Penny's World

Category: Story of my life

  • The Seven-Day Sad Meal: On Emotional Levers, Cardboard Smiles, and the Courage to Hurt

    On McDonald’s stripping its 45-year-old smile, Taylor Swift’s levers of sweetness, and why we must let children hurt without shame.

    There is a quiet, frantic choreography to modern adult love. We treat childhood as a pristine glass vitrine, terrified of the microscopic hairline fractures that might appear the moment reality breathes against it. In Robin, Taylor Swift captured this exact backstage anxiety with devastating precision:

    “Strings tied to levers… / We’ll curtail your curiosity / In sweetness / You have no idea / The time will arrive for the cruel and the mean / You’ll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline / But now we’ll curtail your curiosity

    Swift depicts adults not merely as guardians, but as exhausted puppeteers, frantically yanking levers behind the heavy velvet curtains to engineer an unbroken landscape of sweetness. We tell ourselves we are protecting them. We persuade ourselves that if we just pull the right strings—if we cheer them up fast enough, if we redirect the tantrum, if we promise ice cream after a bad day—we can keep the wolves of the world at bay for one more afternoon.

    2.5 million smile-free boxes, distributed across the UK during Mental Health Awareness Week. Photograph: McDonald’s UK / Leo Burnett

    In May 2024, a study conducted across the UK by McDonald’s and BBC Children in Need brought cold empirical weight to this lyrical instinct. The research revealed that 74% of parents felt it was their direct, personal duty to stop their children from ever experiencing sadness.

    It is an instinct rooted in love, but it carries a suffocating byproduct. When nearly three-quarters of parents treat distress as a domestic failure that must be immediately corrected, sadness stops being a natural human season and becomes a hazard. The home becomes an emotional stage where negative feelings disrupt the production.

    And directly across from that paternal fortress sat the quiet casualty of our good intentions: 48% of children admitted they felt an active, unrelenting pressure to look and act happy at all times, even when falling apart inside.

    The Silent Ledger of Performative Youth

    To grow up under the mandate of perpetual cheerfulness is an exhausting, invisible labor. A child does not possess the clinical vocabulary to explain burnout, emotional masking, or ambient dread. What they understand with astonishing sensitivity is adult expectation. They read the furrow in their mother’s brow, the sigh in their father’s voice, the quick, anxious plea of “What’s wrong? Why the long face? Don’t be sad!”

    They learn, with terrifying speed, that their sorrow makes the adults uncomfortable. And so, they adapt. They put on the face required of them.

    This is the haunting interior terror captured in Maa from Taare Zameen Par:

    “Main kabhi batlata nahin / Par andhere se darta hoon main, Maa / Yun toh main dikhlata nahin / Teri parwaah karta hoon main, Maa / … Kya itna bura hoon main, Maa?”

    Remember Ishaan in that echoing boarding school hallway, small and adrift in an oversized uniform, staring out the window into a world that had suddenly decided his differences were defects. Ishaan does not voice his fear because he senses that his distress is a burden. When sadness is treated by parents as an emergency to be corrected rather than a space to be held, a child does not conclude that sadness is normal. They conclude that they are broken for feeling it.

    The child’s thought process is devastatingly simple: If my parents must move mountains to make me smile, then my sadness must be a poison. Am I bad because I am hurting?

    From there, it is a short, tragic hop to the cynical exhaustion of Give Me Some Sunshine from 3 Idiots:

    “Saari umar hum mar mar ke jee liye / Ek pal toh ab humein jeene do / Na na na… Give me some sunshine, give me some rain / Give me another chance, I wanna grow up once again.”

    The tragedy of performative happiness is that it steals the very thing childhood is supposed to offer: the messy, unregulated freedom to exist without an audience. In our quest to give them sunshine, we make the rain feel like a crime.

    The Unprinted Box: When Marketing Meets Emotional De-escalation

    It was directly into this emotional impasse that McDonald’s UK, alongside creative agencies Leo Burnett and Ready10, staged an unprecedented brand intervention during Mental Health Awareness Week back in 2024.

    Picture the standard Saturday afternoon in a UK retail park. It is grey, drizzling, and chaotic. A parent is running on lukewarm coffee and frayed nerves, negotiating the rain-slicked pavement with a backseat occupied by a child who has been overstimulated since 9 AM. You pull into the Golden Arches for immediate, transactional salvation: fried salt, hot fries, four nuggets, and twenty minutes of quiet.

    For forty-five years, the medium of that salvation has been unyielding: a bright red cardboard box sporting a massive, curved yellow smile. The smile was not just branding; it was an instruction manual. It was commercial shorthand for mandatory contentment.

    In May 2024, McDonald’s stripped that smile entirely.

    Across 1,400 restaurants and 2.5 million boxes, the brand removed its most valuable, trademarked visual asset: the big wide yellow smile. The product was stripped of its joyful title “The Happy Meal” and renamed simply: The Meal. In place of the printed grin, children were handed a customizable sheet of stickers showcasing an unfiltered spectrum of emotional states: sadness, anger, confusion, calm, silliness, and fear. The result? The children knew that it was okay to put their choice of the sticker on that bright red cardboard box and say- I am choosing this sticker because that is what I am feeling right now. I am not happy or sad or angry, I am just confused. This was a success on the level of the target audience because they do not have the terminologies to let us know how they are feeling, but they sure know how to express that by drawing or in this case, simply by applying a sticker on a meal box!

    From a pure brand marketing perspective, the campaign was an exercise in radical de-escalation:

    • The Shock Value of Negative Space: In a media environment defined by relentless sensory overload and neon optimism, taking something away is infinitely louder than adding something new. The unprinted box stopped people mid-scroll and mid-bite because it felt naked.
    • The Packaging as an Emotional Dashboard: Fast-food cardboard is not a billboard on a highway; it is an intimate physical artifact that lives directly in a child’s hands for twenty minutes at a table. By turning the box into an interactive canvas, it provided a non-verbal vocabulary. A child didn’t need to endure a high-pressure interrogation from a well-meaning parent; they could simply stick an angry or sad face on their lunch. I wonder if we got the idea of the happy/angry octopus plushie from here! Worth the research I guess?
    • Functional Utility Over Corporate Sloganeering: Partnering with BBC Children in Need and embedding QR codes with dedicated parenting resources allowed the brand to offer an actual tool rather than an empty, pastel-colored social media graphic about “mindfulness.”

    The Seven-Day Empathy Window: The Inevitable Critique

    Yet no corporate campaign—particularly one orchestrated by a multi-billion-dollar fast-food giant built on the very premise of commercial indulgence—can completely escape the gravity of public skepticism.

    The British public, possessed of an innate and glorious radar for corporate posturing, immediately identified the campaign’s temporal neatness. The critique was swift, sharp, and entirely warranted:

    “You have permission to process existential dread from Monday to Sunday, but come next Monday morning, you better wipe those tears and smile while chewing your nuggets.”

    Mental health does not run on a seven-day PR calendar. Human sorrow does not pack up its bags when the corporate communications department moves on to its summer campaign. There is an inherent, deadpan dissonance in asking an anxious ten-year-old to diagnose their emotional fractures via adhesive cardboard stickers while dipping fries in barbecue sauce. A temporary packaging redesign, no matter how brilliantly executed by award-winning agencies, is not a substitute for sustained systemic care or accessible adolescent healthcare.

    And yet, despite the valid corporate cynicism, the campaign touched a nerve that pure advertising rarely reaches. It forced us to confront the silence at our own tables. It forced some people to talk about the elephant in the room. The need of the hour? In a lot many ways, yes!

    From Cardboard Boxes to Kitchen Tables

    The irony of modern protection is that in our frantic attempt to keep children “in sweetness”—pulling levers behind the curtain like the frantic adults in Taylor Swift’s Robin—we often construct fragile glass cages. When 74% of parents believe it is their moral duty to prevent a child from feeling pain, and 48% of kids learn to paste on a smile to keep their parents comfortable, love curdles into censorship.

    The real antidote isn’t found in a cardboard box, nor is it manufactured by an agency during Mental Health Awareness Week. It exists in the quiet, mundane grace of the kitchen table.

    During my time living in the UK, navigating unfamiliar streets with the quiet vulnerability of being far from home, I encountered parents who practiced a different kind of courage. They gave people—and their own children—the radical space to be okay with not being okay. I watched parents genuinely listen over the smallest, most ordinary moments: not mocking or belittling a child who suddenly decided they wanted French fries with their burrito instead of nachos, treating that tiny pivot not as a daily disruption, but as an emerging voice learning how to choose.

    That micro-moment of validation carries the exact same emotional weight as being there for the monumental crashes. It is the space Lorelai Gilmore carved out for Rory: listening without judgment to who they like, staying up to hold space through a shattering teenage heartbreak even when there is an exam the next morning, and speaking to them as independent beings rather than emotional property or extensions of an adult’s unfulfilled ambitions.

    True protection is not curating an artificial paradise where no one falls. It is resisting the urge to sugarcoat the world. Children are supposed to stumble. They are supposed to fall for the wrong person, pick the wrong menu item, endure the ache of disappointment, and discover that happiness is an episodic visitor, not a permanent resident.

    When we shield them from hurt, we don’t preserve their innocence—we guarantee their disillusionment. We send them into adulthood armed with synthetic optimism, only to watch them fracture against the first brutal, inevitable collision with reality.

    McDonald’s peeled the smile off 2.5 million boxes for seven days to make a point about emotional honesty. But the real lesson doesn’t belong on a fast-food counter. It belongs in our willingness to look at someone we love—holding a heavy heart, or just an unconventional plate of fries—and say: I see you. You don’t have to smile for me.

    References
    • Leo Burnett UK. 2024. “The Meal.” Creative Case Study. London: Leo Burnett UK. Leo Burnett: The Meal.Leo Burnett
    • Ready10. 2024. “McDonald’s Launches ‘The Meal’: New Integrated Campaign Removes the Iconic Smile from Happy Meal Boxes® for the First Time Ever to Mark Mental Health Awareness Week.” Press Release. London: Ready10 / FAB News. Ready10 FAB News Announcement.
    • McDonald’s UK. 2024. “McDonald’s Removes Iconic Smile from Happy Meal® Boxes for the First Time Ever to Mark Mental Health Awareness Week.” McDonald’s UK Newsroom. McDonald’s UK Newsroom Announcement.
    • BBC Children in Need. 2024. “Supporting Emotional Well-being with McDonald’s UK.” Mental Health Awareness Week Partnership Hub. London: BBC Children in Need.
    • The Children’s Society. 2023–2024. The Good Childhood Report. London: The Children’s Society.
    • NHS England. 2023. Mental Health of Children and Young People in England, 2023. NHS Digital / Office for National Statistics.
    • Swift, Taylor. 2024. “Robin.” Track 29 on The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology. Republic Records.
    • Joshi, Prasoon, Shankar Mahadevan, Ehsaan Noorani, and Loy Mendonsa. 2007. “Maa.” In Taare Zameen Par, directed by Aamir Khan. Mumbai: T-Series.
    • Kirkire, Swanand, and Shantanu Moitra. 2009. “Give Me Some Sunshine.” In 3 Idiots, directed by Rajkumar Hirani. Mumbai: Vinod Chopra Films / T-Series.
    • Sherman-Palladino, Amy. 2000–2007. Gilmore Girls. Warner Bros. Television.
    • For a visual breakdown of how the creative agency and McDonald’s executed the smile-free packaging activation, take a look at the McDonald’s – The Meal Case Study. This showcases the physical boxes and public reactions during the UK campaign week, providing direct visual context for the creative strategy discussed in this essay.

  • Headout State of Mind


    “Cause I am real tough kid,

    I can handle it.

    They say babe you gotta fake it till you make it

    And I did.”

    Headout.

    A word I came across on a random July afternoon while scrolling through LinkedIn.

    At the time, I didn’t know much about the company. What I did know was that it was a late-stage startup operating in the travel industry. During my time in the UK, I had occasionally stumbled across Headout while looking up tickets to attractions in London. I knew they sold experiences. I knew they existed. And that was about it.

    Like most pieces of information we encounter every day, this one quietly drifted to the back of my mind, filed away somewhere between forgotten passwords and half-finished to-do lists. By the time I came across a job posting from Headout on LinkedIn months later, I had almost completely forgotten about it.

    Almost.

    What happened next was, admittedly, not part of any grand career plan. In fact, my ”grand career plan” and I have never really been on speaking terms. For a really long time.

    The Application Journey

    I applied to Headout sometime around June or July 2025 through a LinkedIn job posting. The process itself was fairly straightforward. The day I applied, however, was about as ordinary as a day could possibly be.

    Back then, I had perfected the art of routine. I would wake up around eight or nine in the morning, make myself a bowl of oats or granola, cut up some fruit, put on an episode or two of F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and worry about my career. That last activity occupied more time than I’d care to admit.

    After spending forty-five minutes with my breakfast and an unhealthy amount of overthinking, I would begin my daily pilgrimage across LinkedIn, Indeed, Naukri, company career pages, and every other job platform known to humanity. Armed with a CV, determination, and increasingly questionable levels of optimism, I was essentially hoping that somebody, somewhere, would offer me a job in… well, anything.

    On one such wildly eventful day, I came across two job postings from a company called Headout. What caught my attention first wasn’t the role itself, but the logo. It was one of the most intriguing logos I had seen in a long time—something I would later learn was inspired by the iconic Led Zeppelin blimp. Naturally, I clicked.

    As I scrolled through the job description, one particular line caught my eye. It said something along the lines of: “If you’re organised like Monica from F.R.I.E.N.D.S…”

    That was it. That was all it took.

    Somewhere between Monica Geller and my own inability to resist a good pop-culture reference, I had already decided I wanted to apply. Long before the virtual interviews, the assessments, or the onboarding process, I found myself developing an affinity for the company. There was something refreshingly human about the way the role had been written. It felt conversational. Playful. Unapologetically itself.

    In my head, I made a quiet decision: One day, I’m going to work here.

    What followed was perhaps my most thorough piece of investigative journalism to date. I searched Glassdoor. I searched Reddit. I searched LinkedIn. I searched every corner of the internet that could possibly tell me what people thought about Headout. I wanted to know whether the company I had imagined from a single job description actually existed in reality. To my surprise, the reviews seemed to support the impression I had formed.

    And then there was the application process itself. Anyone who has spent time job hunting knows the ritual. Upload your CV. Re-enter every detail from your CV into seventeen separate fields. Confirm information already visible on your CV. Create a password you’ll never remember. Receive an automated rejection email three weeks later. Headout somehow managed to avoid that experience entirely. The application process felt straightforward, respectful of my time, and refreshingly free from unnecessary hurdles. At that point, Headout had officially become my favorite company that I didn’t yet work for.

    And trust me, I don’t say that lightly. Although, admittedly, I do have a flair for the dramatic.

    Things moved surprisingly quickly after that. Within about ten days of submitting my application, I received an invitation for the first online assessment. Then came the recorded video interview, followed by the subsequent rounds.

    Now, this is where my affinity for Headout really started to grow. I should probably confess something: I am terrible at interviews. Not because I lack experience. Not because I don’t prepare. I simply panic. The moment someone asks me, “Tell me about yourself,” my brain abandons all professional aspirations and transforms into an overexcited Labrador chasing five tennis balls at once.

    I’ve always struggled with highly structured interviews. The kind where both parties already know the script and spend the next forty minutes pretending they don’t. So, before my first interview, I prepared accordingly. I had my notes ready, a gallon of water beside me, and a carefully rehearsed answer to the question I dread most.

    The funny thing is, that question never came. At least not in the way I expected.

    For the first time in a very long time, an interview felt less like an interrogation and more like a conversation. The discussion flowed naturally. I found myself talking rather than performing. And somewhere during that conversation, I had a thought: I think I’ve found my match.

    Apologies for borrowing terminology from the dating world, but job hunting and online dating do have a surprising amount in common. You’re trying to present the best version of yourself. They’re trying to decide whether you’re compatible. Everyone is hoping to avoid rejection. And every now and then, you come across a connection that just feels… easy.

    The Big Day: The Onboarding Bubble

    There is a very specific kind of excitement that comes with joining a new company. It sits somewhere between the first day of school and the first episode of a TV show everyone has been recommending for years. You don’t really know what to expect, your nerves are competing with your enthusiasm, and you are secretly praying you’ve made the right decision.

    That was me on my first day at Headout.

    After weeks of interviews, assessments, and wondering if I had somehow imagined the entire experience, I was finally here. The first thing that struck me wasn’t a rigid policy document or a daunting organizational chart; it was the people. Real, enthusiastic, smiling people who somehow managed to make a virtual onboarding feel surprisingly warm.

    Now, if you’ve ever attended corporate training before, you know that “icebreakers” can be an absolute minefield. There is always a tiny, panicked voice in your head praying nobody asks you to “describe yourself using a fruit.” Thankfully, this wasn’t that. The conversations felt natural, and people were genuinely curious about one another. Between the shared laughter, the occasional awkward Zoom silences, stories from different backgrounds, and very competitive games of Pictionary, a group of complete strangers slowly began feeling a little less like strangers. Looking back, I think that’s something Headout does remarkably well: it doesn’t just introduce you to a company; it introduces you to a community.

    Our trainers deserve a special mention. Training can easily devolve into an endless, mind-numbing parade of slide presentations, corporate acronyms, and information overload. Instead, ours felt incredibly thoughtful. Questions were actively encouraged, and curiosity was rewarded. No one made you feel silly for asking something twice—or even three times. There was an unspoken understanding that learning wasn’t about pretending to know everything; it was about becoming comfortable enough to admit when you didn’t. As someone who routinely needs to ask approximately four hundred questions before feeling remotely confident, this environment suited me perfectly.

    This image shows a weekly passport we got during the training days at Headout. This is the first page of a 4-5 paged document. It is a fun way of sharing the message that the associate is right on track!

    Then came what was arguably one of my favorite moments of onboarding: the Headout swag kit.

    Now, I fully acknowledge that branded merchandise should not bring an adult this much joy. And yet, opening that package felt oddly special. The notebook, the T-shirts, the stickers—the little details had clearly been put together with genuine care. None of it was strictly necessary, which is precisely why it mattered. Good company merchandise doesn’t make you love your job, but it does make you feel like someone expected you to be there. Like they had prepared a place for you before you even arrived. It sounds like a small thing. It isn’t—especially when you’re starting somewhere completely new.

    By the end of training, I realized something had quietly shifted. I had joined Headout expecting to learn a new role. Instead, I had started learning an entirely new way of thinking about work. Some companies train you to blindly complete tasks; others teach you to understand why those tasks exist in the first place. Headout, I was beginning to realize, belonged firmly in the second category.

    It was a beautiful, comforting realization.

    The Reality Check: Finding My Footing on the Frontline

    As it turns out, understanding the theory of how a fire starts is very different from standing in front of a live blaze with a single bucket of water. My cozy training bubble was about to meet the fast-paced, high-stakes reality of live customer experience.

    On August 4th, 2026, I officially hit my 365-day mark in this role. One full year. But if you had told me six months ago that I’d be hitting this milestone, I probably would have laughed—or cried. Or both. Dramatic, remember?

    Frontline operations require a unique kind of resilience. I came in as someone driven deeply by words, long-form narratives, and the open spaces of creative thinking. I had romanticized what my workday would look like—imagining fixed creative rhythms and hours spent painting cities in vibrant prose.

    Instead, stepping into the customer workflows was an intense shock to the system.

    The first six to seven months tested me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It was fast, relentless, and emotionally demanding. You are resolving escalations in real-time for travelers whose dream vacations are hanging in the balance, often navigating high frustration over issues completely outside your control. For a while, I felt out of my depth and found myself caught in a bit of a rut. It is an exhausting feeling when your daily routine is consumed by high-urgency problem-solving while your creative instincts feel tucked away in the background. I watched colleagues effortlessly thrive in operational problem-solving or transition seamlessly into other functions, and I wondered if I’d ever find my own rhythm or figure out where I truly fit.

    The Eighth-Month Epiphany: An Accidental Masterclass

    And then, right around the middle of my eighth month, something shifted. It wasn’t a sudden corporate miracle or a magical drop in ticket volumes. It was simply a change in the lens I was looking through.

    I woke up to a perspective I had been completely oblivious to: I was sitting through an intensive, unfiltered masterclass in business growth and consumer psychology.

    Suddenly, those high-stress escalations weren’t just hurdles; they were data points. I was learning the exact, raw pain points of global travelers. I was discovering what makes a guest lose confidence in a brand, and what tiny gestures of genuine empathy can turn a stressful moment into lifelong brand loyalty. More than that, I was getting a rare, backstage view of our supply mechanics. I began to see firsthand how seamless partnerships elevate the guest experience, and how stringent policies, miscommunications, or unexpected operational delays on the partner side can ripple through to create friction for the traveler.

    I had spent months viewing the role as a waiting room, waiting for my “real” creative career to start. In reality, Headout had handed me the ultimate launchpad. How can you write compelling content, design thoughtful narratives, or drive growth for a travel tech brand if you don’t truly understand what happens on the ground?

    My aspirations haven’t changed—my heart is still firmly set on content, brand storytelling, and creative strategy where I can let my love for narrative take center stage. But the overwhelm has been replaced by purpose. Instead of feeling weighed down by the daily workflow, I’m using every single interaction as building blocks for what comes next.

    Breaking the Script: Capability Over Pedigree

    I grew up with a very specific, traditional script about careers: if you are lucky enough to be given a job, you stick to the safe path. You put your head down and stay within the lines. To switch paths—especially into marketing or creative strategy—the unspoken rule, particularly in traditional corporate environments, is that you need the armor of formal credentials. You need the exact degrees, the neat certifications, or a prestigious stamp of approval before anyone even considers giving you a seat at the table.

    What I found at Headout completely flipped that script.

    Headout looks far beyond formal qualifications on a resume; it genuinely values who you are, how you think, your drive, and the unique perspectives you bring to the table. It is an environment that evaluates capability and curiosity over rigid pedigrees, giving you the room and encouragement to grow.

    I lucked out in the absolute best way possible with my managers. In an industry where management can so easily become an exercise in micromanagement, my managers became a safe harbor. Their unwavering support changed everything for me. Instead of boxing me into a single workflow, they gave me the psychological safety and the encouragement to lift my head up, look at the bigger picture, and actively shape what I want my career journey to look like.

    For the longest time, I didn’t have a clear roadmap. I was just trying to keep pace. But this past year on the frontlines didn’t dim my creative spark; it sharpened it.

    This journey taught me that I am, at my core, a storyteller—and that understanding real human behavior is the best foundation any writer could ask for. The experience I’m gaining right here—learning how humans make decisions, navigate stress, travel, and experience the world—is the most valuable qualification I could ever earn.

    It has now been 414 days of me being a Headouter. It hasn’t been a flawless, glossy year, and I’ve certainly had moments where the learning curve felt steep. But it has been deeply authentic. I am embracing this experience as a launchpad, not a detour. The story is just getting started, and for the first time in a very long time, I am excited to write the next chapter.

    If you had told me a year ago that I’d navigate 365 days of frontline customer experience and emerge with more clarity than ever, I wouldn’t have believed you. But there’s a poetic irony to it: learning to navigate the chaotic, unpredictable world of travel operations helped me find my own direction. Turns out, you don’t need an MBA to understand how the world works—you just need a little grit, an endless supply of questions, and a workplace that values people over paper.

    If this chapter of my life had a theme song, it would undoubtedly be “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine. It’s got that exact mix of frantic energy, a thumping baseline of resilience, and that sudden, triumphant realization that you’re finally running toward the light. The uncertainty is over; the storytelling phase has begun.

  • Phantom Love

    cigarette smoke blurring the lines

    Between what is and what could have been.

    A thin line now.

    The smoke dissipates and with that reality melts into dream.

    You sit there. Across the table maybe.

    Me.

    You.

    Distant by a piece of carved wood.

    Intimate and intertwined with each other’s soul.

    The sizzling of the pancake batter on the stove.

    The light tune of a song we both love.

    The sound of your laughter because the joke I told was too lame.

    My “hmph” mimicking that of the future daughter we have.

    A sudden thud and I am snapped back to the real.

    The line ever so visible now.

    You.

    I love you. It’s ruining my life.

    I love you. It’s ruining my life.

    I love you. It’s ruining my life.

    I love you. It’s ruining my life.

    I love you. It’s ruining my life.

    Me.

    No carved wood. Just two people in different places. On different pages.

    A constant ring of a phrase I’d rather not say.

    Echoes of an unknown voice. Or maybe your real voice take away the sound of your laughter.

    It keeps saying, I never loved you though.

    I wake up with a jolt;

    What is real? What is not?

    I look up and there you are,

    cigarette in hand,

    blowing away the smoke. 

    the line?

    doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

  • Of Becoming and Belonging

    “तू मेरा हो गया, इतना ही काफी है

    दिल मेरा जुड़ गया तुमसे, ये काफी है ना?

    काफी है ना?”

    — “Kaafi Hai Na”

    Firstly, thank you to the writers and creators of the beautiful book and now the Netflix series titled Musafir Cafe. Please note that this is not a sponsored post or blog. This is just me reflecting on the series that made me think about love, question it as we know it, and finally stop making room for anything that I know is not love—not for me at least. I hope you like reading it.

    I am not going to lie about why I watched this series. No, I did not stumble upon it while scrolling through Netflix while deciding what to watch that night. Unfortunately, neither did I read the book before that inspired me to watch it. I watched it because I fell in love with the music featured in this series. I was awestruck by how beautifully the songs encapsulated the beauty of love—oh, let’s not forget the pain of that human emotion either. The classification of the series promised a romantic drama. So the music, in addition to the temptation of the romantic drama—I had to watch it. In one sitting. Fall in love with the characters. Find parallels of the storyline in my own life. Cry my eyes out.

    The Soundtrack of Unraveling

    It started with a melody—the kind that sneaks under your skin before you even realize you’ve opened the door. The music in Musafir Cafe didn’t just play in the background; it felt like a silent third character, articulating every unspoken fear, every unsaid “stay,” and every heavy “goodbye.”

    As the episodes rolled on, I realized I wasn’t just watching Chander, Sudha, and eventually Preeti navigate their messy, beautiful, and terrifying versions of intimacy. I was watching a mirror.

    We live in a world obsessed with checklists. We check off degrees, jobs, dates, and milestones, desperately trying to construct a life that feels complete. But what happens when you meet someone who doesn’t fit into your carefully curated boxes, yet somehow fits into the empty spaces of your heart? Musafir Cafe asks a question that hits a little too close to home: Is love about settling down, or is it about finding someone who lets you be a wanderer without feeling lost?

    Is Love Really Enough?

    The first song that completely unravelled me was “Kaafi hai na”. The lyrics ache with a vulnerable, almost desperate question:

    “Tu mera ho gaya, itna hi kaafi hai
    Dil mera jud gaya tumse, ye kaafi hai na?
    Kaafi hai na?”

    Listening to these lines, I found myself confronting a question I think many of us spend our lives dodging: Is love really enough?

    Is the mere fact that you were chosen—that someone belongs to you in a moment of time—enough to make you stay? We are conditioned to believe that love is the ultimate currency, the magic ingredient that cures incompatibility, bad timing, and existential unrest. But sitting there at 2 AM, I wondered if accepting “just love” is actually a form of settling. Is being loved by someone enough if that love requires you to compromise the peace of your own soul?

    It instantly brought to mind Taylor Swift’s haunting track, “peace”, where she asks:

    “Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

    That intersection is where the tragic weight of modern relationships lies. You can love someone with every fiber of your being, and yet, your presence in their life—or theirs in yours—might bring chaos instead of calm. If love cannot bring peace, is it truly enough to sustain two people? Or is staying in a storm, just because you love the rain, a slow form of self-sabotage?

    The Ghost in the Room: “Toota Rahunga” & The Fear of What Comes Next

    Then came “Toota Rahunga”, and it shifted something fundamental in me.

    “Humko bichadna na tha gawara,
    Toota rahunga bin tere main yahan.”

    What makes this track so haunting is its perspective. It gives voice to the man left standing in the ruins of a separation from Sudha that he never wanted, promising to remain broken right where he was left. 

    As a viewer, it breaks your heart for Chander. But then Preeti enters the picture. Preeti—the woman who comes after the destruction. The woman who stands beside him, who nurtures him, and who actively helps him bring his dream of the Musafir Cafe to life.

    And as I watched Preeti pour her heart into building a life with a man who had sworn “Toota rahunga,” a familiar ache settled in my chest. Recently, I wrote a short note on Substack that came flooding back to me as those episodes played:

    Watching Musafir Cafe and wondering if this is one of my quiet fears.

    Not that the person I love has a past—we all do.

    But that somewhere in his heart lives a love so profound that every love after it is simply learning to live with the absence of the first.

    I don’t want to replace her. I just hope I never have to compete with a memory.

    That is the terrifying core of being the Preeti in someone’s life. When a person vows to stay broken after love fails them, what happens to the next person who steps in with open arms? Does Preeti get to be loved wholly, or is she just helping him build a sanctuary out of the wreckage left by someone else?

    The hardest rival in love isn’t a living competitor—it’s an idealized memory. A nostalgic phantom like Sudha that stays frozen in the past, forever unblemished. It leaves you asking whether a person who has sworn to stay broken ever truly leaves that state, or if the woman who arrives later is forever tasked with tending to a garden where another woman’s roots were planted.

    The Difference Between Belonging and Holding On

    Watching the story unfold alongside these haunting tracks made me re-examine my own understanding of love. For a long time, I thought love was measured by endurance—how much you could compromise, how long you could stay, how much space you could make for someone else, even if it meant shrinking yourself in the process.

    But watching the characters stumble through their fears taught me something vital: attachment is not love, and familiarity is not belonging.

    Sometimes, two people cross paths not to build a permanent home together, but to act as a cafe along the journey—a warm, safe stopover where you catch your breath, learn who you are, and gather the courage to keep moving forward. And that doesn’t make the love any less real. It just means its purpose was to transform you, not to bind you.

    “Becoming” Before “Belonging”

    The title of this reflection came to me somewhere around the middle of the show, when my tea had gone cold and my eyes were blurry with tears.

    I realized how often we rush to belong to someone before we have finished becoming who we are meant to be. We crave the comfort of being chosen, so we accept diluted versions of affection. We mistake anxiety for passion, and obligation for commitment. We convince ourselves that “kaafi hai na” because we are terrified that demanding peace, wholeness, and a heart unburdened by past ghosts will leave us with nothing at all.

    Musafir Cafe reminded me that real love doesn’t demand you abandon your journey, nor does it ask you to play the role of a healer in someone else’s unfinished mourning. It honors your path. It creates room for you to grow, even if that growth eventually takes you in a different direction.

    Stopping Room for “Almost Love”

    Closing Netflix that night, I felt a strange mixture of grief and quiet liberation.

    Grief for the times I gave away pieces of myself to hold onto relationships that were already slipping away. But liberation in knowing that from now on, my standards for love have changed forever.

    I don’t want an “almost” love. I don’t want a love born out of convenience, timeline pressure, or the fear of being alone. I don’t want to be someone’s secondary chapter—the one who helps build the dream while their heart remains anchored to a “Toota Rahunga” past. Nor do I want to settle for a love that lacks peace just because it exists.

    I want a love that feels like home, not a negotiation—and certainly not a compromise with a memory. And until that arrives, I am learning to belong to myself first.

    To the creators of Musafir Cafe: thank you for telling a story that felt less like fiction and more like a quiet permission slip to feel, to grieve, and ultimately, to let go.

    A note to whoever is reading this:

    If a song, a book, or a series has ever held a mirror to your heart and forced you to face a truth you were avoiding—let it. Sometimes, breaking your own heart open is the only way to let the right kind of light back in.

    Let me know your thoughts

  • Star-crossed?

    If destiny needs a name, let it be his.


    I beg the Universe—
quietly, on nights it pretends not to hear me.
    I look at you and swallow the words,
I will wait.
No matter how long.
No matter how foolish it makes me look
, standing still while the world moves on.

    I would hold your hand when the seas grow violent,
when hope slips through your fingers
and you forget how to breathe.
I would teach you how to live again—
not because you don’t know how,
but because I only ever wanted
to do life with you.

    I would advise you, if you asked,
on how to soften the sharp edges of your days.
I would be the solace you kept searching for
in places that were never kind to you.

    I say all of this, don’t I?
I say I am ready.
I say I have love—
more than I know what to do with.
I say I love you.

    And you never say it back.
Not once.
Not when it mattered.

    So here we are, losing—
not loudly, not dramatically—
but quietly, the way people do
when one heart is open
and the other is locked from the inside.

    You weren’t willing to receive
the love I held out to you,
even when it came without conditions.

    Who knew love could suffocate instead of save?
Did you know?
Is that why you stood in the doorway,
telling me you loved me—
your body already halfway gone,
your words never intending to stay?

    And yet, even after all of this,
I bow my head to the Universe,
stubborn in my faith, reckless in my hope.

    I ask it to rewrite the prophecy,
to be merciful where you were not,
and to still—somehow—
name my destiny after you.

  • The Once Known

    So much unknown in the once known


    Two people who were intertwined and tangled with each other a fortnight ago- now distant.


    Parallel lines.


    The eyes that felt like peace once? Now they don’t even look at each other to steal a glance.

    The voice that called your name like worship? Now can’t formulate a simple “Hi” when they see you.

    How ironical it is right? All you ever wanted for “us” was goodbye but you cannot bring yourself to form the word to say to me when I leave the once known?

    All I wanted, on the contrary, was to keep you. Hold you close. Hoped that you would forever be in my orbit as the planet that gravitates only to my pull.

    Then how is it that I form the word “bye” when I leave the once known?

    The place that once was all about love and light and laughter and all things good- is now ice cold and dark. Maybe just for me though.

    The one place I ran to every chance I got because it sparkled like love? The lights now out. Now my footsteps stop at the entrance. Contemplates. Traces the path back to the exit. And the love dwindles.

    You are unknown to me now. Or maybe you’re just dressed in colours not meant for me.

    Your voice- a faint echo of someone I loved deeply and completely. I love you still. But my love’s all fading into black. I’m fading into the black in your reality.

    The end of our story is near. The end of our story is here. So to my once known before you’re forever unknown to me- light up the dark before it consumes you.

    Learn to love before love learns to leave you.

    Keep my space safe for if ever the wounded soldier returns home after fighting her war.

    Keep my memories locked somewhere so that I always have a blip of known in the now unknown.

  • The Post-mortem of my 2025

    I didn’t plan to write a year-end reflection, but when has life ever gone according to a well carefully crafted plan anyway? 2025 changed me in ways I can’t ignore. It pushed me, tested me, and quietly taught me things I didn’t even know I needed to learn. Somewhere along the way — through late-night breakdowns, unexpected kindness, friendships that held me, and love that didn’t last — I grew. Not in the dramatic, life-altering way I once imagined, but in small, quiet ways that built me into someone new.
    So here are the lessons I’m carrying into the next year, written with honesty, a little tenderness, and the hope that 2026 will be gentler with me.

    · Life’s never linear. Most of the times the dips hit more than the rise: The December of 2021–2023 was a different era — a younger, softer version of me who still believed life followed a neat, predictable rhythm. Back then, December meant running around the streets of London, riding the high of Winter Wonderland, and feeling like love and direction were permanent fixtures. But life changed — brutally, abruptly, and without warning. I remember the chaos when immigration policies shifted, and suddenly my future felt suspended in a limbo I never asked for. I remember envying people who seemed to live the life I wanted with half the effort. Does it still bother me? Absolutely. Some nights I still wish things unfolded differently. But January-me and December-me are not the same. I’m steadier now, grounded in ways I wasn’t four years ago. Life didn’t go as planned — but maybe that’s where I learned the most.

    · They were ready for love, just not for you: As someone who has never known nonchalance in love or lied about something this tender, 2025 bruised me in ways I didn’t anticipate. Early in the year, someone warned me: “Beware of the love that starts suddenly — it will disappoint suddenly too.” I dismissed it with the arrogance of someone who believes she can love deeply enough to change the ending. But nine months later, there I was — watching the same person who once stumbled over the idea of commitment suddenly become soft and certain… just not with me. It’s a strange kind of heartbreak, witnessing someone become the version you always wished they’d be, but for someone else. I watched the mushy nicknames appear, the carefully planned dates, the inside jokes, the way they slipped this new person’s name into conversations as effortlessly as breathing. I watched them become attentive, thoughtful, romantic — the very things I waited for, the very things I had poured my patience into hoping to receive. And it taught me something painfully liberating: some people are ready for love, but only when they meet the person their heart finally decides on. And no amount of goodness, loyalty, or honesty can make them choose you if you aren’t that person.It hurt — deeply, silently, and in ways I won’t pretend away. But it also freed me. Because I finally understood that I wasn’t unlovable — just not their choice. And there’s a quiet strength in accepting that without resentment.

    · Healing is rarely loud — most days it looks like boring consistency. 2025 taught me that healing isn’t cinematic. It’s not the big breakdown or the dramatic epiphany. It’s the small, mundane acts — replying to emails on time, cleaning your room when you don’t feel like it, choosing sleep over spiralling, showing up to the gym even when grief sits heavy. Healing is discipline disguised as routine. And some days, discipline is the only love you can give yourself. But this year wasn’t gentle with me. It was chaotic in ways I didn’t expect. My body rebelled — violently, confusingly — in ways I had never experienced before. I have woken up in the middle of the night with a sharp ache in my chest, breathless, overwhelmed, tears spilling before I even understood why. Disbelief reigned supreme. How could something that didn’t even last that long break me this deeply? I’ve dragged myself out of the rabbit hole of shame and self-hate more times than I can count, only to fall right back into it two days later. Healing hasn’t been linear or graceful. It’s been messy, repetitive, exhausting — a cycle I’m still learning to navigate with patience instead of punishment. It’s a work in progress. I’m a work in progress. And hopefully — gently, quietly — the next year will look up.

    · Friendships save you in ways you don’t expect. This year, I learnt that sometimes it’s not the grand gestures but the quiet “Did you eat?”, the random meme, the 11 PM phone call, the friend who remembers your exam date, the one who shows up even when you didn’t ask. Love from friends is softer, steadier, and more healing than any romantic crescendo I chased. The right people don’t just stay — they anchor you. Because apart from the family I was born into, this chosen family of mine has saved me more times than I can count. They’ve stolen me away from the pit of my own darkness and taken me on early morning rides to places they call their “little slices of heaven,” just so I could remember what peace feels like. They’ve spent three-hours on a phone call with me simply because something in the way I texted sounded off. They’ve reminded me of my worth on days when heartbreak convinced me otherwise, and they’ve stood guard at the gates of my heart, helping me fight off the half-hearted connections I stumbled into earlier this year.They’ve hated the guts of the guy who made me miserable — loudly, shamelessly, and with a level of loyalty that only true friendship can carry. And they’ve loved me enough to tell me they will let me go, if and when I decide to leave this city behind again… hopefully for one last time.This year proved that friendships aren’t just constant — they’re lifelines.

    · You can outgrow people you still love.Not every goodbye is a failure. Sometimes you outgrow someone simply because you grew in a direction they didn’t. You evolve, and they remain who they were. And suddenly the conversations don’t flow, the comfort doesn’t feel the same, and your heart knows long before your mind catches up. Letting go isn’t cruelty — it’s clarity. They say you let go of people for the same reasons you fell in love with them. And oh, how deeply and loudly I have loved these two souls. But as the years — and more painfully, the months — passed, I noticed the shift. While love allowed me to grow, while I chiselled parts of myself to make us work, they stood their ground. The very traits that once made my heart soften — their decisiveness, their stubbornness, their consistency — eventually became the reason I felt stuck. It was in the littlest of things, the small refusals to bend, the reluctance to meet me halfway. Things that once felt charming began to feel heavy. And little by little, I realised I was outgrowing a situation I had once prayed for. After months of choosing them over myself, I chose myself. Not out of anger, not out of exhaustion — but out of recognition that I deserved reciprocity, not just affection. Does that make them evil? No. Like I said earlier — they were ready for love, for softer versions of themselves, for love songs dedicated to them… just not from me. The flowers they received from me always looked like carnations, even when I had plucked roses and lilies and orchids with the utmost care. Sometimes the love you give simply blooms in the wrong garden.

    · Beginning again is not failure — it’s proof that you’re still thriving. If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that life will make you start over when you least expect it. I’ve started again in love, in friendships, in career paths, in the way I understand myself. Some endings blindsided me, some beginnings felt forced, and some transitions felt like the ground disappearing beneath my feet. But I’ve come to realise that beginning again is not a step backward — it’s bravery in motion. It’s choosing to rewrite your story after it’s been torn apart. It’s finding the strength to gather your pieces, even when your hands are shaking. It’s accepting that sometimes the universe says “not this,” so it can gently guide you toward something better, even if the in-between feels like freefall. Every time I stood up after a heartbreak, every time I opened a new document to rewrite another CV, every time I walked away from someone who couldn’t love me fully — I wasn’t failing. I was continuing. And that counts for something even if I don’t know what it is!

    If there’s one thing this year has taught me, it’s that life will never look the way I thought it would at twenty-one, or twenty-three, or even at the start of 2025. I’ve learnt that grief comes in waves, love leaves without warning, healing takes longer than we think, and friendships often arrive like lifeboats in the middle of a storm.But I’ve also learnt that I am resilient in ways I rarely give myself credit for. That even when my heart was splintered, even when my chest ached at 3 AM, even when I was convinced I had nothing left to give — some quiet part of me kept going. Kept hoping. Kept believing that the next chapter could still be kinder. Maybe that’s what growth really is: not sudden transformation, but the slow, stubborn refusal to give up on yourself. 2025 didn’t give me the life I wanted. But it gave me the lessons I needed — grounding, humbling, painful, and ultimately shaping me into someone stronger, softer, more self-aware. And as the year ends, I hope 2026 brings gentler love, clearer paths, warmer beginnings, and the courage to choose myself again and again. Here’s to healing, to outgrowing, to beginning again.


    And here’s to the version of me who survived it all.

    ~ Penny ♥️🧿

  • Transience

    Imagine asking someone “Would you love me in December the way you love me in May?” and the answer keeps coming back as yes.


    You feel the fear of losing in that question?


    I knew you wouldn’t love me. Or maybe even the fact that you never did.

    The illusion of us was beautiful though. And I spent a lifetime during my 90 days in heaven before you tore it all up. And left that version of us to rot. With me.
    Left me to live with memories of us “in love”. Only to come back in newer colours.
    And you have no idea how you’re breaking me now because you’re oblivious to my grays still.

    I see you try in love with someone new. You say you are getting your karma back now? And I see you happy in love.
    Oh I don’t mind that. At all. I want you to be happy. And in love. Even if it’s not with me.
    But no karma isn’t getting you right now. At least not in the way you treated me. Because you have no idea what I’m living with and how I’m breathing in bits.


    I wish you tried. For me. Oh! I would have given you the world.
    I would have fought the world for you. I would have been a shield, like I already was, in your absence too. I would have held your hand through the storm to brighter days.
    Oh the way I would have loved you.
    But instead I heard you say “you deserve a lot better than me. Someone who will love you the way you should be loved.”
    And that broke me. Into a million pieces. Because I thought I finally found it. My missing puzzle piece.

    You are someone else’s now and I’m still trying to find ways to not live my life in half breaths.

    You ask me how you can make things better for me and I want to say “you can never because you’re the one who’s hurting me” but all I say is “it’s not for you to heal”

    And you know. You know that you’re hurting me. You know that holding me back with you now is tearing me apart. But you still don’t let go.
    And I resent you for that. I regret you, for that. While it’s not for you to heal- it’s for you to make sure it stops hurting.
    And I know. Oh God, I know you don’t love me. Not in the way I do. But you don’t let me go either.

    You hold on a little longer. And then a little more. And now your hands are like a rope cutting into my skin. The friction is making me bleed more and more. Profusely now. And you still don’t see the red.

    When will you see me bleed out? From the bullets you shot? From the injuries you inflicted? One by one. With the utmost care. When I’m on the ground? Gasping for breath?
    Will you see me then? Will you come running and sit at my feet as I am on my last breath? Will you say that you’re sorry then? Sorry for breaking me? For killing the lover I had in me?Will you look at me and know that you are the reason behind my demise? Or will you still be ignorant?

    Will you try and love me then? Will you love me next May, the way you don’t love me this December?

  • Hope, after all this time

    Someone asked me to write about hope yesterday. And you gotta give what your readers want right? Also, what a word this is.

    Imagine the magnanimity of it — five letters carrying the unbearable weight of survival. The beauty of hope is that no matter who we are, no matter how bruised or broken we become, we return to it instinctively. We hope for better days, better careers, better pay, better love, better friends. We hope for a better life. Even when life has given us every reason not to.

    This year, especially, has tested my relationship with hope. It has not been kind. It has not been gentle. It arrived with lessons I did not ask for and endings I did not consent to. It took people, certainty, comfort — and replaced them with silence, questions, and an aching kind of clarity. There were moments when hope felt foolish, almost offensive. Like a naïve friend who refused to understand how tired I was of believing.

    And yet, here I am.

    What this year has taught me is that hope is not loud. It doesn’t announce itself with optimism or blind positivity. Hope is quiet. It sits beside you on days when getting out of bed feels like a victory. It looks like showing up even when your heart is still in pieces. It looks like choosing to believe that the version of life you are walking away from is not the only one you will ever know.

    Hope, this year, was staying when everything in me wanted to shut down. It was trusting that rejection was not redirection’s cruel cousin, but its necessary beginning. It was learning that endings do not erase the meaning of what once was — they simply make space for what has yet to arrive. It was allowing myself to grieve without deciding that grief would be my permanent address.

    I didn’t always hope gracefully. Some days hope showed up as stubbornness. Some days it looked like tears and clenched jaws and whispered please into the dark. But even then, hope persisted — not because I was strong, but because something inside me refused to believe that this was all there was.

    Hope did not promise me ease. It promised me continuity. It promised that even after disappointment, even after heartbreak, even after a year that demanded more than I thought I could give, life would still offer me mornings worth waking up for. New conversations. New versions of myself. New joys I cannot yet name.

    So yes, hope is a magnificent word. Not because it guarantees happiness, but because it keeps us moving forward despite the absence of it. And if this year has forced anything upon me, it is this quiet, defiant kind of hope — the kind that survives not because life is good, but because I am still here, still trying, still believing that better days are not behind me.

    They are waiting.

  • ’tis the season

    They belt out “Have a holly jolly Christmas, it’s the best time of the year,” as if joy is compulsory and grief has taken the season off. Reels flood my screen—Mariah Carey hitting that impossible note, Michael Bublé crooning like love has never failed anyone. The air smells like gingerbread cookies and chai sugar biscuits, mulled wine simmering somewhere, strawberries dipped in chocolate—things meant to be shared, not eaten alone.

    And amidst all of this, I think of you.

    You—not as you are, not even as you were—but as the idea of you. The love of my life. Or maybe just the person I loved like one. The line between the two still blurs on nights like these.

    This year hasn’t been kind in love.
    It began with letting go of someone who had the best intentions for me—someone gentle, someone safe, someone who tried. Loving them felt like standing in sunlight that never quite reached my skin. And then came the others. A series of almosts. Men who spoke beautifully but showed up poorly. Men who mistook attention for effort, intensity for intimacy. Men who were never worthy of my time, yet somehow occupied my heart longer than they deserved.

    I wanted the clichés this year. I won’t lie.
    I wanted to be kissed under mistletoe, to laugh with someone whose hands felt like home. I wanted to welcome the new year pressed against a chest that felt certain, counting down seconds that felt like promises instead of reminders. I wanted love that felt festive—easy, mutual, unquestioned.

    Instead, December arrived with space.
    With empty chairs beside me. With photos I didn’t take. With moments I didn’t live. With the quiet realization that once again, I would be my own plus one.

    But Christmas also reminds me of the last time I fell in love.

    The last time love happened to me for the first time. The split second for which you were mine. A moment in time in March when you looked at me like nothing else mattered.
    Unhesitant. Untaught. Whole.

    With you, love lived in subtleties. In the way your hands tied my hair back because you said it looked better that way. In the way I trusted you without needing proof. You were the love of my life once. And then, somehow, you became the loss of it.

    How that happened, I will never know.

    How tenderness turned brittle. How warmth drained from your touch. How the same hands that once felt careful grew ice-cold—tightening, taking, stealing the air from my chest. There was no dramatic ending. Just a slow unraveling. A quiet forgetting of who I was while loving you.

    I will never know how love learned to hurt like that.

    So when Christmas arrives dressed in carols and candlelight and promises of miracles, I stay still. I let the world celebrate what it found while I sit with what I lost. I think of mistletoe that never mattered and midnight kisses that never came true. I think of wishes whispered into December nights that went unanswered.

    Maybe Santa heard them.
    Maybe he just didn’t bring you.

    And so this Christmas smells like gingerbread and mulled wine and things meant to be shared, while I learn—again—that some loves remain unwrapped. Some wishes stay on the list forever.

    This year, Christmas came.
    You didn’t. And the grief of never finding you again in this colour, as mine, washes over me in waves.