Getting Comfortable with the New You

 

Photo by Pixabay

The hardest part of change isn’t always the change itself — it’s accepting the new version of ourselves after we have changed.

We resist change not because we dislike what’s coming, but because we’re uncertain how to feel about the person we’re becoming.

Let’s understand this with something simple — something many of us have lived through during our teenage years.

In those days, when appearance was everything, a mustache slowly became part of our identity — a quiet symbol of growing up.

At the same time, we were fascinated by movie stars — Amitabh Bachchan, Clint Eastwood, Richard Gere — and their unmistakable clean shaven style. But we weren’t allowed to shave until we reached the threshold set by our parents.

And when that day finally came, it wasn’t easy. Shaving felt like a betrayal — not of innocence, but of self. We were unsure of the new look and unsure of how others would see us.

For me, I shaved just before boarding a long-distance train to New Delhi. Those twenty-four hours on the train helped me get used to my reflection again — to know me, to like me, to be myself.

Self-acceptance sometimes needs distance — from places, from people, from the mirror that remembers too much. It takes a little space where the old identity cannot interfere with the new one taking shape. Perhaps that’s why the sages preferred isolation.

Transformation rarely happens in an instant.
It unfolds in the quiet hours between what was and what will be — like those twenty-four hours on the train.

Change asks for courage.
But acceptance asks for gentleness.

So, when life demands a new version of you — a new role, a new rhythm, a new mindset — take a pause. Give yourself time to meet the stranger you’re becoming.

Because the first person who must accept the change is you.

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The Obstacle in Our Path

Once upon a time, a king decided to teach his people a quiet lesson. He had a large boulder placed right in the middle of a busy roadway, then hid nearby to see what would happen.

One by one, the kingdom’s wealthiest merchants and courtiers came along. Each complained loudly about the obstruction, blaming the king for not keeping the roads clear — yet every one of them skirted around it, without the slightest effort to move the stone or solve the problem.

After a while, a peasant appeared, carrying a heavy load of vegetables. When he reached the boulder, he stopped, set down his burden, and began to push. It took all his strength, but after much effort and straining, he finally managed to roll the stone off to the side of the road.

As he turned to lift his vegetables again, he noticed a small purse lying where the boulder had been. Inside were a few gold coins and a note — a quiet acknowledgment from the king, meant for the one who had cleared the path.

When the news spread across the village, people were moved by the lesson — one that many of us still forget:

Every obstacle carries within it a hidden opportunity to improve our condition.

The roadblocks in our path are rarely there to stop us; more often, they are placed there to make us stronger, wiser, richer, and more capable than before.

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Tonight, we mourn in silence

When peace breaks, hearts do too.

☕ Enjoy the Coffee, Not the Cup

Yesterday, in Look Beyond the Looks [Click Here], we reflected on how beauty often clouds our empathy — how we tend to value what’s pleasant to the eye more than what truly matters. Today, let’s explore a similar truth about how appearances influence our sense of happiness.

We humans are wired to understand best through stories, and this old one captures the essence perfectly.

Once upon a time, a group of alumni — all well-settled in their careers — visited their old university professor. The conversation soon drifted toward life and work, filled with complaints about stress, pressure, and the endless chase for balance.

Listening patiently, the professor excused himself to the kitchen. He wanted to serve them coffee — just as he had done years ago when these same students stayed up late, dreaming big, debating endlessly, and sketching plans for the future.

But there was one problem: he didn’t have enough shiny mugs. So he returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups — porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain-looking, some expensive, some exquisite — and invited everyone to help themselves.

When each of them had picked a cup, the professor smiled and said,
“If you noticed, all the nice-looking, expensive cups were taken up first, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. It’s only natural to want the best for yourselves — but that very instinct is the source of your stress.”

He paused, letting the thought sink in.

“What you truly wanted was coffee, not the cup. Yet you consciously went for the best cups and even glanced at what others had chosen. Life is the same. Life itself is the coffee — the jobs, money, and social positions are just cups. They’re only tools to hold Life, and they don’t change its quality. But by focusing too much on the cup, we forget to enjoy the coffee inside.”

He ended softly,
“So, don’t let the cups drive you — enjoy the coffee instead.”

It’s a story that never gets old because its truth doesn’t either. In our pursuit of the best-looking “cup,” we often overlook the simple joy of living — the aroma, warmth, and taste of life itself.

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🌿 Look Beyond the Looks

 

It’s strange how easily we mistake beauty for worth. The eye judges long before the heart decides — and that quiet bias shapes how we see one another, and even how we see other living beings. There’s a reason we don’t admire the crow the way we admire the parrot.

Our compassion, when it arrives, is rarely free of preference. We are moved by what we find beautiful and unmoved by what we find unpleasant. It feels acceptable to kill a cockroach because it looks creepy, yet unthinkable to harm a butterfly because it’s pretty. But even the cockroach, unsettling as it seems, plays its part in nature’s intricate design.

Beauty often amplifies compassion, while silence mutes it. We seldom march for fish — not because they don’t suffer, but because we neither hear their cries nor see their tears. We’ve come to believe that sound and sight are measures of worth. A fish may not scream or weep, but it bleeds the same red as we do. When empathy depends on how something looks, we lose sight of what kindness truly means.

Humanity’s vastness is often seen as a burden on this planet — billions of us consuming, producing, and polluting. Yet we rarely think of what our sheer numbers could accomplish if we turned even a fraction of our energy toward compassion.

Change doesn’t begin with grand gestures; it begins quietly — when we stop measuring empathy by appearances. Life is not a hierarchy, with humans on top and the rest below, but a shared continuum of existence. The tree that cools our street, the bird that carries seeds across distances, the bee that sustains our crops, and the humble worm that nourishes the soil — all are part of the same circle that keeps us alive.

A few thoughtful acts may seem small, but multiplied across billions, they become a quiet revolution of empathy. And perhaps, by doing a little for everyone else, we might learn to live a little better with ourselves.

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Why We Gave Dark a Bad Name

 

Why We Gave Dark a Bad Name

Epigraph

“It is not the dark we fear,

but what we choose to hide within it.”

And when this world first begun,
it shone as one, beneath one sun.
Space was vast, the light too small,
so night was born to balance it all.

Dark came gentle, soft, and deep,
a cradle for all the weary to sleep.
Soon the beasts began their game,
and we gave the dark a bad name.

Then humankind, with cunning art,
hid its sins when the shadows start.
Fear took root, and whispers came—
and so we made Dark a scary name.

Yet all those stars in silence gleam,
to guard the dark, to hold our dream.
Innocence will return in dark’s embrace,
fearless we’ll sleep again in gentle grace.

Disclaimer: I am not a poet. 

This attempt in response to a prompt by https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2025/11/friday-writings-202-what-i-love-about.html

The Calm of Water: Lessons from Ripples and Tsunamis

 

Photo by Pixabay

Have you ever stopped to truly observe a large body of water—how calm and unshakable it appears most of the time?
At some point, we’ve all tossed a stone into a pond or lake, watching the ripples expand outward in perfect circles. No matter the shape or weight of the object, water rarely responds with chaos. It receives the impact, distributes the energy evenly, and quietly restores balance.

That is the quiet resilience of water—a lesson in strength, balance, and composure.
A vast lake, much like an enlightened person, does not erupt at every disturbance. It absorbs the shock, lets the ripples diffuse the stress, and allows calm to return naturally. In physics, those ripples are waves—energy transformed, not destroyed—guided by gravity and surface tension until equilibrium is restored.

But water’s calm has limits, and they are proportional to its depth and breadth.
A small puddle will splash violently at the same disturbance a lake would absorb effortlessly. And when the force is immense—like an undersea earthquake shifting the ocean floor—the calm collapses. The result is no longer ripples, but a tsunami—immense and destructive.

The dual nature of water—serene under strain, fierce under provocation—mirrors how we respond to life’s pressures.
Life constantly throws small disruptions—words, setbacks, frustrations—that are the equivalent of stones skipping across our surface. The real test is whether we let them ripple through and settle, or whether we let them stir storms within.

Emotional balance, like the stillness of deep water, is not the absence of disturbance but the capacity to absorb and release it without losing form.
It also reminds us to recognize every person does not have the same capacity to absorb these jolts—to know which disturbances are minor, and which are seismic to each individual is the key to healthy relations. 

The calm of water teaches us grace under impact and wisdom in response.

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