The Great Fitness Paradox

 I’ve come to a startling realization: My college friends are no longer human. They’ve evolved.

Back in the day, we bonded over shared snacks and a mutual disdain for 8:00 AM lectures. Now? One has transformed into a high-fashion fitness model in her 40s, and the other—who used to treat "Annual Sports Day" like a looming plague—is currently doing mid-air splits on Instagram that look like a glitch in the laws of physics.

I admire them, truly. But I’m also deeply, mathematically confused.

My feed is no longer photos of lattes or sunsets; it is a relentless stream of "The Grind." Friend A is a marvel of ambition. She decided she wanted the "Model Life" at 40, and she basically bullied her DNA into submission. She hits the gym with a ferocity that suggests she’s training to fight a bear. Meanwhile, Friend B has traded her textbooks for "acrobatic mobility." She’s gained muscles in places where I didn’t even know I had places.

They are the ultimate Cyborgs: Part-human, part-data, and 100% powered by protein shakes and sheer audacity.

But here’s where the "wellness" narrative hits a speed bump. Both of these paragons of health recently posted from hospital beds.

Within three months, they were back in the gym, posting "comeback" montages set to inspiring music. Everyone in the comments is screaming, "You're a warrior!" or "Such an inspiration!"

Meanwhile, my logical brain is sitting in the corner, raising its hand like a confused student: "Excuse me, but... why did the 'Warrior' need a new hip at 40?"

If you are eating the organic kale, sleeping in a temperature-controlled hyperbaric chamber, and tracking your "optimal recovery" on three different smartwatches, shouldn't you be... unbreakable?

I wanted to ask. I really did. Out of concern! But I’ve lived long enough to know the Social Media Rules of Engagement:

Applaud the "Recovery." 2. Never, ever ask about the "Cause."

In the world of fitness influencers, asking, "Was it the repetitive strain from the 500-pound deadlifts?" is considered an act of war. You don’t ask a magician how the rabbit died, and you don’t ask a gym freak why their "perfectly optimized" body just required a titanium bolt. I’d be blocked faster than a carb at a keto convention.

It’s not just them. My WhatsApp is a minefield of "Health Coaches" living in my own apartment building. My phone pings daily with reminders to count my steps, weigh my protein, and photograph my breakfast like it’s a crime scene evidence photo.

I’ve started following actual doctors online just to stay sane. They’re the ones quietly whispering that maybe, just maybe, the human body wasn’t meant to be treated like a Formula 1 car 24/7.

I’ve decided to stay in my lane. I’ll keep walking at a pace that doesn't require a medical team on standby. I might not be a "Cyborg," and I certainly won't be doing any mid-air splits this decade, but I also haven't had to "reboot" my joints in a surgical ward lately.

I’ll stick to my "Low-Performance Human" status. It’s much cheaper on the insurance.

A Tiny Disclaimer (For My High-Performance Friends)

Note: If you are reading this and wondering if I’m talking about you... I am. But don’t worry, I’m saying it with love (and a hint of jealousy because I still can't touch my toes without making a sound like a dry twig snapping).

Please don’t block me. I need your posts to remind me why I’m sitting on my couch eating a cookie. Someone has to be the "Before" photo while you guys are perpetually the "After."

The Silent Birthday: Lessons from My First North Star!!

 Today is my father’s birthday.

​In my house, the day passed in a strange, heavy silence. I didn't remind anyone. My mother and I spoke, but we didn't mention his name. My youngest brother likely carried the memory in his own quiet way. Sometimes, grief isn't a loud cry; it’s the quiet space between words when you’re talking about the weather or the daily chores.

​I’ve spent the day navigating the "Mixed Bag" of my current life—dealing with technical glitches, cold-calls, and even the sting of being called a "fraud" by a stranger who didn't know the heart behind my screen. For a moment, the weight of the day made me feel small. I found myself looking backward, missing old comforts and familiar voices.

​But then, I remembered whose daughter I am.

​I realized that my father is present in every "Sovereign" choice I make. He is there in the discipline I showed today despite my cold. He is there in the way I looked at the girl with the pen and the notebook yesterday—recognizing her hunger for knowledge because it’s the same hunger he likely instilled in me.

​We don't always need to light candles or make grand speeches to honor those we’ve lost. Sometimes, the best tribute is simply not giving up.

​When I manage my portfolio, I am using the wisdom of the foundations he laid. When I teach a child to be brave with their words, I am passing on the courage he gave me. When I look at my son, I see a legacy that stretches back long before I was a mother.

​Today was a "zero" in the world of corporate targets. But in the arithmetic of the soul, it was a day of deep connection. I realized that I don't need a stranger's validation or a perfect internet connection to be "enough." I am my father’s daughter, and that is a title no one can take away.

​Happy Birthday, Baba. The silence today wasn't because we forgot. It was because you are so much a part of our daily rhythm that we don't need to say your name to feel you there.

 Our roots give us the strength to survive the storms of the present

A girl in specs with a pen and a notebook!!

 This morning, while the steam rose from the pans in my kitchen, a thought flickered in my mind like a quiet flame.

Why not reach back to my roots in Odisha? I thought about a non-profit initiative I’ve followed—a group of professors from my homeland dedicated to bridging the English communication gap for rural students. My heart said, "Spend just one hour a week. Give back. Draft the email now." But as the morning progressed, the domestic chores—the inevitable "Mixed Bag" of a mother’s life—faded that thought into the background.

Or so I thought.

Later, I prepared for a demo session with a young girl from Assam. I went in with a singular mission: to give her everything I could in that one hour, regardless of the "system." But language is a tricky bridge; she spoke neither Hindi nor English, and I don't know Assamese. Our connection remained a silent hope, a thought that couldn't yet reach fruition.

But the universe wasn't done with me.

My next session was with an 11-year-old girl. Her parents spoke to me in a gentle mix of broken English and Hindi. I expected a standard request—perhaps help with grammar or preparing for school exams.

I was wrong.

This little girl, peering through her spectacles with intense focus, didn't want to pass a test. She wanted to conquer a fear. She wanted to deliver a speech with confidence.

What moved me to my core wasn't just her ambition, but her preparation. She sat before the screen with a pen and a notebook. When I showed her how to introduce herself, she stopped me. "Ma'am, please pause," she said.

I watched, mesmerized, as she carefully noted down every sentence—not just for herself, but for her parents. She was scripting a new identity for her entire family. In that moment, this "class topper" and only child became a bridge-builder, carrying the weight of her family’s aspirations on her small shoulders.

At the end, she looked at me and asked if we would have another class. My heart ached to say, "Just ping me, let’s connect on Google Meet, I will help you for free." The corporate system has its rules, but my soul has its own.

I wanted to tell her: "I see a bright future for you. Your dedication is your superpower." Today, I realized that even if I haven't sent that email to the Odisha non-profit organisations yet, the work has already begun. Every time I pause for a girl with a notebook, every time I respect the "broken" English of a hopeful parent, I am building that bridge.

The "Mixed Bag" of my day might be heavy, but it is filled with the dreams of children who are ready to cross over. And I am honored to be the one holding the light.

Current Mood: Humbled.

Thought for the Day: You don't need a formal title to be a missionary of education. You just need to notice the girl with the pen.

Finding "Rhapsody" in the routine!!

 Lately, the days have felt like a crowded room. Between the "Mixed Bag" of household chores and the high-energy demands of a new professional chapter, I’ve found myself standing at a crossroads.

I’ve spent the last few days connecting with people from all walks of life—some who carry the weight of their struggles in their voices, and others who look at life through the lens of pure logic. In the middle of it all, there is a "system." Every system has its glitches, its targets, and its noise. It’s easy to feel like just another cog in a machine, especially when you’re fighting a physical cold or the exhaustion of a long Sunday.

But this morning, something shifted.

I looked at my son as he came home from his first independent "big boy" errand with his father. I realized that the time I spend away from him—focused on my screen, my words, and my "students" in life—is not time lost. It is an investment.

I didn't quit my journey after he was born because I wanted him to see a mother who is a North Star, not just a shadow. I want him to understand that a woman’s voice has a rhapsody of its own.

I’ve stopped working for the "result" and started working for the Impact.

Whether I am helping someone find their confidence or simply holding a mirror up to a child’s potential, I am no longer doing it for a "target." I am doing it because I know what it feels like to be on the other side of a language barrier or a closed door.

We often worry if our children will see a "busy" mother. But today, I believe my son is seeing a confident mother. He is learning to be brave because he sees me navigating my own "Mixed Bag" with a smile, even when the cup is a little cracked.

The noise of the world is loud, but my purpose is louder.

Reflections for today:

Presence is about quality, not just hours.

Every person we help is a bridge we build for our own future.

Sometimes, the best way to teach bravery is to be brave yourself.

How to Organize Your Drawers for $0 (and Save the Planet)

 

Let’s be honest: those sleek plastic drawer organizers add up fast. But what if the best solution is actually sitting in your recycling bin?

​I’ve started organizing my drawers using sturdy leftover boxes—think iPhone packaging, gift boxes, or shipping containers. It’s a win-win-win:

1. ​It saves money by avoiding unnecessary purchases.
2. ​It saves the planet by reducing plastic demand and reusing waste.
3. ​It’s guilt-free. If a box gets worn out or dirty, I don't feel bad tossing it because it was free!

​You can easily beautify these with some scrap cloth or pretty paper, but even bare boxes look a million times better than a messy drawer. Are you ready to give your "trash" a second life?

The Lesson of Letting Go!!

 Those few moments when you cared,

I can’t forget them even if I try.

It was like you could read my mind,

And knew the words I wouldn't say.

I always wanted to work, to be something,

But the world is harder than I thought.

I just wanted someone to understand that—

To tell me it’s okay to stay or to go.

You said exactly what I needed to hear.

And after you left, I never heard it again.

That is why the pain is so deep—

I found the person who knew me,

But I couldn't keep him forever.

Now, all the small things I wanted to do

Are just wishes that never came true.

I didn’t find another "you,"

And  I never will.

I wanted to learn so many things,

To see the world and experience it all.

But instead, I only learned one thing:

How to let go.

I detached myself from my dreams,

The big ones and even the tiny ones.

Life is just a list of responsibilities now,

And I am just walking through it.

If ever you find this somehow,

Never feel guilty for caring for me.

I let you go when I realized

That you couldn't be happy with me.

And I cannot feel any better

By knowing that you are sad for me.

The Divine Riddle: A Conversation with the Architect!!

 

A Note on "Mood Swings"

​Before you tell me that women have mood swings and it's visible in my posts, let me warn you: I have great competitors like Mr. Trump and Mr. Macron. One gives a statement and backs out in a single day, and the other says, "Let’s go on a trade bazooka!" Then there's our nearest neighbor, constantly highlighting a trade surplus of billions in China while the ground shifts beneath them.

​So, don’t blame just me for being a woman. I see more mood swings in men with power these days than in any "High Value" algorithm.

​Sometimes, though, the "mood swing" isn't about politics or digital traps. Sometimes, it’s a quiet conversation with something much higher than a world leader. It’s the moment when the digital deception fades, and you’re left looking at the signs carved into your own life.

A Conversation with the Architect:-

Lord, years ago, You wove a thread,

Of coincidences I misread.

A trail of breadcrumbs, soft and fine—

I followed them, thinking, "This is mine." But the path was hollow, the signs were skewed,

A grand redirection I hadn't pursued.

And when You finally turned the wheel,

The courage I needed wasn't real.

You watched me struggle, You watched me fail,

As I walked the wind and braved the gale.

Each phase a mountain, each step a test,

I carried the weight, hoping for rest.

I told myself, "The end is near,"

While wiping away the grit and fear.

Now, years have passed, and the silence is gone,

The same old signals are turning back on.

But my heart is weary, my eyes are wise,

I see the trap beneath the disguise.

And now, that number stands in wait,

Carved in stone beside my gate.

Is it a promise? Or just a design?

I used to beg for a tangible sign.

But I am tired of the maze and the "nearly,"

Of waiting for You to speak to me clearly.

So, I’ll leave the riddle right there at the door,

I won’t ask for meanings or maps anymore.

If the silence is Your answer, then let it be deep;

I have promises to myself I must keep.

Whether it’s a gift or a trick of the light,

I’ll trust my own soul to get through the night.

For the peace that I feel when I stop seeking "why,"

Is the only true signal I need to get by.