Myself, a human being

Some people are always available. They reply fast. They listen patiently. They show up without being asked. At first, this feels like kindness. Over time, it quietly turns into expectation. When you’re always reachable, people stop checking if you’re okay. They stop valuing your time because it’s always there. Not out of cruelty - just habit. Slowly, your presence becomes normal, not special. Your effort becomes assumed, not thanked. You don’t complain. Because you don’t want to seem difficult. Because being “easy to talk to” became your identity. But inside, something shifts. You notice how people vanish when you need them. How your silence is ignored, but your availability is expected. How you give emotional space that no one makes for you. This is where self-respect starts to hurt. Not in big ways. In small moments; when you say “it’s okay” even when it isn’t. When you show up tired. When you choose peace for others and emptiness for yourself. Being easily accessible teaches people ...

Rest should feel natural. So should moving at your own pace. But for many of us, both come with guilt. When things slow down, when life isn’t rushing, when progress isn’t visible, when days feel quieter; we start feeling uneasy. As if slowing down means we are falling behind. As if speed itself has become a measure of worth. We live in a world that praises fast growth, quick results, and constant movement. Doing more is admired. Doing it faster is celebrated. So when life moves slowly; when plans take time, when healing isn’t instant, when success doesn’t arrive on schedule - we feel uncomfortable. We start blaming ourselves for a pace we often don’t control. The guilt of rest and the guilt of slowness come from the same place. They come from the belief that we must always be progressing visibly to be valid. We rest, but feel we should be doing something. We move slowly, but feel we should be running. Slow days feel unproductive. Quiet phases feel unnecessary. Breaks feel undeserved....

Bad times don't just "feel bad". They feel like suffocation. Like something heavy pressing on your chest that no one else can see. I don't try to make suffering prettier than it is. Pain is real, and when you're in it, advice feels hollow. And yet, something strange happens with time. Some of the deepest insights I've seen in people's lives didn't come wrapped in joy and clarity. They came from heartbreak, from disappointments, from nights that felt endless. There's something absurd about how much we learn from suffering, how pain becomes a kind of teacher no one asked for, but everyone meets eventually. The existential lens does not sugarcoat things. Life has no built-in meaning. We suffer, often without reason, and sometimes we break. But within that absurdity lies freedom; we get to choose how we respond. The suffering may not be meaningful in itself, but what we do with it can be. That's where the human spirit becomes something fierce and b...

Have you ever walked out of an argument completely sure that you were right, only to realize later that maybe you weren’t? Or felt confident explaining something you barely understood? Don’t worry, you’re not broken. You’re just human. Our brain, as powerful as it is, has this funny habit of lying softly to us. Not out of cruelty, but out of comfort. It wants us to feel safe, certain, and in control. So it bends the truth just enough to make us feel okay. But sometimes, that gentle lie builds a wall between who we think we are and who we actually are. There’s a strange thing our mind does when we know only a little - it convinces us that we know a lot. Psychologists call it the Dunning-Kruger effect. It’s like standing on the first step of a mountain and believing you’ve already seen the whole view. The less we know, the more confident we feel. But as we climb higher - as we learn, unlearn, stumble, and grow - we begin to see how much more there is to understand. Ironically, those who ...

It is hard, but still… we go on. It is heavy, but still… we carry it. It is uncertain, but still… we hope. It is painful, but still… we love again. Because somehow, deep down, we know - life doesn’t stop for the storms. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. It’s not always easy to wake up and try again when everything inside you wants to give up. But you still do - quietly, stubbornly, beautifully. You may not even realize it, but that’s courage. Not the loud, movie kind; the soft, everyday kind that says, "I’ll face today anyway.” It is confusing - when people you cared for drift away, when plans fall apart, when dreams take longer than they should. But still… you find small reasons to smile; a good song, a sunset, a message from someone who remembers. That’s life’s way of saying, “Keep going, you’re not done yet.” It is tiring to be the strong one all the time. To be the listener, the comforter, the one who understands while silently needing to be understood. But still… you ...

There’s a heavy kind of quiet around someone people call ' boring '. They aren’t loud enough to fill a room. Not wild enough to become a story later. Just… steady. Predictable. Practical. Easy to forget. They don’t drink. They don’t chase chaos. They’d rather stay in than join the loud nights. For some, that makes them a “ teetotaller ", for others, just "too plain". People mean no harm when they say, "You never do anything fun”, but every small remark sinks like a pebble in their chest. Over time they start to wonder if stillness is a flaw, if simply being themselves is somehow not enough. Inside, it isn’t calm at all. Their thoughts loop: "Why can’t I be more exciting?" "Why am I always the extra?" "Would anyone notice if I disappeared?" It’s the cold replies from someone they trust, the message left on “seen,” the 'dear friend' who suddenly treats them like a spare space between plans. Tiny gestures others forget in a...