself without becoming cruel to others. Try not to hate people, even when they hurt you. And above everything else, try to be an empath. Understand that everyone is carrying something you may never know about. I don’t want to be your ideal. I would much rather be a reminder that you don’t have to be perfect to be a good person. You just have to be honest enough with yourself to know where you need to grow and humble enough to keep trying. That’s who you should be and that’s exactly who I am trying to be.

I sometimes think we are going to be a very lonely generation not because we don’t have people around us but because so many of us have forgotten how to actually talk to each other.

We overthink everything. Should I text first? Should I reply immediately or wait a little? If I ask someone how they are, will I seem too interested? If I tell someone I miss them, will I come across as clingy? If I call instead of texting, will they think I have too much free time? Somewhere along the way, simply wanting to talk to someone started feeling like something we need to strategise. We have turned conversations into calculations and affection into something we need to measure. We don’t express because we are scared of being misunderstood, and we hold back from reaching out because we don’t want to seem like we care “too much.”

I know being nonchalant is a whole trend now acting unbothered, replying late, pretending you don’t care too much. But honestly? I think we need more chalant people. People who care. People who ask. People who reply when they see a message. People who aren’t afraid to say, “I was thinking about you.” What if texting someone first simply meant you wanted to talk to them? What if replying instantly meant you were happy to hear from them? What if telling someone you miss them was just… telling them you miss them?

I think we have forgotten that we are human beings, not machines designed to constantly appear busy, unavailable and unaffected. We are meant to talk. We are meant to share stories, ask questions, laugh about stupid things, tell someone when we’re having a bad day, and sometimes just say, “Hey, I wanted to talk to you.” And yes, maybe some people will misunderstand your kindness. Maybe someone will think you’re too available, too emotional, too interested, or too much. But please, darling, don’t let someone else’s experiences decide how you express yourself. If someone has been hurt so badly that they now believe every act of kindness must have a selfish motive, that’s their wound to work through not proof that your kindness was fake. Being genuine isn’t embarrassing. Caring isn’t a weakness. And being the person who reaches out first doesn’t make you desperate. Maybe we need to stop being so afraid of looking foolish that we end up looking indifferent. Because at the end of the day, I would much rather be someone who cared a little too openly than someone who spent their life pretending not to care at all. Maybe being chalant is not something we need to be embarrassed about. Maybe it’s exactly what we need more of. In a world where everyone is trying so hard to seem unbothered, perhaps the bravest thing we can do is simply be human and talk.

Dear Reader,

Not everything we share is performative. Sometimes people are simply excited about their lives. They genuinely love travelling and want to show you the places they discovered, they love books and want to talk about what they’re reading, they dress up because fashion makes them happy, they cook because they enjoy it, or they have a hobby they’re genuinely passionate about. And honestly, there’s something beautiful about that. I share parts of my life too, and most of the time, I share them because I genuinely enjoyed those moments and wanted to take you along. But sometimes I catch myself wondering, Am I being performative? Will my audience understand that I’m genuinely excited about this, or will they think I’m just doing it for content? I think about this more than I’d like to admit. But maybe that question itself comes from how conscious we have become of being perceived. In an age where almost anything can become content, how do we know when we’re simply sharing our lives and when we’ve started living for the share?

Maybe the difference isn’t in what we share, but in why we are doing it. There’s a strange shift that happens when the thought of an audience enters the experience. You’re travelling, but somewhere in your head you’re already thinking about the pictures. You’re reading, but you’re also thinking about posting the book. You accomplish something, and before you’ve even had the chance to feel proud of yourself, you’re thinking about how to announce it. But I also don’t think being performative is always a bad thing. Sometimes pretending to be the person you want to become can actually push you towards becoming that person. Maybe you start reading because you want to be “that person who reads,” and eventually you genuinely fall in love with books. Maybe you start travelling because you want the photographs, but end up discovering a whole new part of yourself. Maybe you start exercising, creating, writing, or learning something because you want to share it and somewhere along the way, it becomes something you genuinely love. If being a little performative gets you out of your comfort zone, makes you explore something new, or encourages you to become a better version of yourself, perhaps that’s not something we need to feel guilty about.

For me, maybe the real question isn’t “Am I being performative?” but “Is this making my life bigger or smaller?” If sharing makes me discover new things, connect with people, document memories, or simply bring me joy, I don’t see a problem with it. I don’t think we need to stop sharing our lives just to prove that we’re authentic. We just need to make sure that the audience doesn’t become the reason we experience life in the first place.

I want to be able to enjoy something even if I don’t post it. I want to share something because I’m excited, not because I need to prove that I’m interesting. And maybe that’s the balance: live first, share when you want to, and don’t be afraid if sometimes the sharing inspires you to live a little more. Perhaps in an age where everything can become content, the most authentic thing we can do is simply make sure there’s still a life behind the content.

I’ve always been a bit of a sensitive kid but I don’t think I really understood empathy until college.

Books opened up lives I had never even thought about. Films made me sit with questions I didn’t have answers to. And travelling… travelling changed something big in me. It made me realise that even though we all live on the same planet, we’re not really living the same life. Everyone is moving through their own world, shaped by things I may never see or understand.

That’s when I started noticing how much I had taken for granted. And more than that, I started realising that every person I meet is carrying something I know nothing about. That thought stayed with me till date.

The more people I got to know, the more I understood that while my problems felt big to me, they weren’t the only problems that existed. Some people had been through things I couldn’t even begin to imagine, and still showed up every day, still kept going in their own quiet way. That really humbled me.

Without even realising it, I tried listening more. Trying to understand where people were coming from instead of reacting too quickly. Of course, that comes with its own weight. When you start understanding people deeply, it becomes harder to stay angry at them. Not because what they did is always okay, but because you start seeing the hurt behind it. The parts of them that aren’t always visible.

And maybe that’s why empathy feels so important to me now.

We live in a world that moves fast. Quick opinions, quick judgments, quick anger. It’s so easy to assume we know someone’s story from a single moment. But empathy slows you down. It makes you pause and ask, “What might they be going through?” And sometimes, that small pause changes everything.

To me, empathy doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you more human. It helps you hold space for people, even when you don’t fully understand them. It makes relationships softer, conversations kinder, and communities a little more patient.

But beyond personal life, I’ve also come to realise how powerful empathy is professionally. In workplace, A manager who understands what their team is going through can motivate far more effectively than one who only focuses on output. Empathy helps you read between the lines in meetings, notice when someone is struggling silently, and create an environment where people feel safe enough to speak honestly. It improves teamwork, reduces conflict, and builds trust which is something no strategy or system can fully replace.

In careers, empathy also makes you better at your work itself. Whether you’re designing a product, writing a report, making a film or solving a problem, understanding the people on the other side means the users, clients, or audience completely changes the quality of what you create. It shifts your focus from “what looks right” to “what actually helps.” And in the long run, that’s what makes work meaningful and impactful.

If I had to choose, I think I would still choose understanding people over always being understood. Because at the end of the day, the world doesn’t just need more smart or successful people. It needs people who are willing to really see each other.

I come from a middle-class family.

My father had a government job, and while growing up, almost everyone around me either worked for the government or was preparing for one. Somewhere along the way, my definition of success became the same as everyone else’s.

A government job meant stability.
A government job meant respect.
A government job meant you had “made it.”

It didn’t really matter what the work was. If it was sarkari, it was considered successful.

For a long time, I believed that too but Then life happened.

I was a science student in school but choosing journalism for my graduation changed the way I looked at the world. Suddenly, I wasn’t confined to one definition of success anymore. I realised how little I actually knew about the possibilities that existed beyond the path everyone expected me to take.

For the first time, I experienced what freedom felt like choosing a career because it excited me, not because it was considered safe.

But like every middle-class family, mine wanted security for me and in our world that still translated to one thing: a government job.

The problem was, by then, I had already seen the other side.

I had witnessed paper leaks. I had seen examinations being postponed for years, irregularities becoming normal, answer keys being challenged, papers getting cancelled, and thousands of young people spending the best years of their lives preparing for exams that came with no certainty and very little accountability.

It slowly shook my faith in a system that often failed the people working the hardest.

Then life came full circle.

I qualified the UGC NET, a government examination that made me eligible to become an Assistant Professor. Soon after completing my master’s degree, I got the opportunity to teach in a private university as an Assistant Professor.

I remain deeply grateful for that.

It gave me financial independence, purpose, and a profession I genuinely enjoy.

Ironically, a government exam gave me a career while simultaneously changing the way I think about careers.

Because today, honestly I don’t want my life to be limited to a single destination.

Teaching is something I love, but it isn’t the only thing I want to experience. I want to write, create, research, travel, build, fail and begin again, and also want to explore opportunities I didn’t even know existed while growing up.

Sometimes, I can still feel that middle class dream somewhere in the background

the dream of absolute stability, permanence, and one secure job for life.

And I understand where it comes from.

For generations, it was the safest dream our parents could afford to dream for us.

But I also believe dreams evolve.

Government jobs should be a choice, not an obligation.

They should be pursued because someone genuinely wants that life not because society convinces them there isn’t another respectable way to live.

Maybe that’s the biggest shift I’ve experienced.

I no longer see success as reaching one destination.

I see it as having the freedom to keep exploring.

Here’s to choosing curiosity over fear, possibilities over limitations, and allowing ourselves to dream beyond the one dream we inherited.

Because there is so much more to learn, so much more to experience, and I don’t want to stop at just one version of success.

So yaaa that’s me and I am proud of whoever I’ve become.

I’ve cried because I was happy.

I’ve cried because someone was kind to me.

I’ve cried because I was disappointed.

I’ve cried because I was angry

And yes, I’ve even cried over things that probably didn’t seem like a big deal to anyone else.

I’ve cried a lot and I still cry after any minor inconvenience.

For the longest time, I thought this was something I needed to fix.

Somewhere along the way, people convinced me that crying too much makes me “too sensitive.” That if my eyes well up easily, I am weak, dramatic, or incapable of handling life.

But here’s what I’ve realized that crying isn’t the opposite of being strong.

I’ve shown up for work after crying. I’ve met deadlines after crying. I’ve had difficult conversations after crying. I’ve kept going not because I didn’t feel deeply, but because I did.

Crying has simply been the way my emotions leave my body and I want to believe that it’s normal.

Not everyone processes emotions the same way. Some people go quiet. Some become angry. Some write. Some laugh. Some cry.

None of these reactions automatically say anything about a person’s strength.

I’m no longer trying to become someone who never cries.

I’m trying to become someone who no longer feels embarrassed for having emotions.

If you’ve ever been told you’re “too emotional,” maybe you’re not too much.

Maybe you’re just someone who feels deeply in a world that often celebrates pretending not to.

And that’s okay.

I don’t want to stop crying.

I just want to stop apologizing for it.