Category: Uncategorized

Lately, I keep coming across those types of TikToks where people realise they’re doing the same thing every day. The routine. Maybe even working towards their next goal. And then it hits—you realise there is no end destination. Even chasing a goal becomes something that drives you mad, because once you reach it, you’re already onto the next.

And it made me think—what if that’s the point? That there is no final destination. Of course, there’s death. But what scares me is realising I feel like I’m just waiting around for it. Worse, that I’m racing towards it.

It also hit me that maybe there’s no magical state where you finally feel happy and at peace. And if that’s true, then what am I even doing? I’ve realised how unhappy I am right now, and I’d do anything to escape it. But what is the “now” that I’m running from?

It’s the pain in my body. The hormonal mood swings. The years of buried trauma that I’ve never let myself feel. Of course I want to run. That’s what my brain has been wired to do since I was a child. The “now” back then was abusive parents. So I did everything I could to grow up fast, to earn my own money, to build my own safety. I pushed myself to the edge. I was devastated by my GCSE results, so I threw myself into A-levels, then uni. That degree nearly killed me—figuratively—but I got it. I got the respected graduate job, the title, the salary.

And now I see it clearly. Of course I’m trained to run from the present. Because the present has always felt unsafe.

But I’m writing this down so I can come back to it. So I can remind myself. And hold myself accountable.

The body never really slows down.

I’ve been recently been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and PCOS, and I’ve struggled with sleep for as long as I can remember. But it’s not just insomnia. It’s like my body doesn’t know how to rest. I don’t feel tired the way people talk about being tired. I don’t feel that type of fatigue that comes after a long day, the kind that lets you melt into sleep.

I wish I did.

Instead, I live in a state of constant alertness. Like I’m bracing for something, being upset over how a colleague has acted. My nervous system that’s stuck in survival mode, probably ever since I was born.

This weeky I shared this is therapy the diagnoses, the sleep issues, the flare-ups. And she said something that stayed with me:
“I wonder how much of this is still your body responding to everything you’ve been through.”

That sentence has been ringing in my head.

I’ve been watching TikToks by someone who talks about regulated nervous systems, and how so many of us are unknowingly living in a state of hyperarousal — constantly running on adrenaline, mistaking it for energy. It hit me: I don’t feel fatigue because I’ve never feel safe enough to feel it.

I don’t think these conditions I live with are random. I think they’re my body telling a story that hasn’t been fully heard yet.

It makes me wonde, if I keep doing the work in therapy, if I keep going — how much of this pain, this disconnection, might start to ease? What would my body feel like if it finally got the message that it’s safe.

I’ve never known that version of myself. The exhausted self I’d like to meet her one day.

The engagement party I went to the other weekend, my cousin’s, has completely changed how I view the idea of “being hospitable.”

In Bangladeshi culture, we pride ourselves on hospitality, especially through food. I grew up hearing this common phrase: a guest should never leave your home with an empty stomach. I always thought this came from a place of deep care, that hosts took genuine pride in making their guests feel seen, welcome and fed.

But over the years, I started to notice something. Hospitality often looks like feeding you, then leaving you to eat alone. Sometimes the hosts don’t even sit with you. In some contexts, sure, that makes sense (where a man and women are supposed to be seggregrated). But in others, it feels hollow, like once you’re fed, their job is done. No warmth. No conversation. No connection. Just a plate of food and a performative sense of duty.

Back to the engagement party. My aunt, my cousin’s mum, was hosting. My parents were there, the people that have abused me my entire life. I had not spoken to them in almost 2 years. Enough people at the party knew I don’t have a relationship with them. So I had a plan: get inside, and immediately escape upstairs to my cousin’s room. Be present without actually being present. It was simple in theory. In reality, it was hard.

As soon as I stepped into the house, I was bombarded. “Have you eaten? Come and eat! Come and eat something!” Over and over and over again. I was clearly trying to get away, to remove myself from a situation that made me feel unsafe, and yet no one stopped to notice that. Or worse they did, and ignored it. No one asked how I was doing. No one paused to think that maybe food wasn’t my priority at that moment. I wasn’t just avoiding a meal. I was trying to survive.

The repetition of “eat, eat, eat” didn’t feel like care. It felt like noise. Noise that ignored me. If someone had just paused and seen me, really seen me, they might’ve noticed how on edge I was. Maybe they would’ve checked in first before offering food. But instead, it was a barrage. Even when I politely said “not right now,” they wouldn’t stop. My voice didn’t matter.

It wasn’t personal. I know that. But I just wanted to feel noticed. To feel safe.

Later on in the week, I had a class with my Syhleti teacher. I’m learning my mother tongue now, since my own mother never taught me. I told her what happened, and she said something that stuck with me.

Hospitality isn’t as pure as you think it is. It’s not about you. It’s about them. About doing what’s expected so they don’t look bad. It’s a duty, a tickbox exercise.

And just like that, the veil lifted. The food, the repetition, the insistence. It wasn’t love.

My new game plan drop the bar. Shoot something – anything – so the camera stops feeling like a threat. I’ve already burned a month obsessing over one idea. Enough. Record, cut, post. Craft and polish can wait. Just start, finish, repeat.

It’s Sunday and there’s a dawat tonight. I’m jittery: as my parents (who I have not seen in over 2 years) will show up. I’ve pre-lived every worst-case scenario in my head and it’s exhausting. So why go? Because the invite matters. Showing up says I’m still on the list, still wanted. Skip too many and the invites dry up – fear confirmed: of I do not matter to people and here is the evidence for that. So I’m going, nerves and all.

I cancelled my therapy session for the first time.

Lately, it’s felt like the therapist doesn’t really understand me. Most of our sessions get consumed by her talking about our relationship rather than the immediate, things I’m struggling with. She keeps saying, “You’re pushing me away.” I’m tired of hearing it. I’m drowning in work stress, feeling unworthy, and constantly like I’m being taken advantage of — and instead of addressing that, I’m being told I’m “pushing her away.”

Which leads me to the next thing I can’t seem to let go of: work. I don’t just struggle with it — I genuinely feel like I can’t handle it. It feels like they’re being lazy and using me, like I’m just their admin assistant.

I’ve been told I should take time off sick. But that idea, losing control like that – scares me. I don’t know how to let go. Any time a session or task I’m leading gets derailed, I instantly feel like an idiot. On top of all that, I feel undervalued, like I’m being replaced. Other people have picked up my responsibilities, and it feels like they’ve quietly taken my role from me. My husband tells me to enjoy the free time, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I can’t — because deep down, I believe I’m unworthy. Replaceable. Like I’m like a delete button.

Now I’ve been invited to an engagement party – my cousin’s. And here’s the catch: my mother (let’s call her Reyha) will probably be there. I haven’t seen her in almost two years.

I don’t know what seeing her will do to me. That moment – just seeing her face – and everything that follows. I want to go. I just don’t want to see her. She doesn’t deserve to see me.

What I’m more scared of, though, is the extended family. The comments. The way they’ll trivialise everything and say things like, “Just get over it,” or, “Whatever happened, it’s in the past — just go talk to her.”

That kind of thing is almost more painful than seeing her. Because when people invalidate your pain like that, it makes you question yourself. Makes you wonder if you imagined it all.

Am I being ridiculous?

But I know I’m not. I question my own existence almost daily because of the two people who abused me. And I don’t know if I’ll ever know what love is supposed to feel like — because I’ve never received it until I met my husband.

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t wonder, Why am I even here?

At this point, I’m just racing toward death with the way I’m living.

And all it takes is that one line
“You’re being stubborn. Just go talk to her, your mum’s over there.”

One line. And everything in my inner world collapses.

The idea of having kids when you’ve had a traumatic childhood is complicated. The fear of passing on my own crap to someone else, it feels unfair. Selfish, even. Why should I have a child have to carry around the weight of my unresolved pain?

And yeah, I’m 31. Biologically, if I want kids, I probably need to start thinking about it seriously. But the truth is, my trauma runs deep. I don’t know if I’ll ever be “okay” enough to raise a child. Even if I do get to that point, how long will it take? What if that day never comes? And if it does—don’t I deserve the time and space to just focus on myself for once? To figure myself out, fully. To heal.

I don’t love the idea of being an older parent either—not just because of the risks, but because it feels like even more pressure and even less time. So I sit in this in-between space, where I just don’t know.

In a perfect world, I didn’t have shit parents. I didn’t get abandoned. I wasn’t left behind by everyone who was supposed to love me. I wish people saw the pain underneath my anger. I wish they understood that what looks like selfishness or coldness is something else entirely. And perhaps I would be in a stable healthy enough position to have children.

Through therapy, I’m slowly meeting the child in me—the one that never really got to grow up properly. The only child I’m trying to raise is myself. She’s the child that is with me right now.

I was scrolling through Tiktok, and I came across a creator

how they want to do so much, but at the end they are afraid that they end up becoming nothing.

That hit me.

If there was a way to describe all my ambitions and goals…. it would be this…

That video led me down the path of Sylvia Plath’s Fig Analogy

The idea is having unrealisitic standard of wanting to be so many things,

each fig representing a goal, one fig being a writer, another fig for a traveler, another fig for being financially free etc.

But you can’t have it all,

choosing one meant letting go of all the others and letting them die.

And on top of this I have the extra struggle of painting a rosy picture of me being this machine and being able to achieve so much,

is me struggling with perfectionism

that became overwhelming sleepless nights, creating deadlines and feeling like a failure

I realise that maybe life isn’t about having it all, but savoring that one fig that you choose and letting all the other figs fall to the ground.