Just imagine. You’re in your eighties or nineties, looking back on your life. Not at your accomplishments or the things you have to show for, but at the experiences you gathered—the ones you did for no one but yourself. Would you be smiling then? Would your heart feel whole? Would you know, deep down, that you truly lived? That you didn’t just pass through your days, but savoured them, fully, slowly, gratefully.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this now. I’ve only had this blog officially live for a week. For years, I’ve been building up the courage to hit publish and now that I have, I’m in that strange in-between again. The thing I dreamed about doing is finally here, and yet, the question comes rushing back: what now?

But here’s the truth: this blog isn’t about me having it all figured out. It’s not polished wisdom from someone who has the answers. It’s me, admitting I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. But I’m doing it anyway. And I’d love for you to come along. To fuck up with me. To learn with me. To grow with me.

Because that’s what this is about. A community. A space for the messy, the honest, the in-between.

For a long time, I thought happiness was something I’d finally reach when life fell into place. I imagined it as a destination — the moment I had it all figured out. A career I loved. Financial freedom. A big circle of friends. A partner who would choose me, love me. I thought happiness meant piecing together the broken parts of my family until they resembled something whole.

I looked for happiness in the lives around me. In the way people laughed easily, in their endless photos surrounded by friends, in the love stories that seemed effortless. But the truth is, you can’t really know from the outside. A picture can tell you nothing about what’s real. So what is pure unrelenting happiness?

Much like healing, I think we’ve begun to see happiness through a distorted lens—shaping expectations of what it should look like, what it should feel like, instead of allowing it to simply be.

We are all presented with some sort of choice — one being to evolve, or remain.

Sometimes it feels like that choice only appears in big, life-changing moments, but the truth is, it’s hidden in the everyday. In the quiet, ordinary minutes. In the way you choose to respond instead of react. In the way you choose to speak kindly to yourself, or not at all.

We often underestimate how much power the little decisions hold. The “I’ll do it tomorrow” versus the “I’ll start today.” The “I’ll speak up” versus the “I’ll stay silent.” Each one sends us down a path that branches into another and another, until one day you look back and realise — that tiny choice shifted everything.

Some of those shifts bring beauty. Others bring pain. And yet, both teach. Both move you forward. Both contribute to the story you’re writing every single day.

There’s something quietly transformative about entering your mid-twenties. It’s not loud or earth-shattering, not like turning 18 or 21, when the world feels urgent and full of expectation. No, 24 feels… softer. More grounded. More personal. It’s not about the milestones the world sees, but the ones you feel within.

"There is a certain rhythm of experience in which our longing becomes tested, our belonging shaken, and our sense of home no longer defined by geography or family. In this exile, we begin to realize that home is not a place at all, but a presence - a way of being in the world. There is a whisper in the soul, a memory of somewhere we have never been, and yet it calls to us with more familiarity than any known dwelling. We become pilgrims, not toward a destination, but toward a forgotten intimacy with ourselves, with life." - John O’Donohue

Home.

The feeling I crave most.

It means something different to everyone. For some, home is a place, somewhere to return to when life feels heavy. A safe haven. For others, it’s a person. Or a moment. Or a quiet sense of belonging. Home can be many things at once.

What does it mean to you?

“Meanwhile, you hear all around you how the throng of humanity thunders and sounds in the whirlwind of life; you hear, you see how people live,they live in reality; you see that life for them is not forbidden.”

— Dostoyevsky

I’ve always wondered why I got dealt this card in life. Looking at friends, family, acquaintances, even the people I went to school with—it felt like they were thriving in every aspect. And then there was me.

“Anybody who travels knows that you’re not really doing so in order to move around—you’re traveling in order to be moved. And really, what you’re seeing is not just the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall of China but some moods or intimations or places inside yourself that you never ordinarily see when you’re sleepwalking through your daily life.”

— Pico Iyer

Do you ever feel stuck? Like life is moving forward for everyone but you?

None of this would’ve happened if the chaos of those earlier years hadn’t unfolded exactly as it did. I didn’t understand it at the time. I fought it. I cursed it. But now? Now, I’m grateful.

Just like the Chinese farmer, I’ve learned to sit with life’s uncertainties. Maybe yes, maybe no. But instead of clinging to the fear of the unknown, I’ve learned to let it be.

“The process is where you learn. The process is where you grow. The process is where you develop character and find out who you are. It’s the only path to your goals. The process is the point.”

We get so fixated on the destination—on where we want to be—that we forget the importance of the road we’re walking. We grow impatient, frustrated, wondering why we’re not there yet. But how can we expect to reach the life we dream of without understanding the steps it takes to get there? Without breaking it all down, piece by piece, and building it ourselves?

I don’t know exactly why—maybe I’m still learning—but letting go of the past has always felt like trying to unclench a fist I didn’t know I was holding. It’s not so much that I’m gripping it tight, but more that it’s been holding me. And yet, day by day, I’m learning. Learning to loosen that grip. Learning to let my past shape me, but not define me. Because healing doesn’t always mean forgetting—it often begins with understanding. With peeling back the layers to see what still stings, what still echoes in the quiet moments. But even in that, I remind myself: I am not a prisoner of my past. It was a lesson, not a life sentence.

We’ve all been told that time heals all wounds.

And while there’s truth in that, time alone does nothing if we keep repeating the same mistakes, if we don’t take a conscious step toward healing. For the longest time, I believed that if I just carried on, if I ignored the pain, if I simply existed, one day, I’d wake up healed.

But healing doesn’t just happen.

It requires work, patience, and deep self-compassion. I spent years stuck in the same cycles, wondering why I never felt better, why things never seemed to change.

If we look at healing through the lens of Hindu philosophy, it is not just about working through pain; it is a holistic connection of mind, body, and soul. It is balance. It is peace. It is a homecoming to yourself. Healing isn’t just about diving into your wounds, it’s about sitting with them, understanding them, feeling them without rushing to “fix” them.

“To be born again,” sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, “first you have to die.”
— Salman Rushdie

The thought of starting over can feel like such a grey area. To many it’s full of overcast and heavy skies. It may feel as though you’ve failed. Or perhaps that’s what makes the desire to begin again so alluring. For some it may be because a chapter has come to an abrupt end. A relationship, a move, the unraveling of a friendship, a job that no longer fits. Just change. Some of us struggle and some may thrive. But I challenge you to welcome every emotion that surfaces in that tender space between.