Permanent Loss is Unavoidable: Living with Unhealable Scars

Even today, when I observe casually, I see remnants of the various cuts and bruises I had during my younger days—some faint, some still vivid. It isn't only a physical phenomenon. I have come to realize that while we often hear "time heals all wounds," time doesn't necessarily make them disappear. Instead, it teaches us how to live with them.

Perhaps the deeper part of living an authentic life is accepting its inherent brokenness. We are constantly sold a "sanitized" version of recovery—the idea that, given enough time, therapy, or willpower, all pain will neatly heal like a scratch eventually fading into a faint scar. We are told that grief is a circle that eventually closes.

But the reality of the human experience is very different. Some pains don’t fully fade—and they don’t have to. The grief from a profound loss, the sharp memory of a betrayal, or the weight of a public failure may remain etched in the soul. To live meaningfully, we must stop fighting their permanence and start integrating them.

Over time, I have found myself returning to a few ideas—drawn from different parts of the world—that quietly help make sense of what does not go away.

1. Kintsugi (Japan): The Beauty of the Broken

In Japanese aesthetics, Kintsugi is the art of repairing broken pottery with gold or silver lacquer. The philosophy is simple: the breakage is not something to be hidden; it is a fact of life. It is a part of the object’s history that makes it more beautiful, not less.

When we experience a permanent loss, we often try to glue the pieces of our lives back together so the cracks don't show. We want to return to the "original version" of ourselves—the version before the layoff, before the breakup, or before the bereavement. But that person no longer exists.

What this has meant for me:

• Stop hiding: acknowledge the break as a milestone, not a mistake.
• Apply the gold: use what the pain has taught to shape a new perspective.
• Embrace the new form: life is not diminished by the crack; it is defined by it.

2. Amor Fati (Stoicism): Loving the Fate You Didn't Choose

The Stoics, and later Friedrich Nietzsche, championed the idea of Amor Fati—a love of one's fate. This does not mean liking the loss. It means accepting it so completely that you no longer wish it away, because it has become part of your reality.

Acceptance is often mistaken for resignation. Resignation says, "I give up." Amor Fati says, 

"This is now part of my story, and I will shape what comes next."

If you are fighting the reality of a loss, you are spending energy on something that cannot be changed. When you shift perspective, that energy returns to you. The question slowly changes from “Why did this happen?” to “Now that this has happened, what do I do with it?”

3. Wu Wei (Taoism): The Art of Non-Striving

We often approach pain as something to be worked through—as if healing must follow a timeline. Taoism offers Wu Wei, or "effortless action." Sometimes, the wisest response is not to push forward, but to allow things to settle in their own time.

To live authentically is to navigate both the world outside and the quiet weight within. When that weight feels heavy, Wu Wei reminds us to be gentle with ourselves.

The Wu Wei approach to difficult days:

• Breathe into the pause—if you cannot move forward, don’t force it.
• Let go of timelines—there is no schedule for what you carry.
• Observe without judgment—carrying something unresolved is not failure.

4. Ataraxia (Ancient Greece): Finding Peace in the Storm

The Epicureans and Skeptics sought a state called Ataraxia—a calmness of mind, free from constant disturbance. This was not achieved by avoiding difficulty, but by changing one’s relationship with it.

This brings us to a quiet truth: living with what does not fade is not resignation; it is transformation. There comes a point where the wound remains, but it no longer defines every step.

You can carry a scar and still feel joy. You can hold a heavy memory and still make clear, purposeful decisions. Life does not wait for pain to disappear—and neither should we.

5. Ubuntu (Southern Africa): Integration Through Connection

Ubuntu reminds us: “I am because we are.”

We often hide what feels unresolved, thinking it sets us apart. But when we speak—honestly, even imperfectly—we begin to see that others carry their own versions of the same weight.
In that sharing, something shifts. We move from isolation to connection. From holding everything alone to realising that our stories are not entirely ours to carry.

Conclusion: The Terms You Set

Ultimately, your life is shaped by the terms you accept, not the ones imposed on you. The world may urge you to “move on.” But there is another way—to move forward with what remains.

Learning to live with what does not fully fade allows us to create a life that is unmistakably our own. You are the author. The ink may carry traces of sorrow, and the pages may bear the marks of difficult seasons—but the story is still yours to write.

A Moment for Introspection

If you are standing at the threshold of a new chapter, carrying something that has not settled the way the world said it should—

What might change if you stopped trying to resolve it, and instead began to shape your life around it?

If any of these ideas stay with you, perhaps that is where your next reflection begins.


#GriefSupport #AuthenticLiving #Kintsugi #MentalHealth #PhilosophyOfLife #Sumandebray #Transformation

 

Ikigai (生き甲斐): The Art of Purpose in a Life on the Move

 

We often think of “purpose” as a grand, singular destination—a mountain peak we must spend our entire lives climbing. But as I have navigated the shifting sands of the Middle East and the old, bustling streets of India, I’ve come to realize that purpose is more like a compass than a map. In Japanese philosophy, this is known as Ikigai (生き甲斐).

The literal translation is simple: Life (Iki) + Worth (Gai) = a reason for being.

It is often described as the intersection of four circles: what you love, what you are good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. However, after reading Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles, I realised that Ikigai isn’t just a career framework. It is a way of breathing, moving, and connecting with the world.

The Search for the Center

In my own journey—from the quiet corners of North East India to the high-rises of Dubai, Doha, and Riyadh—I’ve had to rediscover my Ikigai in every new city. When you live a life of “predictable uncertainties,” as I like to call it, you cannot rely on external stability. You must carry your reason for getting up within you.

Through the lens of García and Miralles’ work, and my own lived experience, here are ten reflections that have helped me find my flow.

1. Your Ikigai is Closer Than You Think

We often look for purpose in big promotions or grand achievements. But the centenarians of Okinawa find it in the smaller things of life. For me, whether it is a quiet rainy morning in Kolkata or a warm Friday afternoon in the Middle East, it could be the way light falls on a piece of architecture, or how birds hop between branches outside my window.

These are not distractions from life—they are life. If you can find joy in the ordinary, you are never without a reason to wake up.

2. Flow: The Silent Happiness

Have you ever been so absorbed in something that hours felt like minutes? That is “flow.” Whether I am sketching from a random photograph or writing a reflection, the world’s chatter disappears.

Flow becomes a quiet anchor—especially when life demands constant adaptation. It brings you back to the present, regardless of where you are.

3. Stay Active: The Myth of Retirement

The Western idea of “retirement” doesn’t quite exist in Okinawan culture. People remain active—in their gardens, in their communities—throughout their lives.

This resonates deeply with me. Across cities and countries, I have seen that the most vibrant individuals are not those waiting for weekends, but those who claim their time intentionally. I have written earlier about owning your 24 hours of the weekend—not letting it slip away unnoticed.

4. Hara Hachi Bu: The 80% Rule

We live in an age of excess—we overeat, overthink, and overschedule. The Japanese practice of Hara Hachi Bu—eating until you are 80% full—is also a metaphor for life.

When we leave space—on our plates and in our calendars—we create room for something unexpected. In my travels, the most meaningful moments often arrive in that unplanned 20%.

5. Resilience and the Bamboo Mindset

True resilience is not about being unbreakable like stone. It is about being like bamboo—rooted, yet flexible.

Life will bring its share of storms. The goal is not to avoid them, but to move through them, knowing they will pass—and leave you stronger.

6. The Power of the “Moai”

In Okinawa, a Moai is a lifelong circle of support. For someone constantly on the move, building such connections is not easy—but it is essential.

Whether it is family back home or friendships formed across borders, these bonds give life its depth. We are not meant to carry everything alone.

7. The Compound Effect of Small Habits

A daily walk. A moment of gratitude. A quiet smile to a stranger.

Individually, they seem small. Over time, they shape who we become. These small rituals have been my anchors—especially when everything else keeps changing.

8. Ichi-go Ichi-e: Once in a Lifetime

This phrase reminds us that every moment is unique and unrepeatable.

I think back to long train journeys between Delhi and Kolkata—hours spent with strangers who, for that brief time, felt like close companions. And then, just like that, we parted ways.

Every conversation, every encounter, carries that same fleeting beauty—if we choose to notice it.

9. The Elegance of Simplicity

Complexity often hides a lack of clarity. When we strip life down to its essentials, we begin to see what truly matters—health, purpose, and simple joys.

Living across places teaches you this quickly. You learn what to carry—and what to let go.

10. Purpose is a Journey, Not a Destination

Ikigai is not fixed. It evolves with time, experience, and perspective.

At one stage, mine was driven by professional growth. Today, it leans more towards reflection, connection, and sharing lived experiences. Staying open allows purpose to grow with you.

Final Reflections: The Intentional Step

The secret to a meaningful life is not hidden in distant philosophies—it reveals itself in daily intent.

These reflections are not rules, but reminders. When our actions begin to align with what matters to us, life starts to feel less like a race and more like a rhythm.

Whether you find yourself in Riyadh, Kolkata, or somewhere in between—your Ikigai is already there.

Sometimes, it is just waiting for you to notice it.

When Words Become Ways of Living — A Quiet Closing

This series began with a simple observation—that language shapes thought, and thought, in time, shapes action. What started with one idea—Shikata ga nai—became a quiet journey through a set of words that do not instruct, but invite. Over these reflections, from Shinrin-Yoku to Mottainai, from Gaman to Ikigai, I have come to see them not as borrowed philosophies, but as lived possibilities—small, steady ways of responding to the world around us.

This is where the series comes to rest—not with a conclusion, but with a continuation. These words are not meant to be remembered as definitions, but revisited as moments arise. Perhaps that is their true purpose—not to change our lives all at once, but to gently shape how we move through them, one thought, one response, one day at a time.

Other reflections in this series:                                     

Shinrin-Yoku (森林浴) — Forest Bathing Reimagined for City Life 
Oubaitori (桜梅桃李) — Each Tree Blooms in Its Own Time
Gaman (我慢) — The Art of Holding Steady When Things Go Wrong
Wabi-Sabi (侘寂) — Learning to Keep What Time Has Touched
A Friend, a Stapler, and the Meaning of Kaizen (改善)
When Words Become Ways of Living — Shikata ga nai (仕方がない)
Mottainai (もったいない) — The Quiet Regret of Waste

            

Shinrin-Yoku (森林浴) — Forest Bathing Reimagined for City Life

 

When I first came across the concept of Shinrin-Yoku, I asked myself a simple question—where would I find a forest?

As a city dweller, it felt like one of those beautiful ideas meant for someone else. Perhaps you feel the same way right now.

But then I looked deeper, and this is what I understood.

When the Japanese embraced this practice, the world may have looked different—but human restlessness hasn’t changed much. Even then, I imagine, there were people rushing through life, carrying invisible burdens. Shinrin-Yoku was perhaps their way of slowing down.

At its heart, the idea is simple: step away from your routine and immerse yourself in nature—not to exercise, not for hiking, but simply to be present. To let your senses absorb what is around you. To allow nature to quietly reduce stress, boost immunity, and restore balance.

It sounds beautiful—but only if you have access to a forest.

Where Can You Find Your “Forest”?

You don’t need a dense woodland.
A city park will do.
A beach or corniche works just as well.
A riverbank can be equally calming.
Even a tree-lined street early in the morning can serve the purpose.

The idea is not the scale of nature—but your presence within it.

How to Practice Shinrin-Yoku (In Simple Steps)

You don’t need a 21-day workout plan or anything like that. All that is needed is intention.

Leave your phone behind
Walk slowly, as if there isn’t a destination
Breathe deeply and naturally
Notice the sounds around you—the wind, the birds, distant movement
Pay attention to smells, even the faintest ones
Feel textures—the air on your skin, the ground beneath your feet

There is nothing to complete, nowhere to reach.

A Small Shift in Perspective

What struck me most was this—Shinrin-Yoku is not about escaping life.
It is about returning to it, more aware, more grounded.

Final Thought

We may not always have forests around us.
But we always have the ability to slow down, even if just for a few minutes.
And sometimes, that is enough.

---

P.S.
Language shapes thought, and thought shapes action.

This series draws from Japanese concepts—not as cultural curiosities, but as quiet, practical guides to living with greater intention, mindfulness, and grace.

Other reflections in this series:

Mottainai (もったいない) — The Quiet Regret of Waste
Oubaitori (桜梅桃李) — Each Tree Blooms in Its Own Time
Gaman (我慢) — The Art of Holding Steady When Things Go Wrong
Wabi-Sabi (侘寂) — Learning to Keep What Time Has Touched
A Friend, a Stapler, and the Meaning of Kaizen (改善)
When Words Become Ways of Living — Shikata ga nai (仕方がない)

Redefining Legacy: Why our Everyday Habits Matter More Than Grand Gestures

 

Remembering a sketch I made for someone

If someone stopped us on the street today and asked, “What will be your legacy?”—how would we respond? 

We usually associate "legacy" with world leaders, stars, or grand achievements written in history books. But for most of us living ordinary lives, legacy isn't about global audiences; it’s a thread woven through everyday moments with the people who touch our lives.

1. Legacy Can be Found in Our Habits

Think about the small habits inherited from parents, grandparents, or teachers. Perhaps it’s the specific way we start the day, an approach to facing a tough situation, or a phrase used to comfort a friend. When we emulate these traits and feel a sense of pride, we are living their legacy.

Reflection Point: What is one positive habit "borrowed" from someone else that is now being passed on to others?

2. By Choosing Authenticity Over Perfection

I recently found a faded, hand-written notebook tucked inside my old bookshelf. The edges were worn and the ink was slightly blurred. To some, these pages are filled with flaws and need to be discarded. To me, they are proof of a life fully lived. When we try to remove every imperfection, we often erase the story itself. A "legacy of acceptance" means choosing the real over the polished.

The Specifics: Instead of hiding those "half-formed thoughts" or "doodles," they can be seen as a mosaic of growth.

A Shift in Perspective: Next time there is a sense of anger about a "human" error in an otherwise "perfect" personal project, it is good to remember—this mistake makes it a personal journey, a story far more relatable.

3. Warmth in a "Satellite" World

In a world of increasingly fragmented, “satellite” lives, the urge to stay connected is its own legacy. Sharing a joy, a struggle, or even a comfortable silence reminds us that legacy is not built in isolation; it lives in relationships. These small acts of human warmth ripple outward, impacting people in ways that may never be seen.

4. How do I Live a Legacy Today?

Legacy is not something left behind at the end; it is something lived, quietly, every day. To start reflecting on a "useful" legacy, these three steps can help:

• Identify Shared Values: Choose one thing of value (like authenticity) and find a way to show it in a small interaction today.

• Share a Story: Tell a younger colleague or family member about a "worn edge" in life that has become cherished over time.

• Listen Deeply: Sometimes, the best legacy left in a moment is simply making someone else feel heard.

My life would be worthwhile if others remembered me as someone who was a good listener, if nothing else.

I'm curious—what 'worn edges' in your own life have you started to appreciate lately?

This post responds to Friday Writings #222: Legacies

My April, My New Year

 Today, I write in response to the prompt Friday Writings #221: April Quotes

April doesn’t arrive quietly where I come from.

It arrives through all the senses—with color, with sound, with fragrance, with life. It doesn’t shy away from announcing itself to every living creature in my world.

April is bold—it makes itself known.
April is calm—it gathers and holds.
Is it Aries, or is it Taurus, you may think.
Like someone born in April, it is both.

Across the Indian subcontinent, April is when the harvest comes home. A time when effort turns into abundance, and people pause to celebrate what the land has given back.

The celebration goes by many names—Baisakhi in the north, Vishu and Puthandu in the south, Poila Boishakh in Bengal, Bihu in Assam, Gudi Padwa in the west—but the spirit remains the same. A shared moment of renewal, culturally rooted in the same rhythm of life. A fresh new year starts in all regional Hindu calendars.

I need not one to nudge me or wake me up again.
I had to wake up only once.
When I was born into it. On the new year’s day of our calendar.

Yes, there are storms—fierce and sudden, Kal Baishakhi those are called. They arrive unannounced, rattle the skies, and leave their mark on homes, on nests, on trees. But they pass. They always pass. And what follows is clearer, brighter, renewed.

I read Peggy Toney Horton saying, “Although I was born in April, I’m quite certain I was not fully awake until October,” and I find myself grinning—my April is always alive, bursting with harvest feasts and familial laughter.

I was awake, I am awake—and I will be, for as long as I am allowed to be…

April is not just a season for me; it is the beginning of my story. A journey that reminds me that beginnings are loud, flavorful, and always shared by all. They weather storms and emerge sweeter, urging us to savour the harvest of our own lives. 

There maybe no better time than now to pause, reflect and make good use of the life we have—every breath we take renews our lease on life, gives us another moment to live.