Perhaps!

 It always begins with something simple—like a mug of Moroccan mint tea and a patch of sunlight slipping through the window. Somehow, in those first sips, the troubles shrink a little, as if they were never as big as they pretended to be. But still, there’s a weight I can’t quite name. I don’t know what I’m feeling; only that there’s too much of it. So much of everything, everywhere, that even lifeless things seem restless—worked up, bizarre, flawed. They say patience is power, not the absence of action. I know that. I remind myself of it. But when you’re in the thick of it, patience doesn’t feel powerful at all—it feels irritating, like a silence that refuses to break. Lately, one thought keeps circling me like a shadow: the way I was raised. Growing up in an Indian middle-class family meant learning that restrictions were a form of care, that the thin lines of patriarchy were actually expressions of love, of protection, of possessiveness dressed as warmth. I swallowed that lesson for years, but today it makes me sick. Now I sit in the middle of another paradox: this so-called freedom. Is it liberation, or is it just loneliness in disguise? The freedom to do absolutely anything, whenever I want, sounds intoxicating—until I realise nobody wakes me in the morning anymore. Nobody waits for me at the table with a bowl of warm soup and some grilled fish.

I’ll admit something—every time someone says, “I’m proud of you,” I tear up a little. Not in sadness, but in joy. It’s strange because I don’t really depend on what people think of me. I don’t live my life waiting for validation; in fact, in many ways, I am already proud of who I am becoming. Still, when those words come from someone else, they feel like an extra drop of sweetness, a small bonus shot of joy. Almost like pouring Samsara into a glass with tonic water, lemon, and ice—it just tastes better with that little addition.

What people don’t see—and maybe what I don’t want them to see—is how hard I am on myself. How much I push, how much I question, how often I feel that I’m not doing enough, not being enough. Every day I measure myself against yesterday, and every day I demand more. No one really understands that inner dialogue, but maybe that’s okay. Still, when someone says they’re proud, or I did good,  it feels like a pause button on all that self-criticism. For a moment, I allow myself to just feel happy.

The truth is, we’re all wounded in some way. Life takes its turns, and on certain days, the weight becomes too much. Without realizing it, we spill our frustrations on the first person in front of us. By the time we notice, it’s too late. We either swallow the guilt or hide behind silence. It’s funny how it works—you either run the day, or the day runs you. And yet, in our own struggles, we forget that others carry their own pain too. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is to notice.

I’ve realized that not every solution comes from overthinking. Sometimes the simplest answer is rest. A good night’s sleep has its own way of rearranging things, of giving perspective that the mind refuses to offer when awake. And while I try to make the most of every single day, I wonder why we often wait only for weekends to feel alive. Why postpone joy? Why ration happiness like it’s a festival that comes only twice a year?

Maybe that’s the mistake—waiting for life to ease before deciding to be happy. Life doesn’t work like that. In fact, the harder you try to make it easy, the more complicated it becomes. Perhaps it all comes down to how you choose to live each day—with resistance, or with a small willingness to bend.

Someday, I think, I will find whatever it is I’ve been searching for. Though honestly, I don’t know what shape or name that search even has. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll realise I’ve been carrying it inside me all along. As Mrs Frances wrote, “The speed of life will surprise you, and so will your ability to remember the sweetest moments of your life.”

And I believe that. Because even now, in the middle of all this noise and self-questioning, I still remember the small sweetnesses: a kind word, a sip of mint tea, a little sunlight spilling through the window.