This is a personal essay written by the author, sharing their individual journey and experiences. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this piece belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MyndStories. This essay has not been professionally vetted or reviewed for clinical accuracy.
I was 16, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her living room when ‘Pehla Nasha‘ from Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikander played softly in the background. The melody wrapped around us like a warm embrace, a soundtrack to our laughter and effortless connection. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, as though the universe had paused to let us exist in a bubble of pure, untainted joy. It felt eternal.
Ten years later, that same song drifted through the noise of a crowded café. This time, it stopped me cold. The music was unchanged, but the boy who had shared that moment was gone. So was the girl. And with her, the love, the support—all that I had naively believed was unbreakable.
What remained was a memory.
The crushing weight of lost love
I grew up in a big, warm Punjabi family. The first child after years, showered with attention, maybe even a little spoiled. Life was predictable. It felt safe and secure, cushioned by comfort. Back then, love meant family, friends, and the familiar. Life flowed smoothly, like a river.
Love found me at sixteen in a way I hadn’t known before, and this freshly brewed relationship with her became my everything. She was my anchor, my constant, woven into the fabric of my days for a decade. I thought I knew what love was, convinced we shared an unbreakable bond.
I was wrong. But how could I have known?
It wasn’t a dramatic, movie-scene kind of breakup. No screaming matches, no slammed doors. The cracks started small—a missed call here, a misunderstood text there. Distance stretched between us, not just physically but emotionally. The differences grew, and the arguments became more frequent. One day, it was over. Just like that.
The world didn’t shatter when we parted ways; it simply… blurred. Colors faded. Food lost its taste. I wasn’t just sad; I was hollow. Nights passed in silence, a suffocating emptiness pressing down on me. As the elder brother, the grown-up, I wasn’t supposed to fall apart. So I hid it. I smiled for my family, laughed with my friends. Nut inside, a part of me turned silent.
The problem was, I had built my identity on this relationship, on this external source of love and validation.
When it was gone, I didn’t know who I was. I felt like a stranger in my own life. The confident, secure, loved person I had once been had vanished. Friends offered comfort, but their words felt like temporary bandages on a wound that ran much deeper.
It was in this darkness that I began to turn inward. I had no choice. The external world had failed me, and I was forced to confront the parts of myself I had neglected for so long. I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of a journey; a journey from seeking love outside to cultivating it within.
As I stumbled through the grey, a new understanding of love began to take shape. One that would change my perspective forever.
Confronting the courage within
I didn’t know where to start. I felt like wreckage tossed in a relentless storm.
But I waited, rested, and then set sail to explore the uncharted territory of my own mind.
How?
I began journaling, not because I thought it would help, but because I had nowhere else to pour out the unfiltered. At first, it was just a way to vent my thoughts, to release the trapped emotions inside.
But over time, as I wrote more, patterns began to emerge. Recurring fears, insecurities, and unacknowledged anger. It was humbling, even embarrassing, to see myself stripped of the confident persona I showed the world.
But instead of shying away, I decided to stay and observe. I realized this anger wasn’t just random outbursts. It was me—my neglected self, my unheard voice, crying out. All the times I had put others’ needs before my own, all the times I had swallowed my feelings it had all accumulated, layer upon layer.
Now, it was time to peel back the layers. A process as delicate and tear-inducing as peeling an onion.
Bringing in meditation for self-acceptance
I experimented with different meditation techniques – mantras, body scans, breathwork – searching for something that resonated. Then, one day, out of sheer boredom, I stumbled into mindfulness. Uncertain, inexperienced. Yet it struck a chord like nothing else.
The need to ‘do’ faded. It wasn’t just about stillness; it was about observing my inner world, every part of it, without judgment. And that meant confronting the parts of myself I had long avoided.
It was awful, to say the least. And the question remained: How could I accept this flawed, impulsive person staring back at me in the mirror of self-awareness?
For weeks, I was stuck, paralyzed by self-doubt. Then, in a moment of desperation, I tried something absurd: I looked in the mirror and forced a smile.
“Hello,” I said, my voice tight with self-criticism. It felt awkward, unnatural. But I kept at it, clinging to the hope that if I could pretend kindness to others, I could somehow learn to show it to myself.
And surprisingly, something shifted. The act of addressing myself, even with a forced smile, began to chip away at the negativity. The anger didn’t magically disappear, but it started to lose its grip.
I realized I was not a failure. I was a human being—struggling, learning, and growing. And that was enough. Imperfect, yes, but also worthy of love and acceptance.
Blossoming into self-love
With this growing self-acceptance, self-compassion began to bloom, like a fragile seedling pushing through hard earth. I found worthiness not in achievement or applause, but in the simple truth of my own being. I treated my vulnerabilities with kindness, understanding that they were not weaknesses, but integral parts of myself.
My biggest realization? I had been clinging to an idealized version of myself. And once I treated myself with compassion, love began to reflect back—not only in the mirror but in my very being. I discovered that true love isn’t about finding someone to fill a void—it’s about fully accepting and loving ourselves.
A fresh perspective: embracing gratitude
Recently, I found myself sitting at a beachside café in Goa, watching the sunset while sipping a pint of Kingfisher Ultra. The remix of ‘Pehla Nasha’ began to play, its familiar melody weaving through the salty breeze. The same sun, the same sea, the same song, triggering the same nostalgia. Yet, I saw it all through different eyes.
The colors felt richer, the air lighter, and the song, once a reminder of loss, now carried a quiet gratitude. In that moment, my heart whispered: Self-love isn’t a destination. It’s the beauty of the journey, the constant unfolding of who we are.
As Kristin Hannah so aptly put it in “The Nightingale,” “Wounds heal. Love lasts. We remain.”
