This year has felt like a long corridor with no doors—one where every step brought exhaustion, uncertainty, and an overwhelming sense of solitude. Between navigating job transitions, wrestling with the physical toll it took on me, and facing days when it felt like no one was truly there, 2025 tested me in ways I hadn’t expected.
I didn’t leave my job—I was fired, without reason, without warning. The shock didn’t just shake my career; it shook my sense of stability, my confidence, and my trust in people.
The stress didn’t stop in my mind. It became my body. PCOD, a cyst, weight gain, sleepless nights, and bursts of anger—all reminders that stress isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. Every day became a balancing act: managing my health while trying to pick up the pieces of a professional life I never asked to lose.
And the loneliness… It’s been deep. I crave connection with people who are mature, kind, and grounded. Someone I can sit with in the garden over a glass of wine on a warm, sunny afternoon. Someone I can travel with freely, without restrictions, family pressures, or endless compromises. Yet, in this search, I find myself torn between who I am and what I need in a partner—wondering if someone exists who will truly help me feel complete. The fantasy of a companion who complements my life feels so close yet so far.
Even in a year that felt relentless, some moments reminded me that life wasn’t only about setbacks. I compiled and published a collection of my father’s articles, spanning over a decade, into a book called ‘Of Times and Tides’ for his 75th birthday. It felt grounding, a reminder that creation and legacy still mattered even when chaos ruled my own life. Amid professional uncertainty, I managed to pick up a few freelance odd jobs, small sparks of independence that kept me afloat and reminded me that I could still create value on my own terms.
The year also brought pauses of light. A trip to Mumbai and Alibag gave me sun, sand, and relief—a chance to breathe after months of tension. Around the same time, a promising job offer came my way, aligned perfectly with my skills and hopes. Even though the selection is still pending, just knowing such possibilities exist felt like a quiet validation of my efforts. Meanwhile, I kept writing, systematically uploading articles every month—a rhythm that gave structure and purpose to otherwise chaotic days.
Diwali this year was a small adventure after almost twenty years. Our neighbours and I went out to buy firecrackers, but it was never really about the fireworks. The joy was in the drive, the music playing in the car, and the friendships we shared. A young boy, barely eight, sang some of our favourite old Bollywood melodies—Ye Shaam Mastani, Kaisi Paheli Zindagani, and a few others—bringing back memories of family celebrations from years past. It was a simple, yet deeply joyful reminder that connection, laughter, and shared moments often matter far more than any spectacle.
Luckily, I stay near a small forest, a house tucked away among nature, where evenings could be spent walking, listening to the breeze, and watching the stars from the terrace at night. My children, the mischievous mongooses Millie and Kiwi, and the occasional visitor—a peacock I’ve named Ron—were there to make me smile again, their presence simple yet grounding. These moments, quiet and unassuming, became lifelines. And then one morning, Millie surprised me with two beautiful babies of hers. Their tiny paws, the way they tumbled over one another, and how the three of them waited patiently for breakfast—it was a sight that made my heart ache with joy. The moment I opened my curtain, there they were, tucked snugly against their mother, a perfect little morning miracle.
Health, too, began to feel manageable thanks to the right guidance. I was fortunate to meet a doctor who, instead of recommending surgery, suggested a natural approach. With her calm and friendly demeanour, we immediately connected. She advised a daily glass of buttermilk, simple home exercises, and mindful eating—small, consistent steps rather than heavy medication. Her approach, gentle and realistic, reminded me that care doesn’t always have to be extreme to be effective, and that small, steady changes can lead to meaningful improvement.
This year made me look at some relationships I thought would last forever—and realize they didn’t. People I trusted, leaned on, even loved, weren’t there when I needed them. Some friendships just drifted apart, not with a fight or a big falling out, but quietly, in ways that made me notice how much distance had grown. It stung a lot. I felt abandoned at times, frustrated, angry, and even sad.
And just when I thought I finally had something to look forward to, life found a way to disappoint me once again. I had planned a long-awaited Goa trip — ten years since I last went, ten years since I last felt the vitamin sea my mind and body have been craving. I could already picture the soft sand beneath my feet, the waves rolling in, and the simple pleasure of sitting on the beach doing nothing but breathing — peace, quiet, and the kind of relaxation I desperately needed. And then, at the last moment, my friend ditched me. Plan cancelled. Just like that. It wasn’t only the trip that shattered — it was the hope of rest, of escape, of feeling alive for a while. I wasn’t just disappointed — I was tired of being let down by people I trusted.
I didn’t expect anything good to come my way after that. I wasn’t looking for hope anymore.
Then, out of nowhere, came an email that felt like a breath of air after months of choking. A school reached out, inviting me to be a judge for their inter-house debate competition. Coral vs Sapphire — students from the 10th to the 12th grade, armed with research, passion, and that unmistakable teenage fire to prove a point. For them, it wasn’t just a debate; it was house points, bragging rights, and one step closer to winning the year-end trophy. For me, it felt like purpose again — to assess fairly, to listen deeply, to show up with integrity at a time when I felt invisible in every other part of my life.
When I walked into that auditorium, I realized how much I’d missed the energy of young ambition. Their nervous glances, their confident openings, the tension between the two houses, the teachers watching, the whispered cheers from classmates — it was all so alive. My role was simple on paper: judge them based on parameters, score them without bias. But it became more than that. In a year that constantly made me question my worth, I was seen, respected, and trusted with responsibility again. It reminded me of something I had forgotten — that I do have value, clarity, and a voice that matters. And maybe that small afternoon of debating teenagers did more healing than any medicine ever could.
Maybe this year wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t empty either. Somewhere between losing almost everything and feeling invisible, life handed me small reasons to keep going. A reminder that I still have value. A moment that made me feel seen again. What this year took from me changed me — but what it gave back is helping me rebuild.