Eleven years — a lifetime measured not in days, but in drafts, deadlines, and the quiet ache of unfinished sentences. When I first began to write, I believed it was about finding the right words. Now I know — it’s about finding myself.

Writing has been my longest conversation with the world and the most honest dialogue with my own soul. In moments when life felt uncertain, words became my scaffolding — helping me make sense of chaos as well as hope. I’ve written in cafés, newsrooms, silence, and storms — each piece carrying a fragment of who I was at that moment.

Over time, I learned what Ayn Rand meant when she said, “The man who does not value himself, cannot value anything or anyone.” Writing taught me to value my voice — not out of arrogance, but out of reverence for truth. Excellence, I realized, is not perfection; it’s devotion. It’s showing up every day, even when inspiration doesn’t.

As I look back at 11 years of writing columns and essays on art, culture, and people in Jammu & Kashmir, I see a trail of becoming — not of achievements, but awakenings. I’ve met people from almost all dimensions of life who perfect their craft for years. Their patience mirrored my own evolution — that quiet pursuit of creating something worthy of time.

As Charles Bukowski, in his raw honesty, once said, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” Writing hasn’t killed me, but it has stripped me bare — of pretence, of fear, of everything false.

The most important lesson? Writing isn’t about reaching an audience; it’s about reaching deeper within. It humbles you, refines you, and teaches you to listen — not to the noise around you, but to the still voice within.

Eleven years later, I still return to the page, not to prove anything — but to remember everything. Because the story, like the soul, never truly ends. It only learns to speak better. ❤️