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Life as a Gen Z

Being Gen Z in India feels like being handed a “life bundle pack” that includes everything - dreams, pressure, opportunities, expectations, and random relatives asking about your future at every possible function. It starts early. One moment you are told, “Follow your passion.” Next moment, “But choose something stable.” So we grow up like emotional accountants - balancing passion in one column and salary in another, hoping both somehow match at the end. Spoiler; they rarely do. We are also the first generation that can learn literally anything online. Want to code? Done. Want to cook? Done. Want to start a business? Done. Want to heal your inner child? Also done—just watch 47 reels and cry in aesthetic lighting. But here’s the small detail nobody mentions: Everything is available… just not always accessible. Courses are cheap, but time is expensive. Opportunities exist, but experience is “required.” Jobs are open, but “2–5 years experience” is mysteriously needed for a fresher role. S...
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The tale of a matured one

There are some people in this world who are loved.. but somehow never prioritized. People who reply within seconds, but wait hours for a reply. People who remember everyone’s birthdays, favorite foods, bad days, tiny habits… while nobody notices when they go silent. They exist in every friend group, every family, every relationship. And maybe.. in ways nobody sees, they exist inside you too. They are the people everyone calls when life falls apart. The “Can you talk?” person. The “I knew you’d understand” person. The emergency contact without the official title. They listen. They adjust. They forgive faster than they should. They make space for everyone else’s emotions even when their own heart is overflowing. And the strange part? Everyone loves having them around. But very few truly choose them first. That pain is difficult to explain because technically, they are not alone. They are surrounded by people. Included in conversations. Tagged in photos. Invited sometimes. Remembered occa...
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Almost.. Always..

Life refuses to follow your plans sometimes. It starts with confidence. Not loud confidence - but the quiet, steady kind. The kind that sits inside you and says, “This time, it will work.” You map everything. You imagine every step. You even rehearse the happiness in advance; how it will feel, how it will look, how proudly you’ll say, “I made it.” For a moment, your future feels… certain. And then life gently walks in, looks at your carefully written script, and tears the last page first. It’s strange how we don’t prepare for this. We prepare for success. We prepare for failure. But we never prepare for almost. Almost getting there. Almost being chosen. Almost becoming what you dreamed. That quiet, unfinished feeling - it lingers longer than any clear “yes” or “no.” And then comes the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind. Where your efforts echo back at you, asking questions you don’t have answers for. “Where did it go wrong?” “Was it ever meant for me?” “Did I believe too mu...
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If there's a God...

If God sounds cruel, he is probably human. If God sounds selectively kind, he is probably human. If God sounds offended or in need of praise, he is probably human. If God takes sides in war, tribes or identities, he is probably human. If God demands fear more than understanding, he is probably human. If God rewards flattery instead of questions, he is probably human. If God mirrors our anger, pride and insecurities, he is probably human. If God hates whom we hate, he is probably human. If God thrives on stories of power and conquest, he is probably human. If God needs Temples, Mosques, Churches, labels or symbols, he is probably human. If God seems just like us in every way, maybe we invented 'him', not the other way around. Maybe the point was never to question faith, but to question the parts of it that make us smaller instead of kinder. Belief can be a beautiful thing - it can heal, guide, and give hope. But when it turns into fear, hate, or division, it loses its meaning. F...
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The emotional cost of being easily accessible

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 ...
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The guilt of rest

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....
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The absurdity of suffering

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...
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