Today’s hesitation wasn’t about writing what happened to me. It was about writing what I’ve done because of it.
Yesterday, I wrote that there’s evil in me too. I stand by that. Trauma doesn’t just leave physical or emotional aftereffects. Sometimes, it creates patterns of behavior that are hard to admit — especially when they hurt other people.
This morning, I wanted to be honest with myself. Given how intense and extreme my experiences have been, I know there’s no way I’ve made it through without causing harm. I’m not a saint. I’ve had moments where the pain I didn’t want to feel found its way out as anger. As cruelty. As defensiveness. As superiority.
Sometimes it was unintentional. But other times, I knew.
I’ve justified it in the past. I didn’t say it out loud, but in my head, I thought, “This is what men have done to me. So what if I bring them down a little?” The truth is, some of the kindest men in my life have received the worst of me. I’ve belittled them, mocked them, hit where it hurt, all while telling myself they could handle it. That they were strong enough. That it didn’t matter.
But it did matter. They were good to me. And I hurt them anyway.
This is hard to admit. But I don’t want to be someone who blames my past forever. I’ve done that before. I’ve told myself that the reason I lash out is because of what I endured. But it’s not their fault. The people I’ve hurt didn’t abuse me. They didn’t leave me unprotected as a child.
They didn’t deserve my rage.
I think back to my ex. To a few close male friends. I see the way I pushed them away when they tried to help me. I see how my ego stepped in and said, “Don’t let them be right.” So I said something mean. Something cold. Something that cut deep.
I realize now, that was the same thing done to me. The men who hurt me — they were probably running from their own suffering. My father definitely was. He grew up with an alcoholic dad who beat him and then died young. I can imagine that pain. And I can see how he never learned to stop it from spreading.
That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to stop the chain reaction.
I know some of the things I’ve done may seem small. But the timing of a word, the edge of a tone, can break someone who’s already on the edge. I don’t want to carry that weight anymore.
I want to alchemize this darkness. That’s what I said in my book. I called myself an alchemist. If I meant it, I can’t keep channeling my pain in ways that quietly hurt others. Even when it’s justified. Even when it’s subtle. Even when it feels easier.
Today’s Truth:
The pain I didn’t want to feel turned into a shadow I didn’t want to see. But seeing it is how I stop it from growing. I am not just what happened to me. I am what I choose to do with what it left behind.
This morning, I woke up around 7 a.m. with tears silently rolling down my face. They weren’t loud or dramatic. They came from somewhere deep inside. I was thinking about the book I recently published. A friend told me it inspired her to make a change in her life. That meant a lot. It made me think about how healing can happen if the people closest to me begin to show up differently than the people who surrounded me growing up. If that happens, maybe the little girl inside me will finally feel safe. Maybe she’ll stop bracing for the worst. I think those were her tears this morning.
That moment might also be why I avoided writing until nightfall. I’ve been pushing the memory from the therapy session further and further into the background. It still feels dark. I swam across a lake yesterday and tried to release it with every stroke. I felt lighter for a while. But today, the heaviness returned.
I guess it’s because most of it still lives in my body. It’s not even about how I look. It’s how I feel when I look at myself. I don’t hate my body, but I’ve never really loved it either. It feels like my body stored the pain in the form of fat in places it was once violated. Sometimes it feels like the fat is trying to protect me. Or maybe it’s grief that never left.
I’ve hurt myself and others because of how deeply that insecurity runs. I’ve done so much to try to get rid of it — workouts, diets, rituals — hoping I could let go of the weight and the shame. I know healing is more than physical. But sometimes I wish it were that simple. I don’t want more work. I want peace.
I can’t change the past. I know that. But sometimes I still wonder what life would have been like if none of it had happened. Maybe I’d feel freer in my own skin. Maybe I’d move through the world without thinking about my body every few minutes.
I’m want to show my body some love now. When I apply lotion, I imagine I’m rubbing care into it. I want to look in the mirror without criticism. I want to stop comparing myself to women on the street with perfect bodies. It’s a heavy mental load — all the time. And I know I’ve carried it for years. But I’m trying to meet it differently now. Because even with everything it’s been through, it is still my body.
Today’s Truth:
I can’t erase the past, but I can choose how I feel about the body that remembers it.
Today, I feel angry. Furious, even. At the world. At men. At how cruel life can be. There’s a part of me that wants it all to burn.
I was triggered several times yesterday, but one moment stood out. A friend, an ex-friend now, gave me a small birthday gift. A pack of hand lotion. On the surface, it should’ve been harmless. But I know where she was coming from, and that’s what made it cruel. It felt like a calculated gesture, subtle but sharp. A reminder that some people don’t hurt you directly. They just know where to poke. It’s the same darkness that lived in the man who hurt me when I was too small to fight back. That quiet decision to take advantage of someone because you know they’re fragile.
That’s what makes me angry. That people do these things knowing they can get away with it. That people let their darkness win.
Now that I’ve started to accept what happened to me, it’s like a dam has broken. I’m not just angry about the abuse. I’m angry about everything I’ve lost because of it. The decades I spent not knowing. Not remembering. Just feeling tired, confused, insecure, without knowing why.
Looking back, so many things make sense now. It’s like this memory was a ghost directing my life from behind a curtain. I couldn’t see it, but it was there, shaping everything. My relationships. My body. My trust. My exhaustion.
It made me wonder what kind of energy I’ve been carrying all these years. Have I been wearing this invisible cloak of trauma? Have I been attracting cruelty without even realizing it?
I’ve always wanted to be a good person. And I know that I am. I’ve never wished harm on anyone. Not truly. But now I’m beginning to see how much I’ve hurt myself. And sometimes others too. Especially because of how disconnected I’ve felt from my own body.
My body has always been a sore point. Not just how it looks, but how it feels. I’ve hated my body for as long as I can remember. It’s like it holds all the memories I couldn’t. Fat collecting in the places where trauma once lived. I’ve tried everything to change that. Exercise, food, fasting, overcompensating. But the real weight wasn’t physical.
I just want my body back. Not a thinner version. Not a prettier one. The version that was never touched like that. The version that never had to carry this. I’m trying to love the body I’m in now. I really am. After all, it stayed. It carried me. Even when I didn’t know what it was holding.
Today’s Truth:
Anger isn’t just fire. It’s grief in disguise. And when you finally know what you’ve been carrying, you’re allowed to burn what never belonged to you.
I didn’t feel like writing this morning. I’ve been up for a couple of hours, just circling the urge. Maybe it’s because I started feeling better yesterday, and I’m afraid that revisiting the memory will take me back to numbness.
Still, I tried. I revisited the memory to see if any tears would come. Nothing. But something’s shifting. I can feel it. Not in the form of tears, but in how so many other memories are resurfacing. Pieces I never understood before are suddenly making sense.
One that came up was from the time of a terrorist attack in Mumbai. The blast happened at a train station near my house. I was scared, alone, and couldn’t sleep. I remember lying in my aunt’s bed after she had moved out after living with us for a while after her divorce. That night, trying to soothe myself, I touched myself. I don’t know if it’s connected, but it came up now. Maybe because during the memory retraction process, I pictured her sitting on that same bed, even though she wasn’t there in the actual event that took place. My mind’s been stitching together things I hadn’t thought about in years.
More moments like that are surfacing. I remember a therapist once asked me how I perceive sex. I didn’t have a clear answer. I just knew it never felt pure. Never good. It always felt like something I had to hide. Something I wasn’t supposed to enjoy.
In college, it shifted a bit. I acted out more when I was drunk — not from freedom, but from rebellion. I even got a tramp stamp after I saw a girl getting too close to someone I had just started seeing. It wasn’t about betrayal. It was about control. It was about doing something because I wanted to and I could.
The pattern became clear: I could only get close to men when I wasn’t sober. When I was numb. When it didn’t feel real.
I once had a dream around the time I started therapy again. In the dream, there was a safe in my old college room. The safe was rumbling, vibrating. I was terrified to open it, sure that a ghost would jump out. I never had a safe in college. But I know what the dream was telling me now. That locked-up part of me was ready to shake open.
A lot of anger toward my mom has started to rise. I’m mad at her for letting this happen. But I also know, somewhere deep down, that she couldn’t have stopped it. These things don’t announce themselves. And the people who hurt you are rarely strangers. Still, I hope she did something when she found out — maybe during the divorce proceedings with my aunt. I hope she made him pay somehow. I don’t know.
I’ve been called so many things in my life — slut, loose, promiscuous — and none of it was ever true. I had only slept with one person until I was thirty. Yes, I got drunk. Yes, I made choices that may have looked messy from the outside. But I was trying to survive.
I’ve been blamed for leading men on and not following through. But all I’ve ever wanted was something simple. Something beautiful.
Even the fantasies, the kinks, the desires — they weren’t coming from freedom. They came from hurt. I never acted on most of them. They didn’t feel like me. They felt like something dirty. Something I’d regret. My mind might crave it, but my body never really wanted it. I remember one night when I got really drunk at a conference. When we got intimate, I physically couldn’t open up. I wasn’t safe. Not emotionally. Not physically. My body said no.
I’ve been remembering that too.
Yesterday, at a café, Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On started playing. And something in me softened. I remembered seeing it in a movie once — a scene where two people are making love, tenderly, truly in love. It made me realize that’s what I want my sex song to be. Not like Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon — the one I used to think defined me. That song was all heat, chaos, and craving. This one is warmth, permission, connection. I don’t want desire fueled by rebellion anymore. I want something slow, sacred, and safe. I want softness, the kind that doesn’t have to scream to be heard.
Today’s Truth:
Some healing doesn’t come in tears. It comes in understanding why you’ve lived the way you have. And deciding you’re allowed to live differently now.
Something surfaced recently during a session with my therapist — not just a memory, but something my mind had blocked away for decades because it was too painful to carry. It pointed to an incident of sexual abuse I experienced when I was just two years old, involving someone who had once been part of my extended family. Though my conscious mind had no access to it until now, my body seems to have held onto the truth all these years, quietly storing what I wasn’t yet ready to face.
This morning I woke up wondering if it was real. My mind kept circling the same question — could something like that really have happened? A part of me is still trying to find ways to make it untrue. But another part brings up moments I had long forgotten. The night I spent at my aunt’s home with her ex-husband. How I felt around them. Details I had tucked away, surfacing now like pieces of a puzzle I never knew I was holding.
There’s been a quiet tug-of-war happening inside me.
Last night, I felt tired before going to bed. I reached out to soothe myself by placing my hand near my belly button — something I often do for comfort — but this time, I flinched. It felt wrong. Earlier in the evening, rubbing my belly over my clothes had helped. But when it came to touching my skin directly, I hesitated. My body pulled away. It remembered something I didn’t.
I’m in a kind of shock. If what came up in that session is true, I don’t quite know how to feel. I’m not angry, not yet. I just keep wondering — how could something like this have happened and stayed hidden from me for so long?
I looked at some old photos from around that time. There’s something in my expression, something in my eyes that now makes me pause. A part of me wants to dismiss it, while another part keeps saying, “Look again.”
I keep thinking about my grandfather. He used to do reiki on me when I was little. I never really understood what it was, just that his energy made me feel safe. My mother, too, used to rub my belly gently or place castor oil in my navel when I had stomach aches. It helped. It soothed. And maybe, on some level, those acts of care were helping a wound I didn’t have words for.
Last night in the shower, I tried something my somatic therapist taught me — a muscle test, a way of letting the body speak when the mind is unsure. I asked myself if that uncle had touched me in a way that crossed a boundary. Each time, my body leaned forward. Every single time.
Then another memory came up. Years ago, at the start of a past relationship, there was a night where I was touched while I was asleep. I was too tired to keep my eyes open. When I stirred, he said, “Keep sleeping.” I did. And the next day, I remember writing in my journal about how that moment had made me feel wanted. I saw it as romantic, not realizing then what I understand now.
It’s uncomfortable to write about. But I’m not pushing it away.
I don’t have all the answers. Just fragments. But I’m letting them surface, one at a time. Listening to what my body is trying to tell me.
Today’s truth: The body remembers, even when the mind cannot. And maybe now, for the first time, I am ready to hear it.
They say it’s not about the places—it’s about the people you meet along the way. I didn’t quite understand what that meant until now. Looking back over the years, I’ve come to see how deeply intertwined my path has been with the people I’ve crossed paths with. Somehow, every encounter felt pre-written, like puzzle pieces scattered across the world, only fitting together in hindsight.
I was recently reflecting on my first time leaving home, when I moved away for college. That initial separation from everything familiar was softened by the people I met—people who, without knowing it, mirrored the most intimate corners of my life.
There was a friend whose brother, like mine, carried the unbearable weight of living up to his father’s expectations. He passed away just a year ago. When I also lost my brother to suicide, I remembered our conversations—how we once whispered to each other that maybe our brothers gave up because they saw no point in trying to meet standards they never chose.
Another friend’s brother struggled with addiction. So did mine. We talked about rehab, resilience, and the silent burden of being both the caretaker and the one expected to bring pride to the family. She, like me, longed for the day we could be held by a healthy masculine energy—so we could finally allow ourselves to soften.
There was someone else who spent her entire life being compared to her older sister. I knew that story all too well. We shared quiet confessions about sibling rivalry stirred by parental expectations, and how—deep down—we still rooted for our sisters’ success, knowing it wouldn’t take away from our own.
One friend seemed to attract lightning—figuratively, of course. Tragedy after tragedy, yet she kept walking forward. No regrets. No questions. Just an acceptance that life is unpredictable, and the only way through is forward.
There was a friend, who lost her mother at birth. Another, who grew up in the cracks between two parents who couldn’t find peace but still managed to make peace with the situation.
“I remember it clearly—one quiet day, I realised something: I am running into all of the people I am running away from.”
Every country I’ve stepped into, every new adventure, Was I exploring or escaping? If I’m honest, most of the time I was in flight mode. But here’s the twist—while running, I kept bumping into the very stories I was trying to outrun. Life, as it turns out, doesn’t let you off the hook that easily.
And now? I’m tired of running. Not in a defeated way—more in a brave way. For the first time, I feel capable of staying still. Not to fight. Not to flee. Just to be.
Yes, thirty countries is a shiny number. But behind that number are moments of loneliness, learning, and longing. I don’t regret a thing. Sometimes I wish I had travelled with a different purpose—not away from something, but toward something.
People see my photos and think, “She’s living the dream.” And maybe I am. I’ve learned how to alchemize pain into purpose, to turn the mess into meaning. But the truth is, I’ve often been the observer. Close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to not get burned. It gave me perspective, sure—but not belonging.
And yet, I believe none of this was accidental. God—or the universe, or whatever you believe in—placed these people in my life like lanterns on a foggy path. We’ve shared a kind of quiet camaraderie, not always visible, but deeply felt. And for that, I’m grateful.
So, if you’ve been on the run too—emotionally, physically, metaphorically—I hope you know that even the flight has a purpose. Just don’t forget to pause once in a while. Because even when you’re running, you’re still being led. And when you finally stop, when you finally turn around, you might also notice the people who shaped you right there beside you.
My friends in Egypt taught me what drive and diligence truly look like. There was a fire in the way they lived—an energy that was quietly contagious. One conversation still stays with me. A friend asked, “Do you go to bed feeling the good kind of tired?’” The kind that comes from pouring yourself into something meaningful, from inching closer to your purpose. That question changed the way I looked at effort. Until then, I had mostly done things for approval—for the praise, the gold stars, the need to be a “good daughter”. But this was different. This was about doing something that fills you up, not just your report card.
My roommates during that time played a quiet, steady role in shaping who I was becoming. One of them—my Italian roommate—introduced me to eggplant parmigiana. Preparing it was a long, slow process, layered and intentional, but the results were unforgettable. She taught me that food isn’t just about feeding the body—it’s about nourishing the soul. I finally understood the “Eat” part of “Eat, Pray, Love”. Just like Julia Roberts found herself in the folds of pizza in Naples, I found something in that dish—comfort, care, and the joy of cooking without rush. Growing up, food had always been there, but I only ever ate to fuel myself. That year, I learned to eat to feel alive.
Another roommate had a quiet but lasting impact on me. We used to walk to work together every morning, always getting there ahead of time—her Germanness rubbed off on me faster than I expected. She carried herself with a kind of calm discipline that was both inspiring and grounding. What struck me most was how she stayed motivated and respectful, even while navigating the nuances of a new work culture. She led with quiet confidence and a deeply practical mindset, doing everything she could to reach her goals—never loud, never boastful, just steady and sure.
Over the years, I’ve come to meet people who have taught me some of the most important lessons of my life—how to live with intention, how to love with presence, how to rest without guilt, and how to keep going, even when the road feels impossibly long. These weren’t always grand lessons taught in classrooms or through books. Most came quietly, through conversations in kitchens, shared silences on park benches, and the gentle consistency of friendship in faraway places.
And now, I carry those lessons with me—not just as memories, but as reminders of what it means to truly live. Not just survive. Not just perform. But live, fully and wholly, in connection—with myself, and with others.
You’ve probably seen a lighthouse before—a tall, solitary tower standing against the sea, its beacon cutting through the darkness. Once an essential guide for sailors navigating treacherous waters, most lighthouses now stand as relics of the past, their purpose fading into history, repurposed as tourist attractions. But once upon a time, they were lifelines—warning ships of hidden dangers, guiding them safely through perilous shallows and rocky shores, ensuring they found their way home.
Of course, in keeping with my tendency to explore duality, there’s another side to this story. Lighthouses, while symbols of safety, have also been at the mercy of violent storms, crushing waves, and shifting ice. Some, ironically, became the very obstacles they were meant to prevent, with ships crashing into them in heavy fog. The lighthouse keepers, isolated from the world, braved relentless weather, exhaustion, and wartime attacks, sometimes risking their own lives to rescue those lost at sea. And then there was the slow, creeping madness—the loneliness of a job that required them to keep the light burning even when no one was watching. Many keepers succumbed to isolation, some to tragedy, others to insanity.
A lighthouse’s beam, magnified by mirrors and lenses, can stretch up to 20 nautical miles (37 km), its reach extending far beyond what the eye can see. But what good is a lighthouse if its light goes out?
I suppose some of us are lighthouses for the beloved ships in our lives—standing steadfast, illuminating their way, ensuring they find safe passage through the storms. We watch from a distance, unwavering, asking for nothing in return. But even lighthouses have limits. A beacon can only shine for so long before the flame flickers, before the isolation erodes the foundation.
Perhaps, just perhaps, some ships were never meant to keep sailing. Maybe they, too, long for a place to rest—for a shore to call home. Because even a lighthouse, for all its strength, was never meant to stand alone. And maybe, just maybe, the light shines brightest when it’s not just guiding others but warming something within itself.
So if you are a lighthouse—and let’s be honest, we all are in some way—take care of yourself. Keep your light steady, not just for those who seek it, but for yourself, so when the storms come, you’re still standing, still shining, ready to guide the ones who need you most.
One day, I wandered into a forest—a vast, untamed wilderness alive with towering trees, curious animals, and lively birds. Not long after I entered, I stumbled upon a wise old tree. Its presence was commanding, and it spoke of a mountain hidden deep within the forest. At its peak, it said, there bloomed a Dandelion flower—a rare and magical bloom. I laughed off the idea. “Sure,” I thought. “Why would I bother climbing all the way up there when it’s so calm and peaceful down here?” The tree didn’t argue. It simply rolled its eyes and stretched taller, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Days turned into weeks as I wandered, unsure why I had come to this forest in the first place. The charm of it began to wear thin. The green was overwhelming, the wind ceaseless, and the birds’ endless chirping grated on my nerves. Even the animals seemed caught up in their constant, exhausting hunts. The more I stayed, the darker the forest seemed to grow.
Then the rains arrived. At first, the drizzle was refreshing—an exciting change of pace. But soon, the skies unleashed a ferocious storm. The birds and animals retreated to their shelters, but their presence still lingered, watching over me as I remained exposed. I figured I’d be fine under a tree. How bad could it get? It turns out, worse than I could have imagined. The rain soaked me to the bone, the cold numbed me, and the unrelenting storm drove me to the ground. I lay there, hugging myself, shivering and utterly defeated, as the storm raged on.
I’m not sure how long I remained like that, but eventually, I felt a presence nearby. A wolf with shiny grey hair appeared, its movements deliberate yet unthreatening. It approached me, its piercing eyes locking onto mine. Then, it leaned in close and whispered something in my ear before silently walking away. The words it spoke lingered in my mind, their meaning unclear but oddly comforting. Somehow, they sparked a flicker of strength in me. Despite my exhaustion, I pushed myself to stand.
The birds, who had been silently watching from above, fluttered down to help me. Together, we built a small shelter to weather the rest of the storm. With their care and my newfound determination, I endured.
When the storm finally passed, I emerged changed. I was stronger, braver, and, for the first time, truly alive. The forest, which had once seemed overwhelming, now shimmered with purpose. The wind carried life, the endless green breathed vitality, and the animals and birds embodied resilience and connection. Everything I had dismissed before was now illuminated with meaning. Why settle for just surviving, I thought, when I could soar?
Now, I’m flying—on my way to that magical Dandelion. The storms and cyclones may try to pull me down, but I’m holding onto a guiding star, a light that keeps me steady. Reaching the top no longer feels impossible; it feels necessary. The forest, once a source of frustration, has become my greatest teacher, showing me that even the chaos and discomfort were shaping me for something greater.
As I reflect, I finally understand the wolf’s whispered words: “You are an alchemist.” Back then, I couldn’t grasp their meaning, but now it’s clear. An alchemist practices the art of transformation, turning challenges into growth, fears into strength, and doubts into liberation. The storms, struggles, and moments of stillness—all of it has been part of my journey, teaching me to embrace the unknown and rise stronger.
After all, it’s only those who have faced the depths can truly appreciate the joy and weight of soaring, for the sky isn’t always clear. Storms and cyclones will come, but if you hold onto the right star and trust in your ability to transform, you’ll always find your way forward.
During my travels, I met some pretty fascinating people. Take Egypt, for example. A friend and I were chatting and something absurd about favorite numbers came up, and he casually mentioned his was 42. Now, most people pick something simple like 7 (mine is 7 only cause it’s the magical number, duh!) or 10—rounded. But 42? That caught my attention.
At the time, I had no clue about The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where 42 is famously the answer to the “Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” Naturally, I was intrigued and had to dig deeper. Now, I’m not much of a math person, so most of the geeky stuff about 42 went way over my head. But beyond the numbers, 42 has found its way into philosophy, religion, history—it’s got layers. Some fans say it explains everything. Yet, the author himself claims he randomly picked 42. But can something truly be random if it holds so much meaning across so many areas? Is it everything or nothing? Maybe it’s both.
You can see why this idea has stuck with me for over a decade. I’m someone who craves answers, explanations, and logic. I want to know how everything fits together, and I usually can piece it all into a neat, scientific explanation. So when I stumbled on this concept—the meaning of life is everything and nothing—it threw me. It bothered me. I kept thinking, how can these two opposing ideas coexist? Sure, “everything” can be measured, mapped, understood. But “nothing”? It’s intangible, it’s just felt, not seen. And in my world, if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.
Yet here I am, 32 years later, realizing there’s more to life. And maybe that “more” isn’t meant to be understood. Maybe it’s a feeling, something I’ll have to learn to trust. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying. Trusting in the unknown is terrifying—it’s messy, it makes me feel vulnerable—but what if that’s the point? What if the magic of life is in its mystery, in the things we can’t explain?
I guess I’ll have to take that leap. Trust in the nothingness, because, well, why not? Isn’t that what makes life beautiful? The mystery, the parts we can’t pin down or rationalize? Maybe that’s where the true meaning lies—not in the answers, but in the journey. After all, some things are just meant to be felt, not explained. And maybe it’s better that way.
What’s crystal clear to me is this—life is what we make of it. We can choose to let our heart believe in the magic of the unknown, the nothing, or let our ego take control and try to manage everything. Sure, you might find some answers along your ego’s journey, but chances are, you won’t like what you discover. It’s like when that supercomputer gave “42” as the answer to the meaning of life and left everyone disappointed. And they waited 7.5 million years for it! Honestly, I no longer have the patience to spend all my time trying to figure everything out. It’s exhausting. But, that doesn’t mean we should be naive and let our heart lead us into delusion either. It’s all about balance—a dance between trusting the mystery and staying grounded in reality.
fortuitouspurpose 