Penny's World

Tag: relationships

  • The Vow

    I have always loved the idea of wedding vows. No matter how the marriage ends, imagine loving someone so much that you write several words and read it out in front of hundreds of people. While I don’t see myself getting to do this anytime soon, I will pen this down for the man who is apparently meant for me.

    Dear you,

    It’s November 24th, 2025 and I’m in my apartment alone. My eyes are tired as I write this- but what’s tired when it comes to love right? So here goes:

    This might be several years later as I stand in front of you today

    Draped in my Sabyasachi wedding saree and you in your Manish Malhotra wedding outfit

    I know it’s real because we have our closest people right here with us

    But also because my heart’s finally at ease

    It’s not racing anymore. It’s finally resting, knowing that I have found someone who’s kind to my heart and soul

    You’re someone who loves me like it’s breathing and is stubborn enough to love me on days when I’m being difficult

    You listen to me talk endlessly about Taylor and her lyricism and know that I’ll always love her a teeny bit more than I love you.

    You’re my Chandler telling me that the world can call me high maintenance but you like maintaining me

    You’re my Jake surprising me just when I thought you have lost the ability to surprise me, by proposing me out of the blue!

    You’re my Ted who will steal the Blue French Horn just because I stated once I liked it

    You’re my Travis because you’re my human exclamation point!

    You’re the person who makes me say that I’ll marry you with paper rings even when I love shiny things

    And you’re nerdy enough to understand all of this!

    I’m nowhere close to being Monica, Amy, Robin or Taylor- but I am good at being one thing- and that’s yours.

    I’m grateful to have found you in this mayhem called life

    You’re everything my heart had hoped for. You’re the person I’ve been writing about since I was a teenager going to college.

    You’re the person who makes me laugh and cry from it.

    You’re the person who comes up to me and says “Let’s figure this out” because the love we have is greater than whatever argument we had.

    You’re the person who makes me fall in love with literature more because I see how you light up when we talk about Dostoevsky or Kafka or Plath.

    You’re my person.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re everything and more

    And nothing like the ones I have met before.

    From yours,

    Penny ♥️

    I am no where close to finding love like this as I write this. But I really hope that when I finally find you, my life sounds like this. That you sound like exactly what I’ve written here. And if you’re reading this right now, I hope our paths cross soon- because I can’t wait to meet the man who makes my life sound like peace.

  • The Chokehold

    Circa July '25 Lord of the Drinks

    Last night, the cigarette burned like my soul
    Slowly and in vain.
    That slow burn that used to give peace- it’s killing me now.
    The made-up love that once was peace- is now the torment my heart can no longer take.
    Half-breaths and half-alive but never half in love. Never the person with one foot out the door- when in love.
    Burning. I’m burning in vain and killing myself- slowly.
    Do they see me burn? Do they see me burn? Do they?
    Do you?
    Do you see my agony?
    An ivy wrapping my throat- choking me to death. Much like your love.
    Or are you blind to my greys still?
    Should I’ve been more obvious with my love? Or did I stifle you with my intensity?
    Is that too many questions?
    My mind keeps going down the spiral- do you see me ruin myself in the hopes of your love?

  • An Ode to Calcutta…

    You see, this city lives two lives—
    One that goes by the name of Calcutta, steeped in culture, nostalgia, and the slow unravel of time.
    And the other—Kolkata—the rebranded, fast-paced metro, defined by the chaos of traffic and the digital clock above the Esplanade crossing.

    But no matter how much it tries to keep up with its metropolitan siblings—Delhi’s sprawl, Bombay’s buzz, Bangalore’s tech sheen—this city still beats to a rhythm that is entirely its own. A rhythm of adda that stretches through the afternoon, of mishti in clay cups, of trams that dare to survive in a world of Ubers and impatient deadlines.

    It rained today in Calcutta. Not the kind of polite drizzle you forget, but a steady, monsoon rain that makes you feel like the whole world has paused to listen. And I found myself thinking of the kind of love that only this city can make you feel—the kind that is sentimental, slow-burning, and impossibly deep.

    There’s a reason why Calcutta romances hit different.

    Take Metro… In Dino, for example. A beautiful anthology of love stories that unfolds across India’s biggest cities, showing how romance is shaped by the pulse of the places we live in. From the clinical, high-functioning relationships of Delhi to the dreamy chaos of Mumbai, each story is distinctly shaped by its city. But it’s the Kolkata segment that lingers.

    Because in Calcutta, love isn’t found in coffee dates and Instagram captions—it is found in silences, in longing, in unspoken familiarity. The story set here doesn’t rush. It walks, like the city. It mourns and hopes at the same time, like the people. And it dares to ask the question: what if love didn’t need to be dramatic to be real?

    The city romances differently. It doesn’t just hold your hand; it holds your history. It doesn’t just remember your favourite song—it remembers the time you heard it for the first time on a crackly FM station while stuck in traffic near Shyambazar.

    Being born and brought up here, I know what it is to carry a city in your bones.
    To know that you’ll never truly belong anywhere else.
    And that no matter how far you go, you’ll always be looking for someone who loves the way Calcutta loves.

    That kind of love is not flashy. It is built over slow walks through College Street, over crispy phuchka shared between arguments, over Metro rides that are somehow too short and too long at the same time.
    It is built in bookstores and tea stalls, in the gap between what you say and what you mean.

    People say I’m stuck in the past. That I believe in a version of love that no longer exists. That I still romanticize letters, and Rabindrasangeet, and the poetry scribbled in margins of notebooks.

    And they’re right.
    Because Calcutta has taught me that love doesn’t have to be convenient to be true.

    I will love you like this city clings to ivy-covered buildings and yellow taxis—unapologetically, even if the world is moving on.
    I will love you like Kolkata loves Durga Pujo: with an all-consuming joy that doesn’t care about what comes after.
    I will love you with the quiet devotion of tramlines still carving their path through madness, and with the abandon of a sindoor khela afternoon.
    I will love both your chaos and your calm—just like this city does.

    Because this city has never tried to be anything it is not.
    It holds on—to its roots, to its language, to its impossible softness.

    And maybe that’s why the love born here lasts.

    In Metro… In Dino, every city told a different love story, but Kolkata’s story wasn’t about falling in love.
    It was about staying in love.
    Even when time passes. Even when people change. Even when love is no longer easy.

    It was about that one place, that one person, who still feels like home.

    And that, perhaps, is the truest tribute to Calcutta.
    That despite everything—
    the peeling paint, the crumbling houses, the crowded crossings—
    it still teaches you the kind of love that stays.

    So let the other cities race ahead. Let them find newer ways to romance.
    As for me—
    I will always choose to love the Calcutta way:
    with depth, with memory, and with no intention of forgetting.

  • Somewhere…It Begins Again

    I was in Class XI when I first fell in love.

    There was a rush when he looked at me. A spark, a flicker—something that felt infinite, even when it barely knew how to begin. But first love isn’t always gentle, and it certainly isn’t always right. Mine was neither. I thought it was everything, because back then, I didn’t know love could be more.

    Still, I stayed.
    Not because it was beautiful, but because I was afraid.

    Every time it felt like he might leave, my mind whispered:
    If not him, then who?

    That question tethered me to a story long after the plot had unraveled. It made me trade peace for presence. It convinced me that if I lost him, I’d never find love again. So I stayed—for six years—until one day I realised I had outgrown the girl who first asked that question.

    The Second Time

    Then came my second.

    My favourite almost.

    We were everything in slow motion. The kind of love that unspooled gently, like a Sunday morning in a city you’re learning to love. We had a rhythm, a potential, a softness that felt safe. But “almost” is a word that quietly breaks you. It tricks you into believing that “one day” will come—until it doesn’t.

    We almost made love stay.
    We almost had our shared playlists, our traditions, our peace.
    We almost built something lasting.

    “Distance, timing, breakdown, fighting
    Silence, the train runs off its tracks…”
    — Sad, Beautiful, Tragic (RED (Taylor’s Version), Taylor Swift)

    When it ended, it didn’t break me. Not all at once, at least. It was the kind of ending that settles in gradually, like fog over a city you once called home. There was no betrayal, no grand disaster. Just the quiet knowing that we couldn’t carry on. I was tired—of loving people who didn’t stay. Of waiting for something I couldn’t name. Of wondering why love never felt like enough.

    But if you ask me today, I’d still say we were close to something extraordinary.
    Close, but not close enough.

    This Time Might Be Different

    Now, maybe my third is here to stay.
    Maybe he isn’t.

    But for the first time, I won’t ask that old question again.
    If not you, then who?

    Because I’ve learned what that question does. It makes you stay longer than you should. It wraps fear in the illusion of loyalty. It makes you believe that love is scarce, when really—it’s abundant.

    Love shows up in many forms, in many seasons—
    Sometimes as a person, sometimes as a mirror.
    Sometimes as you, choosing yourself after years of forgetting how.

    I’ve learned that love isn’t just about who stays the longest.
    Sometimes, it’s who teaches you how to leave.
    Sometimes, it’s the quiet promise you make to yourself in the dark—
    That next time, you’ll choose you first.

    Love Is Home

    Love, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t just the butterflies or the longing or the poetry. It’s not even just the safety or the stillness.

    Love is how we slowly become ourselves in someone else’s presence.
    It’s how we learn to rest.
    How we remember the softness we’d tucked away.

    Love is memory, timing, courage.
    And sometimes, love is the lesson.

    And maybe that’s why it blurs so closely into something else—home.

    In my last blog, I wrote about home not being a place, but a feeling. And the more I think about it, the more I realise—home and love are the same thing. They evolve. They shift. They slip through your fingers if you’re not paying attention, only to return in unexpected forms.

    A city. A friend. A morning spent in silence. Or someone’s laugh echoing through a kitchen full of light.

    What a terrifyingly beautiful thing it is to find your home in a person.
    To find love and belonging wrapped into the same soul.

    But even if they don’t stay, the love does.
    The lesson does.
    The knowing that you can love again—differently, deeply, more wisely.

    And So…

    You haven’t met all the people you’ll love.
    And you haven’t met all the people who will love you.

    So chin up, darling.
    Love might just be around the corner.

    And maybe this time—it won’t be tragic.
    Maybe it’ll just be home.

    Let me know your thoughts

  • When Home Wore Your Name…

    The past few days, I’ve found myself reflecting deeply on the last three years of my life—how they’ve shaped me, transformed me, and continue to quietly guide the person I’m becoming. In my last blog, I explored how our experiences sculpt us, chisel away the unnecessary, and sometimes painfully, sometimes beautifully, bring out the core of who we are. That thought has lingered this entire week, following me like a shadow I’m learning to acknowledge.

    Right now, I’m 30,000 feet in the sky, writing this mid-flight, as the darkness of the midnight sky presses against the window beside me. My thoughts, like always, begin to wander—to the past, to the people I’ve loved, and inevitably, to the idea of home.

    What is home, really?

    Is it a place—brick walls, familiar corners, the aroma of something cooking on a lazy Sunday? If so, then living away from that place for the last 3.5 years has been nothing short of a blessing. In this time, I’ve learned more than I ever did in the 22 years I spent sheltered within it. I’ve grown, crumbled, built myself back, and found grace in discomfort. I’m grateful for every lesson, no matter how harsh.

    But… what if home isn’t a place?

    What if home is a feeling? A fleeting sense of comfort that rests in moments or people. What if home is a conversation, a glance, a familiar silence that doesn’t ask you to be anything other than yourself?

    If that’s true—if home is a feeling—then it’s transient. It shifts, transforms, and maybe, just like love, it evolves with time. Does that mean love and home are synonymous? I don’t know. But I do know I’ve spent nights chasing the answer to this very question.

    I’m reminded of a lyric from Taylor Swift’s Florida!, where she sings:

    “Little did you know,
    Your home’s really only a town
    You’re just a guest in…”

    That line always hits me hard. Because maybe that’s it. Maybe home isn’t a location on a map. Maybe it’s a person. A presence. A connection. The life you begin to build with someone. And what a terrifyingly beautiful idea that is—to find your home in another human being.

    It’s comforting, yes. But also unsettling. Because the deeper that comfort grows, the more unbearable the thought of losing it becomes. Once you feel it, you understand why love has sparked wars, inspired poetry, moved civilizations. It all begins so simply—perhaps with a childish crush, a shared playlist, a familiar phrase. Then, before you know it, their quirks become the reasons you fall in love all over again. The way they scrunch their nose when they laugh. The way they steady you in a crowded room. The way their eyes find you in silence, saying things their words never could.

    And slowly, you become part of them. And they, part of you.

    Then one random Sunday, you catch yourself daydreaming. A home with French windows, sunlight streaming across a kitchen island. The smell of pancakes and coffee filling the space. Someone you love, dancing lightly to his favourite music in an apron, completely unaware of how breathtakingly peaceful he looks. That’s when you realise: this isn’t just love—it’s home. In all its quiet, chaotic, overwhelming beauty.

    But—this is not the end of the story.

    Because I overthink. I overfeel. And the story doesn’t stop at the dream.

    Instead, my mind drifts back. To the homes I built in the past. The fairy lights, the Polaroids now faded and covered in dust. The warm glows now turned cold. The record player that once played Presley? Silent. Forgotten. I see my demons peering back at me from memories I once called sacred. And yet, even as I hold on to the dream—of sunlight in the kitchen, of laughter echoing off quiet walls—I can’t help but feel the weight of memory tug at the edges. Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t always stay. Sometimes it slips through your fingers just when you think you’ve caught it. And sometimes, the same hands that once held you gently are the ones that let go.

    So I find myself suspended between hope and hesitation. Between the comfort of dreaming and the ache of remembering. I trace the outlines of old homes I once found in people who now live only in footnotes of my story—beautiful, painful chapters I still read in quiet moments.

    And then, as always, the spiral begins again.

    And I wonder: will love stay this time? Is this the end of all the endings?

    Or will I look back, years from now, at this dream I dared to call home, wearing a smile I no longer mean—haunted by the echo of what could have been?

    Let me know your thoughts

  • The Ghost of Christmas Past

    Remembering you comes in waves…and tonight I am drowning.

    Yesterday someone told me that we are not living in the past, we are learning and unlearning our lessons and that has to be one of the most relatable thing I have heard in a long time. Our past is what makes us- whether we accept it or not. The nature of your first friendship at school affects the way you interact with people your age upto a certain point. The place you grow up in, the school you go to, the people you surround yourself with- you pick up bits and pieces of everything as you go through life. I believe we are all like jigsaw puzzles- made of a million pieces, all in harmony- to create a unique blend of a person.

    But is it always in our best interest? What I mean to ask is- the habits, the memories, the nuances we carry within us- does it always help us build a better life or can it become an obstacle somewhere down the lane? I believe that it’s both. As we move forward, it becomes clear that not every part of our past is meant to accompany us. Some memories serve as gentle reminders of how far we’ve come, while others quietly weigh us down, making each step forward a little heavier than it needs to be. Habits born out of survival or heartbreak can, over time, harden into patterns that no longer protect us but instead confine us. And yet, even these burdens have shaped us in ways that are deeply human. They have taught us resilience, compassion, and patience—even if, at times, through pain.

    Life, it seems, is an endless dance between holding on and letting go. There’s a kind of art to knowing which parts of your story to weave into your present and which ones to leave respectfully in the past. It’s not about erasing anything, but about understanding that healing often means rewriting the narrative we once accepted as final. Growth asks us to be both tender with who we were and brave enough to imagine who we can still become.

    There are some loves you never truly outgrow. Once you have loved someone in your early years and gotten your heart broken, the remnants of that relationship don’t simply disappear—they settle quietly inside you, shaping the way you love forever. Even years later, if you notice a pattern in your new partner that even remotely resembles your past lover, something inside you stirs. Without meaning to, you go into self-destruct mode. You react instinctively, clinging to old fears rather than giving yourself the chance to realize that this time, it could be different. You make decisions rooted in memory, not the present moment.

    And that’s the heartbreak within heartbreak: once you have truly known someone and cared for them deeply, you are forever intertwined with them in ways you don’t always understand. Even when you no longer think about them consciously, one misstep, one misunderstanding, can catapult you right back to those long-forgotten days—back to the ache you thought you had outgrown.

    Is it fair to your new partner—to bear the weight of wounds they didn’t cause? Maybe not. Are we aware of this unfairness? Absolutely. But knowing doesn’t always make it easier. Sometimes, it’s not a choice at all. It’s a reflex, an invisible shield we raise before we can even name what we’re protecting ourselves from. And when the dust settles, when the anger and fear quiet down, we are left hoping—desperately—that this time, love will stay. That despite our attempts to push it away, someone will choose to understand us, to stand beside us through the ruins.

    Healing is messy. It’s not a straight line or a single, sweeping act of closure. It’s a tug-of-war between the person you were when you were hurt and the person you are trying so hard to become. Loving again after heartbreak demands more than courage—it demands radical self-awareness and a deep, patient kindness, both for yourself and for those who dare to love you despite the splinters. Every new relationship carries a quiet, trembling hope: that we are not too broken, that love can outlast the echoes of old pain.

    Maybe that’s what real love looks like—not perfect, not untouched by the past, but resilient enough to build something beautiful in spite of it. Maybe real love is choosing, every day, to believe in the possibility of healing. Maybe that’s how we finally set ourselves free—not by forgetting where we’ve been, but by daring to hope for where we can still go and maybe, just maybe, finally relate to these words:

    And by mornin’

    Gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean.

    Let me know your thoughts

    • The Mirror Principle: Reflecting Relationships

      A week or two ago I was talking to someone over Instagram and said something very mature which I later wrote on my Journal app and posted as a status on WhatsApp. Now before I dive into this blogpost- anyone remembers the Justin Timberlake song “Mirrors”? If you don’t, the following lyrics forms the centre point for this blog-

      ‘It’s like you’re my mirror

      My mirror staring back at me…’

      Okay enough of an introduction- let’s dive right in. During the aforementioned Instagram chat we were joking about human behaviour in correlation with one another. For example, you would not talk to your best friend the way you talk to your boss at the office. During such banter, my friend asked me to describe my own behaviour in as few words as possible- and in that very moment I came up with the perfect metaphor to give an answer to this question. I said I consider myself to be a mirror that does not distort the reality out of proportions. I am the mirror that reflects that reality with all its nuances. This is to say that I mimic the person in front or the person I’m having a conversation with. I give as much attention, respect, love, decency, importance etc as I have gotten from you.

      For years I have been the person who replied to texts within minutes or picked up a call on the first or third ring depending on my situation. It did not really matter if the person calling or texting was my best friend, partner, parents or an acquaintance – I was always available; till I wasn’t anymore. This change in behaviour showed me something very important- some times you have got to give back what you get- for your own sanity. Such a shift in my nature gave me clarity too- clarity about the people I want to keep in my circle. If you have been reading my blogs- you know the 50-30-20 principle I use for my emotional budgeting. While that is an effective tool to make sure that you are not bending yourself backward to help someone out- the same principle clubbed with my mirror analogy ensures an added filter. What exactly does it do? Let me give you an example with which most of us, if not all, would relate. You meet someone by happenstance maybe through a mutual friend, or at a club, or via an app or any other ways that are norms of the day. You talk to each other and there is an instant spark and you start talking to each other for longer hours characterised by prompt replies, words of affirmation or validation- maybe a little too much of that. You start feeling like having your dream-come-true moment. And then comes the period where the replies grow inconsistent. You start thinking what went wrong, if you should hav given them a chase rather than becoming all gooey and you start going down the spiral. You become restless and reply to a text received after 3 hours within 3 seconds and the whole cycle of waiting and wondering begins again. Sounds familiar? Well we have all been victims of this and more often than not we have blamed it on the heart- when all it’s doing is pumping blood!

      Now how does my mirror principle help here? The mirror principle states that I would be a reflection of how you treat me. For example, if you are a genuinely good texter- so am I, of course not at the cost of the work I have got to do. If you talk to me respectfully, I give it right back. If you pretend like you have to wait for your pigeon to send me back a reply by writing a letter without any valid reason- that’s exactly what you are going to get back. The fun thing about the mirror principle is that as long as you are giving back respect, validation, time – anything that is, in general, positive- no one would have any issues with you mimicing them. The problem starts when you start acting aloof with someone who has treated you like you don’t matter.

      It has taken me years to perfect this practice at the cost of losing out on connections, but you have got to prioritise your own sanity over connections who have a pattern of resurfacing when they need something from you. Know your worth! That’s it. This has been one of the most important lessons that has bamboozled people across generations. Some people understand it early on in life – our alpha males or alpha females with a mesmerizing personality. While some of us struggle understanding our worth in someone’s life, including me. So mirroring their actions after giving them a couple chances has helped me remain approachable but not at the cost of my self respect.

      So, what’s the takeaway from all of this? Simple—match energies, but don’t drain yourself trying to keep a connection alive when the effort isn’t mutual. The mirror principle isn’t about playing games; it’s about valuing yourself enough to give back only what you receive. And if someone finds it unfair, well, maybe they should take a good look at how they’ve been treating you. After all, a mirror never lies—it only reflects.

      At the end of the day, your time, attention, and emotions are valuable. If someone treats you with care, kindness, and consistency, you reciprocate. But if they make you feel like an afterthought, then why should you do any different? The beauty of the mirror principle is that it puts the power back in your hands—you’re no longer waiting, guessing, or overextending yourself. You simply reflect. And in doing so, you protect your peace, your dignity, and your worth.

    • The 50-30-20 Rule: Time Over Money

      What do you think of when you hear the “50-30-20 rule”? Does your mind immediately take you to financial budgeting? Well, I don’t blame you in this regard. All our adult life we listen to this principle in relation to money and how to judiciously spend the same- ensure that we enjoy our present but save enough for our future and any emergencies that we might encounter in this lifetime. Most of us struggle maintaining this in today’s economy and therefore prioritise either of those goals while some of us have attained mastery in this subject. However, that is not to say that some of us are just reckless with money- it just means that our situations don’t allow us to follow a set of principles with regards to one of the most important resources of the human life: money.

      Now, I have a question to all of you- is money the most important resource that we have in this precious little life of ours? I believe not. I believe that it is one of the most important resources- to me time is more important than money. We have a chance of getting back the money we lost but not time. Time is transient- once it’s gone; it’s gone. Like, no matter how much we crave to get our childhood days back- we can never get them back. Therefore, my conclusion of time being more precious, more important and therefore deserves much more attention. So, what if I say that the 50-30-20 rule can also be applied to time and emotional availability?

      I have struggled with emotional availability for a long time till I had to take things into my own hands. I found it difficult to say to people that I was unavailable when they needed something for me. Due to this personality trait of mine I have ended up deprioritising myself or my own needs, until I devised a simple plan for myself. Each person has a certain emotional bandwidth and to just spend all of it on the wants and needs of others just does not sit right with me. Therefore the plan and in the spirit of democratising my life for my readers, I write this blog.

      THE 50-30-20 PLAN:

      The plan looks something like this:

      1. I assign 50% of my time to my professional network. This includes both my time as well as my emotional availability for cold emailing, LinkedIn networking, coffee chats, reading newspapers or newsletters, articles or simply indulge in any networking events. You might be thinking why the lion’s share of my availability goes into this segment of my life. Well, my career forms a huge part of my life. I have a dream life which I am working towards steadily and with somewhat poise. It might not be visible to the world and sometimes not even to me- but my rational mind knows I am progressing- no matter how insignificant. Therefore, a majority share of whatever my emotional bandwidth is goes into my career and into achieving my dream life- what it looks like is a discussion for a future blog post.
      2. Now what do I do with the rest 50% of my emotional bandwidth and time availability. Well, 30% of my time is for people I hold very close to my heart- my core circle. This includes my parents, grandparents and my friends. They are my second pillar. Each and every person in this circle contributes to my growth. While majority of them complement my journey, some challenge me. You can say that these are the people who give me my drive to grind towards that dream life for which I have assigned the first 50%. It sounds absurd to have a set time limit especially for your family- but that’s just how life is. As you progress through life, it demands discipline. If you overrun every family call or every video call with your childhood friend- you end up with a pile of errands that were due day before yesterday. So what do you do? You plan and give yourself room for error. You surround yourself with people who are low maintenance. They understand the struggles you are going through. They don’t get angry when you forget their birthdays or don’t post a status with a long message. Sure they feel bad, they might as well feel like you are taking them for granted- but they never let that ruin the beautiful bond you have! It’s noteworthy to mention this here- keep people like the ones I just described very very close to yourself.
      3. We have finally arrived at the last and final segment of this plan or tool. The final 20% – I owe to myself. What I do during this time is my decision. I might spend 99% of this time and emotional budget sleeping or binging an entire season of F.R.I.E.N.D.S or maybe listen to Taylor Swift’s discography-but this is my time. I owe myself this. Each one of us go through life taking ourselves for granted. Well, that stops now. We owe ourselves so much more. While focussing on the first 80% we forget ourselves- its not to say that every other person in our life don’t deserve our time, emotional engagement or love- but always remember while your parents, your beloved or partner, your friends play a very important part in your life and you might not have achieved what you have till now without them- you went through those struggles all by yourself. No one fought your battles for you. Sure they gave you the tools to fight with- but you bear the scars. You are the one who bled, you are the one who gave up to build the dream life for yourself, your parents and your partner. It was YOU. So again, the final 20% is mine and mine alone.

      That’s it. That’s how I budget my emotions and time. Is it easy to achieve this? No, like financial budgeting, this is difficult to achieve. You might end up hurting people you hold very dear- you distance yourself from them because their goals don’t match yours. You make mistakes- a lot of them maybe. But slowly it all makes sense. This system also acts like a filter paper for your personal life. The ones who love you without strings stays right beside you when you are figuring out how to make this tool maximise your potential. And the rest of the people? Well, they sometimes fade away. As my girl Gracie Abrams said, that’s just the way life goes.