I know, I know, not the healthiest thing but hey, I’m only human.

I saw a video directly from people in impacted, war-torn areas. Swipe. Then, I saw a cute couple playing the latest trending game. Swipe. Then, a family being torn apart with onlookers trying to stop it. Swipe. A baby with the cutest laugh.

Swipe.

The whiplash was jarring.

It’s hard to keep track of how many wars are taking place. How much money is being spent around the world with the intention to kill. How much blood is being spilled so that greedy companies and politicians can make more money just to spill more oil into our oceans.

It’s horrendous.

Millions of people are suffering. Dealing with diseases. Living in unlivable conditions. Wars don’t make menstruation stop. Women are having to endure the symptoms of their menstrual cycle while staying as clean as possible to avoid infection and getting blood everywhere and still showing up for those around them. Men are being stripped of their roles as protectors, forced to witness their helplessness in the face of systems built to keep them down. Children are witnessing horrors no human at any age ever should. Their childhoods are stripped away every second they’re forced to live with fear in their body.

Meanwhile, I’m falling in love. I have friends going through treatment to get pregnant. Others are celebrating their first home purchase. Excited to get a job. Launching a business. Raising a child. Getting upset over something small (but very real), like stubbing a toe. Or getting overwhelmed as an introvert with yet another social outing that feels like an obligation.

These two truths are increasingly difficult to carry at the same time. How dare I be overwhelmed by safe, celebratory social outings when people don’t have access to water to wash themselves, let alone drink? How dare I celebrate a win when I know my taxpayer dollars are being used by a government that I never supported to kill schoolgirls en masse?

I have the simple privilege (which really, should be a right) of having a safe place to rest. That alone makes me feel guilt. Never mind the many other privileges like access to food, clean water, and a space to simply be.

I didn’t do anything to deserve the things I have. Yet, people living in countries being attacked and being torn apart from their families didn’t do anything to deserve the experiences they’re being forced to live through either.

We all have dreams. We all want to love and be loved. We all want to live in a place that feels safe. To create. To be.

I felt the guilt creep up from my toes all the way to the crown of my head. It consumed me. I stopped scrolling and let myself feel the guilt. I indulged in it. Let it make me feel like a horrible human just for existing.

After what felt like way too long, I realized that in the process of letting my guilt consume me, all my thoughts were about me. How bad *I* felt. How horrible *I* was.

The truth is, that the more I get caught up in my guilt, the less available I am to the world.

Indulging in guilt makes the suffering of others about us and our own conscience. It’s a quiet form of self-centering that interrupts our natural flow and stalls our ability to move. And ultimately, guilt does nothing to help anyone, including ourselves.

That realization was sobering. I was making it about me. And in that crowded room of self-reproach, there was no space left for the people I was actually grieving.

Releasing guilt is harder some days than others, often dependent on my news intake. But on the days I don’t feed my guilt, I choose to feed my curiosity.

My privilege isn’t a reason to hide, it’s actually the very thing that provides me the safety to look, listen, and act. I educate myself, not to feel “informed” but to be ready. I donate, I research, and I stay aware so that if or when the time comes to speak up, I have a voice that is grounded in something more than my own discomfort.

Guilt keeps us stuck and centers us and our story. Curiosity is a bridge.

It’s not about me. It’s about being available to the people facing daily injustices, ensuring that while I have the privilege of a safe place to rest, I don’t use it as a place to fall asleep.

When you picture success, does it look exhausting? Like something earned only through struggle?

Alysa Liu chose something different.

The 20-year-old Olympic gold medalist left people stunned both on and off the rink.

Alysa Liu was a child figure skating prodigy. She was the youngest US champion at 13 years old. Over the next few years, she realized she was burned out. Her days were structured around skating. Coaches dictated what she wore, what music she used, how she trained.

At 16, she announced on Instagram that she was retiring. It shocked people. A child prodigy does not retire at age 16, that’s when you’re supposed to work even harder.

During her retirement, she went on her first vacation. She went to the mall with friends, got her driver’s license, learned how to ski and snowboard, and spent time with family and friends.

She lived.

Then, at 19, she chose to come back to the sport on her own terms.

And because returning to the sport was her own conscious decision, she thrived.

She brought a kind of joy, lightness, and presence to the rink never seen before. She didn’t go on any kind of diet. She didn’t skate every day. She chose her own music, her own outfits, and her own choreography.

And she won Olympic gold.

But the medal isn’t what’s sticking with me.

It’s that she stepped away when everyone expected her to keep going. That she let herself be a teenager. And that she came back only when it felt like hers again.

Somewhere along the way, most of us started believing that momentum is all that matters. That pausing means you’re falling behind. That anything but forward movement is a risk.

But maybe breaking beyond doesn’t always mean pushing harder.

Maybe sometimes it means stepping away. Finding ways to feel like your fullest, most aligned self again. And returning, if it feels right, with your own rhythm.

It’s stories like Alysa’s that stay with me.

Stories that expand what feels possible.

Anyone who watched her skate could feel it. Not just the skill, but the ease. The joy. The presence.

That kind of transformation doesn’t just happen at an Olympic level. It happens in people’s lives every day.

And that’s what I want to explore.

I’m excited to introduce Breaking Beyond: What Grew. This is a series where I’ll share conversations with people who have made unconventional choices, stepped away from what no longer fit, and discovered what grew in its place.

If you or someone you know has a story you’d be open to sharing, I would love to connect. You can fill out this form, and I’ll reach out to set up a time to chat.

FILL OUT THE FORM

The March edition of Breaking Beyond: Unplugged is underway! I can’t wait to send out the mail next month. If you haven’t already, sign up by March 13th to receive the next letter.

GET THE MARCH EDITION

When it was my birthday, I wanted lenghas. When it was Christmas I wanted jewelry. When a movie finally came on VHS or DVD, I had to watch it.

A lot of my childhood was surrounded by family, family’s family, and even their family. I knew my cousin’s cousin’s cousins and treated them like my own cousins. So, when family parties happened, I was excited to get dressed up and see everyone.

On school day mornings, my Dadi would drive my brother to school, my parents would be at work, and I would be at home alone for twenty minutes. Those twenty minutes were all mine. The Ishq CD went right into the stereo (Mr. Lova Lova, anyone?), the volume turned up way too high for 7am, and my nine year-old self danced her heart out to the only music she loved.

On Saturday mornings, I wanted aloo paranthas. Sometimes besan bread. And always chaa with biscuits.

On Sunday mornings, my Dadi drove her ‘lil crew of Bijis to the mandir. I used to go with them. My Nani went to the gurdwara. I used to go there too. My Dadi’s and Nani’s friends complimented how well I did mattha tek. Getting karah parshad was my favorite part of going.

My elementary school put me in ESL classes because while I was born and raised in the US, Punjabi was my first language. I don’t remember actually needing the classes. I went because I was told to. I also happened to be the only Indian kid in my class.

Just as I started having crushes at school, I overheard my parents chatting with my aunts and uncles about how “the boy’s family is very important, you know, it’s a marriage of families. We’ll make sure we find someone really good for Shailla.”

In middle school, a friend came over to work on a science fair project. My parents offered her dinner. She accepted because it was late and she was hungry. I can still feel the nerves that rushed through my body. It was the first time I had a friend over who was offered Indian food. And not just any dish, my favorite. Daal and roti with our family chutney recipe of ketchup, spices, onions, and carrots.

She grabbed the roti off the plate with two fingers and tilted her head sideways to look at it. My heart dropped as I watched her look at it like it was from another planet. She had a look of confusion and aversion on her face. After one bite, she asked if we could take her home.

My friends all got to go to the mall with each other. They also went to school dances. I wasn’t allowed to.

Kids at school made fun of Indian culture with dumb questions like, Are you the dot or the feather? Does your dad own a 7/11 or drive a taxi? Why are your arms hairier than mine, are you sure you’re a girl? How come you don’t smell like the other Indians?

I caught on quickly. Anytime someone would make fun of Indians, I’d laugh too. That’s them. Not me.

I stopped listening to the music, watching the movies, and only spoke the language when necessary. Even the food wasn’t cool. I didn’t want daal and sabji, I wanted burgers and pizza.

As I got older, my cousins shared that they were bullied for being Indian in high school. I was shocked. That wasn’t my experience at all, and we’re similar ages. When they shared with me what people used to say, I felt something heavy settle in my body. The people at their schools said the exact same things as my friends at school.

I noticed myself struggling to remember basic words in Punjabi. It felt like I was losing a piece of myself. My mom and I made it a point to bring Punjabi back into our conversations whenever we could.

Once I moved away from home, I found myself craving Indian food. My mom gave me some of her homemade masala and instructions on how to make some of my favorite dishes. Cholay, gobi, daal, gajjar. How did I ever reject these dishes?

My third trip ever to India at 29 with my mom reminded me of how connected I feel when I’m there.

I started blasting the music again. Sidhu. Diljit. Karan. Jasmine. Icky. AP.

My friends beg me to make them Indian food.

My mom and I are plotting our next trip to India together.

I don’t feel nearly brown enough to claim my roots, but at the same time, I feel too brown to claim anything else.

When my mom and I talk in Punjabi, the words don’t always come easily.

But they’re still there.

And so am I.

This piece is about the stories we tell ourselves. The ones that build walls. And the ones that, when we’re brave enough to question them, can tear those walls down.

The other day, I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom-turned-part-office-during-COVID with my regular lineup of beverages. Water, protein shake, coffee, and coconut water. I was staring out the window looking out over the suburban street thinking about my life and where I’m at versus where I’d like to be. Caught, yet again, in one of my many contemplative moments, “Why haven’t we done the thing yet?” The response was the same one I’d told myself many times before. We’re waiting, Shailla, waiting for the intuitive green light.

I want to support people in chasing their dreams. Getting past their own self-limiting beliefs. Share stories of others who’ve done the same. To remind people that it isn’t easy, they aren’t alone, and that sometimes, we’re our own biggest barrier.

I have been sitting with my own feelings of defeat and hopelessness. I have a vision but I haven’t acted on it the way I know I’m capable of. These things I’ve been day dreaming about for a while now. These things that I know I enjoy doing but for some reason… don’t.

Then I recognized one of my stories. I was telling myself that I was waiting for a clear intuitive sign. I get them enough to recognize them clearly. Yet, I’d been waiting for the green light to take action on my dreams.

What?

I know.

I don’t need a cosmic thumbs-up to take steps towards what I want to achieve. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t been sitting here twiddling my thumbs but I also haven’t been testing my comfort zones as much as I know I enjoy doing. You know why? Yep, been waiting for my intuition to guide me towards it as clearly as it has before.

I realized this waiting I was doing was fear holding me back. Fear of judgment. Fear of not being perfect. Fear of looking dumb. Fear of not doing it “right”. Fear of having wasted my time and earning potential towards a dream that just may not happen. So, I tell myself I’m waiting for a sign. Because once I get that divine yes, I’ll magically be put exactly where I want to be.

Sigh.

I had to take accountability for my lack of action. My inconsistency. The ways I wasn’t showing up for myself but prioritizing others. Their dreams. Their fears. Their struggles. I left mine on the back burner, waiting for the signal to move forward. Crippled by fear disguised as a story about waiting for a hit of intuition.

I enjoy sharing stories. Mine and others’. I love having conversations that dive right off the deep end. Where we laugh at past versions of ourselves while holding them with gentle compassion. They didn’t know what we know now.

It’s easy to make up stories about why we are where we are. It’s a way to make sense of things that don’t make sense to us in the moment.

But those stories might also dictate how we move in life. The stronger we hold onto these stories, the more they direct the actions we do or don’t take.

We can get down on ourselves about why we’re stuck, why things don’t seem to go our way, why this or why that. It’s easy. Because if this trend or outcome has been consistent in our life up until this point, how do we not?

My business idea didn’t work out, that must mean I’m dumb. I’m still single because I’m unlovable. I’m waiting for a sign to take action. Why did I think I could do this, I’ve never done something like this before. No way I could travel by myself, I’m too old.

I challenge you to notice when you find your mind repeating its own stories. They are often disguised so well that we hold them as truth rather than what they actually are, self-limiting beliefs our minds make up to keep us in a space where it knows what’s coming. Predictability.

You are not too old to take that leap. No matter how crazy it seems. You are not dumb or incapable if your business isn’t where you wished it would be. Being single has nothing to do with your lovability.

Our stories aren’t wrong or bad. We’re human. And if we tweak the story just a little, it can propel us forward.

My new story is that I will take consistent action towards my dreams and trust that my intuition will light up when something is a yes and warn me when it’s a no.

We don’t have control over much. But we can choose how we respond. Whether or not we take action. Whether we believe we can make a difference. Whether or not we trust ourselves to move forward, even if it’s messy.

So, tell me, what stories have you been telling yourself and are you ready to challenge them?

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with my story. Subscribe or follow to keep up with this journey.

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Currently

Reading: The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action by Audre Lorde

Listening to: IMO: Focus On What’s Right About Young Men with Barack Obama

Thinking about: How I seem to be surprised by my emotions every month leading up to my period.

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It was a Saturday morning. I blinked my eyes open, confused about the day and where I was. It was one of those mornings. I instinctively reached for my glasses hanging off the edge of my bed. I put them on even though my eyes were still taking long blinks, sat up in bed hunched over questioning my decision to wake up, and gave myself a little pep talk.

It’s a new day. We have no plans and can do whatever we want with it.

My mind told me we wanted more sleep. It always tells me that. Similar to most mornings, I reminded myself that I just needed to wash my face to feel awake. Those fifteen steps from my bed to the bathroom are often the hardest steps of my day. I love laying in bed. Yet, I’ve been lucky enough to take those steps every morning.

As I stood there brushing my teeth, I looked at myself in the mirror and evaluated my body. My leg muscles were so tight, they may as well have been guitar strings and my brain so foggy and slow, stuck buffering at 3%, not even coffee seemed like it could reboot it.

Something in me whispered that movement and nature might be the medicine.

We need to go on a hike.

And go we did. I decided on one of my favorite local hiking spots, Los Gatos Creek Trail. The area feels safe, it isn’t known for intimidating wild animals (you know, lions, tigers, and bears), and I am familiar with the trails. Win-win-win.

I nourished my body with a hearty breakfast, crispy hash browns, over easy eggs with a runny yolk, and the required Cholula hot sauce. My go-to meal when I don’t want to think about what to make.

As soon as I got to my car, I could hear the chatter of my mind start to do its thing.

Do we really need to hike? It’s so much cooler at home, it’s hot outside. We’ll sweat.

As if perspiration was a bad thing. I love breaking a sweat and being in the sun. But.. I also love sitting on the couch.

The hike started off easy. The first .75 miles were flat and shaded with trees, cooled by a creek running alongside the trail. It was beautiful, majestic, green, calm. My mind felt at ease with the gentle, flat terrain.

Then, came the climb. It was abrupt. And steep. I had done it many times before but that didn’t keep my mind from trying to stop me.

It’s getting hot. Our stomach hurts.

Something quieter pushed me forward though. As I approached the top of the climb, I was met with a beautiful meadow with countless trees, uncut tall green grass, and butterflies. Then, I realized my stomach was, in fact, hurting. No matter, I was determined to listen to that tiny voice and make it to the top. It’s a 5mi roundtrip hike with 1,000ft elevation gain. Not too bad.

The more I climbed, the more my mind was reminding me of how unwell I felt. I got the visual of a tiny angry elf twisting my intestines with a wrench. I continued to climb. I listened to the little voice that was telling me to keep going. Even though my mind had other ideas.

Let’s go home. We already got outside. Mission accomplished.

I was ready to give up every tenth of a mile. My mind even signaled to me that I might throw up. Commence, nausea. And just like that, I was deep in survival mode, planning for worst-case scenarios.

I found myself doing disaster math. Would it be better to throw up or pop a squat in plain sight with nowhere to hide on the trail? Vomiting wins. Always. I clenched tight.

We should just turn around and go home.

I took some deep breaths. I let my lungs and belly expand as much as I could get them to. I asked myself, “Why is this hike important to complete?”

To prove something to ourselves. To remind ourselves of what we can accomplish when we don’t quit.

Then, I gave myself permission to go as slow as I wanted. To take as many breaks as I needed. There is no rush to get to the top, I reminded myself. I’m not competing with anyone. I’ve passed people up, other people have passed me up. Some people are on bikes. Others are in groups. Many of us are hiking alone. I don’t know any of their destinations and they don’t know mine. We’re all going along our own paths as best we can. That’s all that matters.

The trail didn’t care how fast I climbed. No one did. I could feel my shoulders relax into this permission. Permission to just be me. To allow. To surrender. To not give up but continue at whatever pace my body would allow. I began to hear that little voice more clearly now.

On the other end, my mind was making up any excuse to be comfortable, including making me feel unwell. It wanted me to go home and relax. Not be sweaty outside in discomfort, struggling to hike an incline.

So, I made up a game to anchor my mind into the present moment. I focused my attention on the smallest things I could find. Like the ant line crawling alongside the trail. Tinier and tinier leaves. The only bright yellow flower bloomed among a scatter of browned out weeds. Dust particles left behind in the air by the bikers that went by.

My mind was occupied and present. I was fully immersed in my surroundings.

Then, came the shift. Subtle. But real. My stomach stopped hurting. The nausea went away. I didn’t end up needing as many breaks as I gave myself permission for.

The climb became bearable. Enjoyable, even. Each step lit a small match inside my leg muscles. Painful, but illuminating. Though, instead of using that as a reason to turn around, I found myself being grateful to have the ability to walk, to build muscle, to challenge myself.

Slowly, my pace picked up. Suddenly, I found myself jogging. I am familiar enough with the trail to know how many turns were left. Some part of me wanted to celebrate across the finish line to the top so that’s exactly what I did.

I made it to the top. By that point, I felt like I could climb another 1,000ft elevation gain. My body got the movement it needed and I felt the accomplishment and win I needed.

The little voice won. The part of me that knew I needed this hike. This accomplishment. The internal battle to continue. The reminder that I can do anything I decide I want to accomplish, regardless of what my mind tries to convince me of.

It wasn’t easy. The mental gymnastics I had to go through to get to that point were nearly unbearable. Yet, I overcome. Slowly. Sweaty. And ultimately, smiling.

I’d been traveling solo through Thailand for a few weeks and was getting familiar with Bangkok. A sprawling city of skyscrapers, seamless public transit, and the most beautiful malls I’d ever seen. After a month of traveling alone, I had gotten used to eating alone. It was hard at first but I learned to see it as necessary. Caring, even.

As my time in Bangkok came to an end, I decided to take myself out on a date. Not a meal somewhere to take care of my body but an intentional, romantic outing for myself with myself. It was one way I could challenge the societal belief that you need a partner or friend to go to nice places. Plus, it was an opportunity to reflect on my time in Bangkok while doing one of my favorite things, watching the sunset. My cousin recommended that I go to this rooftop bar that offers a beautiful view of the sunset, Banyan Tree Bangkok.

I put on the little makeup I had and wore the only dress I was traveling with in my backpack. I rarely wear makeup but I wanted to do this for myself. I was excited. Scared and nervous because it felt different than the meals I ate by myself on a daily basis but, ultimately, excited.

I took a taxi to the hotel. As I entered the hotel, I quickly became aware of how upscale it is. The scent in the hotel felt like stepping into another world, a palace. There was a subtle scent of jasmine and polished wood, with a hint of citrus that would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. It took a minute for my body to adjust from the chaos just outside the entrance doors. A woman was playing music on the grand piano off to the side of the lobby seating with a small audience of well-dressed elders. There were gold accents on the furniture and walls to amplify the grandeur with real lotus flowers on display.

Overcome with wonder, I suddenly felt too embarrassed to ask for help–what if they think I’m stupid or tell me I can’t be there? Instead of asking for help, which would have been a completely normal thing to do, I walked around the entire lobby until I finally came to an elevator and went in.

The rooftop bar must be on the floor labeled RT, I deduced, as I pushed the button.

I was joined in the elevator by two couples dressed in cocktail attire. The women’s outfits were on point and their makeup looked professionally done. I can still remember the deep green dress one of them was wearing. It was satin, off-the-shoulder, and went just below her knees with a slit up to her thigh. I immediately felt underdressed in my black spaghetti strap maxi dress. I shouldn’t be here. My discomfort was hard to ignore.

As we approached the rooftop, the two couples stepped out ahead of me. They seemed to know where to go so I followed them along a pathway that led to a an outdoor restaurant. The rooftop looked like a bougie perfume commercial starring top models in their finest cocktail attire. I stood there, waiting for the hostess feeling like a Hostess Twinkie mistakenly placed next to a Michelin-starred Strawberry Arnaud.

Trying to forget how displaced I felt, I marveled at the fact that the hotel had a perfect view of the Bangkok skyline but would also be part of the skyline from a different vantage point. The sun was slowly lowering in the sky, the perfect time for a romantic dinner. The excited part of me squealed on the inside for my solo date.

After the two couples were seated, I approached the host.

“How many in your party?”

Behind him, I scanned the restaurant. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that it was full of couples. My excitement, again, became discomfort.

“Uh... Just one.”

Apparently, I was too quiet, “Could you repeat that?”

“A table for one,” I said maybe a little too aggressively.

The host jerked his head up after hearing my tone. He was young, probably in his early 20s. He was clean shaven and his hair was well maintained, as were his eyebrows. Another model on this rooftop of models.

“Will you be eating dinner?”

“No, just drinks and snacks,” my eyes scanned the room, looking for a table of girlfriends, a family, another person dining solo, anything.

He smiled as if to acknowledge my discomfort or, at least, that’s what I told myself, “In that case, the bar would be a better choice for you. You can choose your own spot just over there. The seating up those stairs is open for anyone.”

“Perfect, thank you!”

To get to the bar area he was referring to, I had to walk through the entire restaurant by myself. I made my way through the pool of couples. I felt like I was on display for everyone to see. I wanted nothing more than to run out of there, pickup a to-go meal, and eat it alone in my hotel room.

All I could hear in my mind was, you don’t belong here, Shailla. I tried to fight back but there wasn’t much conviction in my response.

Yea, I do…

I looked around for a table that had seating for one. They only had tables for two or four. I decided to sit at a two-seater table with, in my opinion, the best view of the sunset. It was also tucked away in a corner creating the illusion of being hidden.

My server approached with a menu, “Welcome to Banyan Tree. Here’s your menu. Will anyone be joining you tonight?”

“No, just me,” I responded, as I flipped through the menu, avoiding eye contact.

“Would you like any recommendations?”

“Sure, whats your most popular red? Nothing too dry.”

He pointed to the menu I was holding, “This malbec from Argentina would fit what you’re looking for.”

$32 per glass? Yikes, I should have looked at the menu before I came here. I hadn’t considered how expensive this romantic solo date would be.

“Okay, great, thanks. I’ll look at the menu some more and let you know.”

As I looked around, I noticed the tables were filling with more and more couples.

The server made his way back to me, “Are we ready to order?”

“Yes, I’ll get the pinot noir from France,” it was the second cheapest at $20 per glass, “and an order of snack mix.”

“Excellent choices. I’ll bring those right out.”

I pulled out my Kindle to read while I waited. I would occasionally look around to see how the place was filling up. There were no tables left and a line had formed where I came in from.

The sun was approaching golden hour. The server brought my wine and snack mix. For a $20 wine, it wasn’t that great but the view more than made up for it.

The sun would be putting on a show soon and I had front-row seats. I put my Kindle down to be present. As I was getting myself settled to watch and enjoy the show, I noticed, in my periphery, a couple standing at the bar. They looked a older than me and were dressed just as well as everyone else.

The man looked upset. He was looking around, scanning the bar seating area. The tables were all taken by couples on dates or double dates. As he scanned the room, his eyes made their way to my corner. While looking in my direction, he said something to his date. She glanced over at me but then shook her head “no” while looking back at him. He put his hand up as if to tame or calm her.

My discomfort heightened. He wants my spot, I thought. I already felt out of place and now felt bad that two people were inconvenienced because of me. The guy at the bar noticed me noticing them and I quickly averted my eyes back towards the sunset.

Soon after, the man started walking towards me. His date stayed by the bar, watching.

My stomach twisted. Panic rose to the surface. I just hoped it didn’t show on my face.

He spoke with the annoyance and sense of entitlement of a spoiled child of a billionaire, “Will you be here much longer?”

My mind put me down without missing a beat, I told you you don’t belong here.

With extreme difficulty and a desire to display confidence, I responded, “I’m planning to watch the sunset.”

He rolled his eyes and walked back to his date. She comforted him with a sympathetic look and a hand on his arm.

He seemed upset. Did I just ruin a proposal? I considered giving up my spot, feeling bad for the couple. Then a small voice cut through the guilt. If he was proposing, he should have planned better.

I took a deep breath, grabbed my wine glass, and brought my attention back to the sunset.

Moments later, I noticed the same guy talking to my server and pointing in my direction with his head.

Soon after the exchange, my server approached me, “Ma’am would you like another glass of wine or should I get the check?”

What an asshole.

It’s possible the wine I drank was starting to hit me because I looked towards the guy who sent the server to check on me and smiled at him before looking back at my server and responding, “You know, I think I’ll have another.”

“Excellent. I’ll be right back with your glass.”

I had no intention of ordering another glass and spending $20 more but it was worth watching the server tell the man my decision, confirming that I would not be leaving. He looked like he was ready to explode.

I started to affirm myself sitting there. I am a paying customer. I haven’t even been sitting here that long. I have every right to be here, as much as any couple.

The first glass of wine definitely started hitting me because when I was brought the second glass, I, again, looked towards the guy who wanted my spot, made sure he saw me, locked eyes with him, and cheersed with my glass and a smirk.

Then, I thoroughly enjoyed watching nature do what it does best with my favorite date, me.

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with my story. Subscribe or follow to keep up with this journey.

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Currently

Reading: Excerpts from Worlds Fair by EL Doctorow

Listening to: Bernie Sanders on the Flagrant podcast

Thinking about: What I’m going to wear to the Kendrick and SZA concert.

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   What if it’s no good, what if I fail, what if I suck, what if no one likes it, what if, what if? What if I spend all my time chasing this stupid f—ing dream and it fails and was a big waste of time, huh? Then what? A thousand what ifs and no two ever the same.

3. I Went to a Chain Restaurant Alone and Spent the Entire Meal Pretending to Be a Food Critic by Michelle J

   The real turning point came when I asked my server about the "preparation method for the bourbon glaze" and she nervously told me she'd check with the kitchen.

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I want to publish more frequently. I want to post stories, interview people. I want to learn and share stories. Stories from the mundane to the extraordinary. Nothing is too big nor too small. No person is too important or not important enough, whatever that means.

I want to normalize the human struggle and triumph. The ways in which we find our next step. Our guiding light, that voice, God, intuition, whatever you want to call it. And how we fight against our own internal conflict and limiting beliefs. Our demons or our mind. Maybe even others. People who don’t see what we see or how we see it. They don’t believe it in it the way we do. I don’t blame them. They’re only able to see and dream as big as their own self-limiting beliefs. Sometimes we take their beliefs on as our own.

We must not.

I want to share stories about how we break beyond all of these things. How we learn to trust ourselves, listen to ourselves, and take action for ourselves. Over and over until we get to where we want to be. It’s not likely to look how we envisioned. It’s not likely to feel that way either but if we enjoy the process, then what more could we ask for?

Writing brings me joy. It helps me understand what I’m feeling. Vomit out whatever emotions might be inside. Writing makes me feel lighter. I enjoy the process of crafting a story. Adding tension, playing with different dialogue, and thinking about the latent and manifest content.

Yet, I find my mind, my much-too-active-mind, overthink everything. It doesn’t allow me to publish anything if it’s not “perfect”. Whatever that means. It makes up these stories that millions of people will read that piece that’s not perfect and then I’ll look dumb. And let’s be honest, I have tens of subscribers. I’d be ecstatic if I got 100 views on any given post.

Today, I’m deciding to challenge my mind. This piece has barely been edited. (I had to fix the typos.) It’s a stream of consciousness writing and I’m sharing it in its raw form, imperfect. That part of me that wants to feel amazing about every word I’ve written needs to be challenged.

So here I am. Challenging it. It’s scary. But fuck it.

I hope I see you next week with another imperfect piece.

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with my imperfect words. Subscribe or follow to follow along this journey.

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Currently

Reading: Short Stories by Lydia Davis. My favorite so far has been “Enlightened”. Give it a read. It’s only a paragraph.

Listening to: The Diary of a CEO with Steven Bartlett where he talks to Master Shi Hong Yi about ancient mind tricks Shaolin monks use to master themselves and break free.

Thinking about: The people of Palestine.

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   You are to be powerful, but never loud.
   Wanted, but never wanting.
   Beautiful, but never dangerous.
   You are to be angry, but only in private. With the door closed. In a language no one else understands.

   And yet—inside you is a howl.
   Not a whisper, a howl.
   A scream born of centuries.

3. Pivot | Part 1 by

   Wondering is intelligence the collection of information

   Or using tools that point at the price of peace, like

   What is sustainability?

   How we construct in the order of destruction

   Building a sense to know the difference of what to do

   and what needs to be done now

4. Navigating Life Beyond The Rat Race by

   You may desire to reach your goals fast, but if you are not healthy enough to enjoy what follows then it’s probably not worth it.

5. No time to explain by

   Those who have stopped short at only what the five senses can perceive—or worse, what can only be seen with the eyes—will never venture this far.

If you enjoy reading my stories, feel free to subscribe and stay up-to-date as I share.

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I was in the middle of one of every Indian-American woman’s nightmares. Being alone in a room full of aunties. Not the cool aunties either. The aunties we typically avoid because there’s no knowing what unhinged thing they may say.

There were ten aunties in the room and me.

Most of the aunties fit on the L-shaped dark brown leather couch in my parent’s family room but we’d brought in a few dining room chairs to accommodate the overflow. My mom took one of the overflow seats and I took my spot in the corner of the room on the ground, intentionally out of sight.

I happened to be staying with my parents at the time. I had just gotten back from a year of traveling alone and was getting used to being back in the US and figuring out my next step.

Everything was going as usual. The chai was out and served as were the snacks; khatta mehta, samosas, rusk, ladoos, jalebis, and my personal favorite, gulab jaman. The aunties expect it. They deny it. But ultimately, end up thoroughly enjoying it.

In the culture I grew up around, there’s a dance to accepting anything. Deny three times before gracefully accepting “against your will”. It’s a dance I reluctantly participate in, too. It’s expected. You’re eager if you accept too quickly and rude if you don’t accept at all.

“Let us make some chai and get some snacks,” my mom and I offer.
“No, thanks, we ate before we came.” (First denial)
“We insist.”
“No, please we just wanted to see you.” (Second denial)
“Really, it’s no trouble. We don’t mind.”
“Please don’t do any work, just have a seat.” (Third denial)
“We’ll just get the chai going and come back.”
“Okay, then, if you must.” (Acceptance)

The aunties were in full-blown conversation and gossip. Swapping stories about the latest, their kids, and their own lives.

I felt like I was watching an Indian drama on Zee TV. The lipstick stained tea cups. The different pitches of their voices, the mix of forced and real laughter. The different speeds at which they all spoke Punjabi. Accelerating as they got excited about the story they were sharing and slowing down with their eyes gazing towards the ground when it was something serious. The way they swung their chunnis over their shoulders to make a point. The movement of their heads and hands, further animating their stories.

All the aunties had been born in India and moved to the US with their husbands. All the aunties had kids. All of their kids were born and raised in America. Many of their kids were married, a good amount of those married kids had their own kids, and anyone unmarried was either in med school or almost married.

Then, there was me.

In my 30s, unmarried with no prospects, unemployed, recently returned from a year of traveling alone, and figuring out what I wanted to do next. Nobody else in the family, extended family, or community had “veered off course,” like I had. For better or for worse.

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Although these aunties had “perfect” kids, they still found things to complain about.

“Well, my own son told me he was going to set boundaries with me.”

“With his own mother?” another responded, “I bet it was because of his wife.”

I found myself responding in my mind. Yea, because you drive her crazy.

“I’m worried about my daughter. She isn’t getting the best marks in medical school. What did I do wrong?”

It’s not about you. Plus, she’s been partying it up to release the stress of med school and her parents AND she’s still #2 in her class.

“I don’t know how they’re raising their kids these days. My daughter-in-law only did breast feeding for a few months.”

“Well, yea, she was clearly in a deep postpartum depression that got better once she stopped. She did what was best for her.”

20 individual eyeballs turned, all looking down towards me sitting on the ground in the corner of the room, no longer invisible.

Oh no. I said the inside part out loud.

Instant regret. That’s when the nightmare really began.

“So, Shailla, when will you get married?”

I should’ve stayed quiet.

My heart rate sped up. My breathing quickened. My eyes wandered the room, taking in the expression on each of the aunties faces. My mind full of witty, “disrespectful” responses.

Ultimately, what came out was a common Punjabi phrase, “Jivein likhya hai, ovin hoyega,” or essentially, “How it’s written is how it’ll happen.”

“Oh, you don’t want to wait too long. The clock is ticking, you know.”

“Well, I still don’t know if I want kids so we’ll see,” I stated, a little too casually.

You’d think I just launched a nuke. The aunties were all talking over each other in response to that comment. The general gist being, “What do you mean? Of course you’re going to have kids. Don’t say such ludicrous things!”

“Yea, maybe. If I find someone who I want to have kids with that I think would be an amazing father.”

“I know of a good boy. Good job. Good family.”

“Me too, Shailla,” chimed in another auntie.

Because that’s all that matters, right? Never mind his emotional capacity, communication, and desire for growth as a human being.

My mom, thankfully, had my back, “She’ll figure it out.”

There was a quiet in the room. That conversational lull that happens when topics are about to be changed. You’d think that’s exactly what I’d want but then, as if from somewhere else, my mouth started moving and words came out.

“Did any of you get a choice in who you married and when?”

They laughed, “Of course not.”

My mouth did that talking thing again, all on its own, “And are you happy?”

The laughter stopped.

Some looked around at each other. Others looked down towards the ground. Nobody responded.

“I’m happy. What’s more important than that?”

I wasn’t sure if I was being disrespectful. This is generally considered back talk. It’s not normal. It’s not accepted. I know this yet, for whatever reason, I continued.

“My mom didn’t have a choice either. Not my Dadi (dad’s mom) nor my Nani (mom’s mom). Or anyone else before them. I’m taking all their choices and making all of my own. Because of them, I can do that. So why shouldn’t I?”

The room was collectively in shock. Myself included.

Nobody had a response. I couldn’t tell if my mom was embarrassed or trying to hide her pride. Maybe a little of both but probably mostly embarrassed by her often-too-American daughter.

I don’t think it had ever been presented to them like that. I hadn’t actively thought of it like that either until that moment.

What a privilege. A blessing. A duty. I have the power of choice in my life. These aunties didn’t. Not really. They still make pretty crappy comments about things and gossip a little too much for my liking. But it made me feel more compassionate towards them. They were raised in a society that required them to go from living with their dad to living with their husband who was chosen for them by their parents. Never allowed independence. Rarely allowed the option to be educated. Their growth likely stifled by their egoic husbands. Of course, there are exceptions to this. But I’ve seen way too many incredible women with close to zero confidence because of how they’ve been put down by the men in their life.

I was the first in my lineage of women with choice. I didn’t do a single thing to deserve it yet, here I was, living a life none of the women before me, including these aunties, could have ever fathomed.

Well, except my Dadi (dad’s mom). She did some boss ass shit.

Subscribe to get my next post and learn how my Dadi, an Indian woman born in the 1920s, stood up for herself multiples times in multiple ways, against the cultural norm.

I must have gotten it from somewhere.

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with me as I lived (and survived) one of my nightmares.

Subscribe to be notified about the next story where I plan to dive into the history of my family, how they made their way to the US, and how my Dadi was a complete and total bad ass.

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Currently

Reading: “The Creative Process” by James Baldwin

Listening to: IMO with Michelle Obama and Craig Robinson // Disappointment is the Key to Career Success with Keke Palmer

Thinking about: My ancestors. I love thinking that they’d be proud of the way I’ve chosen to live my life. The reality is, if the human versions of them existed today, many of them may not be. They grew up in a completely different time and may not understand me or my choices. That’s okay. I like to think the spirits of my ancestors are rooting for me.

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   i think i fall in love a little with every person i meet. i crave to know the experiences, the intricacies, the stories of how people came to be who they are. i say this because i genuinely find beauty in everyone.

2. To Be a Woman // by

   At our best, we love each other the way wolves do—without hesitation. Unguarded, fierce, protective, and with a primal understanding of one another’s experience. We know what it means to stand in the center of our own chaos every day and not succumb to the storm brewing beneath our skin.

3. The Cost of No Reciprocity // by

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I had a teaching job lined up in Phuket. I decided to take a trip before classes started and I was tied to a set schedule that would determine my daily routine.

My parents made me promise that while I was traveling solo, I would not travel through India, the motherland, alone. My parents and extended family had fears about the dangers it could pose to a solo traveling Indian woman who looks too American. Said woman could be a target captured for ransom. “It isn’t worth the risk, Shailla.”

Alright, alright. Of all the countries, I guess can agree to not go there alone.

All that said, I did find a loophole to my promise. An island country off the coast of India, Sri Lanka. It would be similar, not the same, in food, culture, and religion. I could hear the Indian Ocean calling my name. I hadn’t thought about it before but as soon as the idea of visiting Sri Lanka came up, I felt a strong pull. I wanted to connect with my ancestors who, to my knowledge, were actually terrified of the ocean. All the more reason I had to break that generational fear. I decided to trust the call and go.

I took a flight into the capitol, Colombo.

Upon arrival, I grabbed a taxi and headed to Bunkyard Hostel where I had a reservation. My driver was excited to see someone who looked like him but quickly realized that I didn’t speak Sinhala, Tamil, or Hindi. Just Punjabi. He reverted to English and showed me the different buildings and temples on the way.

As someone who hadn’t ventured much outside of northern India, I was mesmerized by the stark differences in culture and religion in Sri Lanka which, I imagine, are similar to the southern parts of India.

In the hostel, I quickly made friends who wanted to explore together; one of my favorite things about hostels. But first, I had to get my feet in that ocean. I would be the first in my family to do so. The first for many generations back and the only one today within the extended family.

The hostel was not ideally located so I didn’t have access to the renowned beaches in the country but I found a place called Galle Face Beach. It had enough of a beach to dip my feet in, which is all I wanted to do.

After telling my new hostel friends that I’d catch them later, I headed off in a tuk tuk to Galle Face Beach. I got dropped off at one end of the area by a paved walking path. It was a beautiful park with a paved walkway, huge, open space of manicured lawn, food vendors, and both local and foreign visitors. To my left, there was a steep 10’ drop-off to the ocean. The staircase leading to the beach was a far, not-so-far walk.

The sky was clear with the sun directly above. The rays of sun warming my skin and producing melanin. There were families with little kids running around, playing with toys, grabbing snacks. A group of teenagers gathered together in a circle laughing. My nostrils thoroughly inhaling in the various street food aromas. I could feel my forehead forming sweat beads from the walk and the sun.

I’m so lucky to be here. I can’t believe I made it to the Indian–

My thoughts get cut off.

I can feel a sudden urgency in my body, the hairs on my arm stand up, my hearing gets clearer, my eyes dart around alert, my attention laser focused on finding the threat.

As I look around, I notice a man in a salmon shirt behind me.

All the sensations in my body become more heightened.

Is he following me? Okay, calm down, Shailla.

Not sure of what to do, I found a bench near a group of teenagers and took a seat so he could pass me by and no longer be behind me. You know, in case he was actually following me. I waited a while until he was out of eyeshot. Then I got back up and continued my walk.

Minutes later, he was somehow behind me again.

Am I going crazy? I swear he walked away.

So, I pulled over again, this time by a food vendor. I stood to the side of the paved walkway as he passed by again. This time, as he walked by, he turned his head to the right to look directly at me and stared me down. My entire body tensed up.

What. The. Fuck.

I waited until he was out of eyeshot again. Then I continued on my quest, determined to dip my feet in the ocean. This random salmon-shirt-wearing guy will not ruin my experience.

Dude, is this guy behind me again? Is he going through some portal I don’t know about?

I didn’t like him behind me so I pulled over yet again, right next to this cute elderly couple sitting on a bench with some shopping bags.

This unwanted dance with salmon shirt guy continued a few more times until the last time. I sat on a bench by a group of people for half an hour, got a snack, and made sure he was nowhere to be seen.

Finally.

I make my way down the staircase to the tiny beach. This staircase is the only way on and off of the beach and the beach itself is small with maybe 5-10 feet of sand before the water hits.

I can’t believe I made it. I want to savor this moment. This feeling.

So much of my family is terrified of large bodies of water, especially the ocean. I’m the opposite, while I have immense respect for the ocean, I love being in it. I felt called to this ocean. There’s no other way to describe the feeling.

I took off my sandals and closed my eyes to do a quick meditation. Feet firmly planted in the sand. Toes wiggling their way deeper, feeling each grain. I was grounded and ready to take this step towards something that felt like a step toward healing for me and my family.

As I’m about to open my eyes, my body experiences the same sensations as earlier. Alert, aware, hair standing at attention.

I look around and who do I see?

The salmon shirt guy coming down the stairs, shoes in-hand.

This motherfucker.

Internal rage ensued.

He better not approach me.

I tried to stay centered and grounded but it was too late. My guard was up, my body tense, and my eyes zooming around behind my dark colored sunglasses.

Salmon shirt guy approached me soon after his arrival at the beach and said something in Tamil or Sinhala. He, like many others, assumed I was Sri Lankan.

Internally, I told myself to respond in Spanish but naturally, English came out.

“I don’t speak that language.” I sounded curt, direct, and annoyed because I was.

“Oh, where are you visiting from?”

“Just from out of town.”

“Are you traveling alone?”

“No, I’m here with my boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

My body language is closed off. Arms folded, body facing away from him, shoulders raised and tense.

“Do you like it here?”

“It’s nice.”

“Where is your family from? You look like you could be Sri Lankan.”

Ahh, should I say India or the US? What’s better in this context?

“India.”

“Oh, that makes sense. But you don’t speak like you’re from India.”

Bro, leave me alone.

This is all a normal flow of conversation that I have had many times but because my body was sounding all the alarms, I needed this person to go away.

“Yea.. well, thanks for the conversation. I’d like to be by myself while I wait for my boyfriend.”

“Oh, you don’t want to talk to me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I stare straight ahead and give no response.

“Okay.”

FINALLY. Please stay away now.

He stayed on the beach and I tried to re-ground myself. I looked around for signs of safety. There was an elderly man nearby carrying plastic bags full of what looked like food, a mother with a few kids running through the water, and a couple laughing. They all looked like locals. I guess I did too, to an extent.

Salmon shirt guy was circling nearby but I focused on my first steps into the water.

I grounded myself as much as I could while still being aware of this stranger’s whereabouts and took those steps into the water.

The water is so warm.

I could feel my body relaxing into the warm comfort of the ocean.

Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

Salmon shirt guy decided to join me in the water, “Do you have a prince?”

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

I side-eyed him and didn’t respond.

He repeats himself, “Do you have a prince?”

Okay, be assertive, Shailla. Let him know he can’t mess with you.

“Hey, I don’t want to talk. I want to be left alone. Please stop.”

His eyebrows furrowed. His face scrunched up. His hands turned to fists and his eyes narrowed in on me.

Is this guy about to fight me?

“Did I say something to upset you?”

“I just don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to be left alone. Have a nice day.”

“Okay, bye.”

His tone was weird but he finally left and went up the stairs.

My moment with the ocean had passed though. There was no getting that back. Especially not after all these interruptions and my body being in fight or flight mode.

I stepped back towards the wall, taking in the view when I noticed up above the salmon shirt guy talking to a local cop.

That’s weird. I feel like they’re talking about me. Why are they pointing at me?

Salmon shirt guy took one last threatening look at me before walking off. The cop stayed behind. He had his walkie-talkie in his hand and seemed to be watching me. I couldn’t be sure though because he was wearing sunglasses with his uniform.

Okay, we’re just overthinking this, Shailla.

But I couldn’t ignore the the warning signs my body was giving.

I walked toward the staircase and noticed the cop followed me up above. I walked away from it and he did the same. Every time I’d move in any direction, he would follow me up above and say something into his tightly gripped walkie-talkie.

What could salmon shirt guy have said?

There was only one way on and off the beach, the staircase, where he could trap me.

What should I do?

My mind was on overdrive. Thoughts, plans, and ideas were swarming my mind.

I could try to communicate with some of the people on the beach. Maybe they’ll understand Punjabi. Or I could walk off the beach with them. Or –

Then, I heard them.

WHITE PEOPLE.

I followed the Australian accents up above. There was a group of them and I could tell by their voices that they would pass by the top of the staircase.

I followed the sound of their voices. As I got closer to the staircase, I ran up, and approached three white retirement-aged Australian men.

Out of breath, eyes watery, voice and body shaking, I managed to blurt out, “Hi can I pretend I’m with you guys? The cop behind us has been following me and I don’t know why. I just need some people to walk with so hopefully he can leave me alone.”

The three men turned around in unison to look back at the cop. His sunglasses off now, I could see that he was looking directly at me with the walkie-talkie in his hand but as soon as he saw the three men look back, he stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropped, and he looked stunned. He made eye contact and stared me down, hesitated for a second, then immediately turned around and walked off.

The men could sense the fear in me.

“Our wives are just ahead, we’ll introduce you.”

The husbands briefly explained what happened and the women went into a mom-mode that brought comfort.

I walked with them all the way back down the park towards the direction I had originally arrived.

They asked me all kinds of questions which helped regulate me. “Where are you from, where are you traveling, what have you seen?”

We made it to the tuk tuks where all I wanted was to go back to the hostel.

“Do you want us to come with you? We can drop you at your hostel.”

They’re soooo nice. Can I adopt them?

I politely declined. All I wanted to do was be alone and cry.

“Thank you so much but I think I’m just going to head back to my friends. I appreciate it though!”

I hopped in the tuk tuk and my mind started racing. The driver did what the drivers in the area do, he tried to hustle me.

“Do you want to shop for gold? I know how much you Indians love gold. My friend owns a shop I could take you to.”

“No, thank you.”

“How about food? My friend makes some great curry in his restaurant, you will love it.”

LEAVE ME ALOOOOONE

“No, thank you, just the hostel please.”

This guy was just doing his job but I was just trying to keep it together.

I finally made it back to the hostel, went to my shared dorm, and was grateful to see it was empty and cried in bed.

What just happened?

I didn’t know what the intentions of the salmon shirt guy or the cop were but I could feel in my entire body that they were not good. I didn’t have a lot of time in the country and didn’t want to waste it in the room but I felt paralyzed by fear.

How is it that I felt safer around white Australians than I did with people who look like me? How messed up is that?

The time difference made it hard to reach out to anyone back home, they were all sound asleep.

Some of my friends from the dorm made their way back to the shared room and by then, I was a bit more regulated. I shared my experience and they comforted me. Some of the women shared their own scary encounters.

I used to love being a chameleon while traveling but maybe it’s not a good thing. Do I want to keep traveling solo?

By nighttime, I decided I didn’t want to allow fear to build a home inside me based on this one-off experience.

I’m safe.

My hostel friends had all gone to dinner. I declined to join that night. I still needed space. I knew this experience on the beach, while not uncommon, was also not something that defined the country or its people and I didn’t want it to define my experience either.

It was dark out now but if I could overcome this fear, I knew that I could continue traveling solo with the same enthusiasm as before the encounter. I Googled a place nearby that would offer me some comfort. Bring me back to the US, just a little.

Okay, we’re going to walk outside and people back home are awake now, so we’re going to call someone on our way there.

I called a friend and I got to share my experience and told them that I needed the comfort and safety of speaking with a loved one as I walked to *drumroll* McDonald’s to get dinner.

I know, I know. How could I? But I just wanted some comfort food. Something to remind me of the US, being home, feeling safe.

I did the 10-minute walk in the dark to McDonald’s by myself, ordered my food, ate, and headed back.

Okay, I can face another day again. I got food in the dark by myself. We got this.

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with me through the rollercoaster ride of this experience in Sri Lanka and for that, I am grateful.

I don’t yet know what I’ll post next but if you’re into stories like this, thoughtful pieces on other ways humans break beyond both internal and external limitations, or conversations with other humans, hit subscribe and come along for the ride.

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Currently:

Listening to: What Now? By Trevor Noah // The Problem with Men, with Scott Galloway

Thinking about: My self-sabotaging patterns. What are they, how are they limiting me, and how can I work with them to break beyond to the next version of me?

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2. A Diagnosis, a Decision, and the Inner Voice I Couldn’t Ignore // by

   And that trusting and listening even though it was the scary, uncomfortable, not-necessarily-what-someone-else-would-do thing likely saved my life.

3. you are unique, act like it // by

   But honestly? I think wanting to fit in is really about feeling lost. It’s the fear of being alone. The thought of carving your way through life, except it feels like a dense jungle you don’t have a map for.

4. Learning to Hear the Inner Voice // by

   More important than either of those, though, is this: living a deeply purposeful and true life comes down to hearing The Inner Voice and then acting on what it says.

5. On Getting Old. // by

   I go to seek a great perhaps is attributed to the French Renaissance writer and philosopher François Rabelais.

   It’s meaning is about the greatness of not knowing the next steps. The beauty of an unanswered question. It’s about embracing and going all in on the great unknown, which for us could be death or illness, or new love and new adventure, or changes in who we thought we were.

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if you haven’t done this before, it might seem a little weird. but, if you allow, it can be freeing. this practice helps process emotions, release the self-limiting beliefs we tend to hold onto, and move forward with less weight. give it a shot and notice how you feel afterward.

i was introduced to this idea over a year ago in a shadow course by .

dear imposter syndrome,

you are overwhelming. i allow you to paralyze me. too afraid to take action on the things i love. you make me question whether i love them at all.

can i write about my experience? i feel like i’m too american but not american enough yet too indian but not nearly indian enough. you have me questioning whether i have a right to feel what i feel.

you’re constantly judging me. you make me hesitate before taking any step towards what i want. you find ways to pick things apart before they exist. before i’ve created them. before i’ve even dared to dream about what i may want to bring into existence.

who do you think you are? you say.

the way you judge me and put me down is brutal because i believe you. i believe every word. i internalize it. i make up stories and believe them to be indisputable fact.

i know you’re scared. listening to you has kept me safe but has also kept me small.

i want to explore my voice and take up space. i want to create. to share. to build.

but ridicule is e v e r y w h e r e, you say, what if they say mean things?

they just might.

i know your knee-jerk reaction will be, i told you so. don’t do that again.

and i’ll probably listen to you. until, inevitably, the pull for creation becomes too big to ignore. then, we’ll run through this cycle all over again.

but i want to change that. i don’t want you to be quiet.

no.

i want you to express yourself.

i promise i will listen to you. i will befriend you. i will give your voice the outlet it needs.

in return, i just need you to lower your voice. i need you to communicate your concerns more gently. like one might speak to a dear friend. with compassion.

dearest imposter, i know you’re scared and making every excuse to protect us from being in a position that might hurt us. but i’m telling you that we will get through things together. that i will hear you out and give you space to voice yourself.

then, we will move forward together.

you drive me crazy, imposter, but i love you anyway.

<3

shailla

currently

reading: tough broad by caroline paul

listening to: what now? by trevor noah // human-kind or human evil with rutger bregman

thinking about: the turnout at my congressional district’s town hall today. it was inspiring to be around other humans who care, who want to make change, who are gathering, protesting, and energized.

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posts i’ve read and loved these last two weeks

Maybe you are not falling behind by

Maybe taking longer to arrive means arriving with more intention, more clarity of who you are. Maybe it’s ok to move slower and arrive later than everyone else. Late-R does not mean too late.

i'm sick of hearing about your boyfriend by

I want my girlfriends to stand up for themselves. I want them to stop taking shit from men. I want them to be angry, rude and un-ladylike. I want men to think they’re a bitch. I also want to see them in good relationships, with good men. And I want them to be so happy in their relationships that we never have to talk about boyfriends again.

the more i heal, the more i pivot. by

being alone is being with myself and there’s a lot of richness that comes with being able to recharge, reflect, and bask in your own energy. that’s where i’m at.

____

when we start to let go of external validations, expectations, and opinions — who would we be? where would life take us? what will we do? who are you interrupted?

Breaking Beyond shares stories of those who know life begins when we get past barriers—internal and external. Tune in for personal stories from a solo traveling brown woman defying norms to interviews with dreamers and trailblazers who have broken beyond.

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This story is a continuation of my last post, Heightened Senses. Each new post will be a continuation of the previous while simultaneously being a standalone story.

My parents kept me sheltered while growing up. My cousins were my friends. I have a lot of them too. My friends at school were limited to being just that—school friends. I wasn’t allowed to go to my friend’s houses, the mall, any kind of school dance, or events after school hours.

I used strategy though. It was slow and methodical. I built trust where there was none by keeping my grades up and showing general responsibility. They also needed explained the importance of being involved in extracurriculars.

“I need these for my college applications.”

The story about my college applications comes later…

With that strategy, I became involved with the student council. By nature, that required me staying after school and being able to spend time with my friends. Eventually, I ended up taking one of the publicity commissioner roles for the school. The role meant that I would help create communications to promote upcoming events—whether for community service, school events, plays, or dances. I loved being the person that informed others about the goings on of the school. I loved knowing what was coming and helping to plan those events. By my senior year, I joined some of the elected school officers and made the morning announcements over the PA system. It was easily my favorite time of day.

I also love baking. I used to bake a cake for every friend at school on their birthday. It became a tradition. We would meet at the hangout spot, called the Senior Stage, sing, and dig into the cake I made, each of us equipped with our own fork, eating from the same plate. I love making people feel special and loved. Those friends of mine looked forward to their cake each birthday and even made special requests.

I used to dream of becoming a pastry chef.

How cool would it be to make people happy every day with their favorite treats?

One day, I was at an extended family member’s house. We were all hanging out post-dinner, chatting. I was going to be graduating soon and they asked me what I wanted to do after high school. Normal questions for people that age.

I should tell you, in the most stereotypical Indian-American fashion, the cousins in that family all had ambitions of going into healthcare. Each of them is some kind of specialized doctor today.

When my aunt and uncle asked me what I wanted to study and where I wanted to go after high school, I confidently and proudly responded with, “San Francisco Culinary Arts Institute to become a pastry chef.”

I was met with silence, looks of disbelief, confusion, and then uproarious laughter.

Of course, Shailla must be joking.

My parents, brother, and I were not laughing. My aunt, uncle, and cousins slowly caught on and realized they laughed at my dream and immediately took it back, apologizing profusely.

But can that kind of reaction ever really be erased from a child’s memory?

My dad always told me that he didn’t care what I did, as long as I worked hard and loved it. I don’t know any other Indian dad who has said that. He, himself, never went to college. He barely finished high school. School wasn’t his thing. He worked really hard, is naturally smart, and made a good living for himself to provide for his family. He’s one of the hardest working people I know. My mom, on the other hand, just wanted to make sure I was formally educated so I always had a fallback. She went to college in India and did really well for herself upon coming to the US. She’s the strongest person I know.

While I’m glad my dreams of becoming a pastry chef didn’t pan out—I couldn’t imagine waking up at 3am to bake every day—the response I felt that day from the extended family about dreams I had said a lot about the Indian-American culture’s acceptance (or lack thereof) of anything that wasn’t deemed “esteemed.”

Ultimately, I ended up studying business. It was a good catchall since business knowledge would always be relevant. When I took my first business course in undergrad, we had to do a project where each team member took on a C-Suite role. I fell into being VP of Sales and Marketing and as a result of that project, fell in love with the marketing function. It was my publicity commissioner role from high school but with strategy, measurability, and the skillset to make a difference in the world.

I spent almost a decade developing that career and here I was, in my late 20s, questioning it. What would I do if not marketing? I worked for tech startup after tech startup, always being promised that it would be the next big one.

The next unicorn.

That quickly stopped being exciting. I never imagined I would want to explore other careers in my life. Once I decided marketing, it was a lifelong commitment in my mind. Little did I know that this health scare would make me rethink everything.

I had no idea what I was going to do but I knew that whatever I decided would be unacceptable. I could sense that with the way my thoughts were going, my decision would be far removed from what the Indian-American culture could begin to comprehend, let alone accept.

Was I going to let that stop me?

Stay Tuned

My next post will share what I decided to do. How I began thinking differently than I had before. How I challenged cultural norms. How this health scare ultimately changed my life. Get the next story straight to your inbox to find out what I did.

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Currently:

Reading: Tough Broad by Caroline Paul

Listening to: The Rich Roll Podcast // The Mindful Body: Harvard’s Dr. Ellen Langer on The Power of Mindfulness, How Thoughts Can Control Health, and using Perspective to Lower Stress

Thinking about: the power, importance, and necessity of being intentional with our attention

Breaking Beyond shares stories of those who know life begins when we get past barriers—internal and external. Tune in for personal stories from a solo traveling brown woman defying norms to interviews with dreamers and trailblazers who have broken beyond.

Subscribe now

This story is a continuation of my last post, It Wasn’t Enough. Each new post will be a continuation of the previous while simultaneously being a standalone story.

After a few follow-up appointments and even more blood tests, my PCP (primary care physician) was not able to diagnose what was going on. She ultimately referred me to a Hematology/Oncology specialist.

A blood and cancer specialist. What is happening?

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, the appointment crept its way towards me. I was dreading the appointment while equally holding onto the hope that everything would be fine.

I arrived at the office of the specialist in a hospital in San Francisco. Upon entering the office, each of my senses heightened as my fear kicked in; I noticed the sudden temperature drop, the unmistakable smell of a doctor’s office, the forest green leather chairs with tears and individual threads poking out, the change of the taste in my mouth, and most noticeably, the stark realization that I appeared to be the youngest in the room by at least four to five decades.

How am *I* here?

Not a single person in my life knew what was going on. I preferred to keep it to myself. I didn’t want sympathy or to constantly be asked how I felt. I wanted to share the information with people once I knew something concrete. Because if it was nothing, why worry anyone?

Right?

I checked-in with the receptionist. She gave me some forms to fill out about my health history, insurance information, and general mental well-being. Upon returning the forms, she handed me a personalized hospital wristband.

Okay, this is nothing, I'm not being admitted. It's just hospital regulation.

I sat and waited to be called while trying to regulate my breath. I was in complete disbelief that I was there as the patient and not accompanying or visiting a family member as I had done many times before.

I was called to meet with the specialist—in normal US doctor’s office fashion—30 minutes after the scheduled appointment time.

“Okay, Ms. Chand, how are you feeling?”

“Uhhh.. pretty nervous.”

“I understand. Let’s go over your results, shall we?”

He explained again why I was there and reviewed the results of the tests my PCP ordered. Then, he outlined the order of the specific tests he was going to run and why he was going to run them. From there, depending on how those went, he would determine the next tests that would come, and so on. He outlined a lot of possible outcomes.

He sounded so official. He used big words. Words I didn’t understand. I asked for clarification frequently. I consider myself pretty smart. I can confidently say I’m not dumb. But this. This was new. Information was being shared too quickly for me while I was also trying to hang onto whatever meaning of life I had up until that point and also calculating how my life might change as a result.

“Alright, Shailla, any questions?”

*blank stare*

“Um… no? I don’t think so…”

“Well, if anything comes up, just shoot me an email through the provider portal. We’ll see you soon.”

I left feeling more hopeful than before yet even more afraid. All those steps he outlined, many of which my business-minded-corporate-marketing-self didn’t fully understand, were overwhelming. I still didn’t feel ready to tell anyone. Life moved on like normal, even though nothing felt normal. I hid it so well, even those closest in my life had no idea.

Is that impressive or scary?

Life became dull. While I continued to go through the motions of life by working, going out with friends, doing the so-called “normal” things people in their 20s do, my mind had a full-time occupant: existentialism.

What is the point of anything? What do I want to do with my life? Life is fleeting. What is the meaning of anything? My life? Anyone's life? Why are we here?

I enjoyed pondering and having discussions around these kinds of questions but before that moment, they were always in theory. I had never actually been faced with the reality of my own mortality.

After a few more weeks and many more tests, all of which pointed towards continuing to take the next step, I had to move forward down the path the specialist had outlined on day one. I would have to have a surgical procedure done in the next week or two if my next test pointed in that direction. This is when I got scared. Too scared. I had to tell someone. I had been keeping this all to myself for months.

My parents had a tendency to do the same thing to me and my brother. When anything was medically wrong or potentially wrong, they didn’t tell us. I hated that. But here I was… doing the exact same thing to them. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

I decided it was time to tell them, my brother, and his wife what was going on. I didn’t want to continue doing to them what they’d done to me so many times before.

My parents, brother, sister-in-law, and I were all sitting at the dining room table one night when I was visiting my parent's house. We had just finished eating and were conversing about the latest things in each of our lives. I felt awkward. Stuck. My mind was yelling at me inside to say something but my mouth wasn’t moving. The energy changed in the room, it was that noticeable shift when people get ready to call it a night. I knew I had to say something.

"Hey, guys, I have something to share that might be nothing, is probably nothing but could be something."

The sentence was met with a palpable dead silence and four sets of eyes staring at me, waiting for more.

"My blood tests have been coming out weird for the last few months and they don't yet know what it is but I may have to have a procedure done in the next week or two depending on how this last test comes out. I thought I should tell you guys because I've been freaking out about it a little."

My mom’s eyes started filling with tears, my dad was in a state of shock, my brother zoned out, but my sister-in-law spoke up.

“Okay, so what tests have you gotten so far? What are they saying are the potential outcomes? What test are you waiting on?”

She helped bring the family into the moment by asking relevant questions that probably didn’t cross their minds as they processed my fragmented flood of information.

“Well, the results of my tests continue to prompt forward movement towards nailing down what could be going on. We just haven’t reached the point of knowing yet.”

I explained that it could be nothing all the way to cancer but that's true of most irregular tests—they could always end up being cancer.

Cancer.

That word intensified the fear and tension in the room. I was the youngest there, what did it mean if I had cancer? I saw the look on my mother’s face. A million different scenarios ran through her mind.

“I’ll keep you guys updated on what happens, as it happens moving forward. But please, can we not tell anyone yet? I don’t want to share something that could still end up being nothing or something minor.”

They accepted my request.

What happened after was unexpected. My brother started calling me to check in.

This is new.

I don't know what he was thinking or feeling but the end result was noticeable—we spoke more regularly.

Would my brother miss me?

I had never before considered what it might be like for others if something happened to me. Would it impact people? Who and how? What it might be like for my older brother to suddenly become an only child?

Whoa.

Stay Tuned

My next post will share what this experience prompted me to do. How I began thinking differently than I had before. How this experience ultimately changed my life. Get the next story straight to your inbox to find out what I did next.

Subscribe now

Currently:

Reading: Tough Broad by Caroline Paul

Watching: Mo on Netflix

Thinking about: how I can get more involved with my local community

Posts I Read and Loved This Past Week

1. a life of faith is not a life with proof. by
   A beautiful reflection on faith and life. It reminds us to follow the unique creative path that we know is best for ourselves, even if it doesn’t fit the mold of what society has come to expect.

2. Something’s missing and it’s our big sister. by
   This hit a chord in my heart. I’ve never had a big sister and this expressed so many sentiments I felt but never had words for.

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"Whatever you do, don't Google it," she said just as we had finished going over my blood test results.

Wait, what? Why would she specifically say that? Googling hadn't even crossed my mind.

But of course, what did I do immediately upon returning to my desk in the open space office floor plan of a 2010s startup? Yep, I Googled it.

Bone marrow disorders, leukemia or other bone marrow cancers, liver cirrhosis, hepatitis C, lupus, the list didn't stop.

I didn't have time to dwell on that though. I let it be a passing thought. I had a week until my follow-up appointment. If it was urgent, they wouldn't have waited that long.

...Right?

I wasted no time. I dove right back into work. This marketing campaign wasn’t going to make itself successful. Doing my job felt more important to work on than managing my emotional response to this news and my overall physical health.

It wasn't until days later when those scared and curious thoughts became too loud to ignore. I found myself Googling again while at home. That’s when the realization sank into my body.

I'm mortal.

How was I, a healthy 28-year old potentially dealing with a life-threatening illness? I workout, I eat well, I walk, I challenge myself.

How is this possible?

My mortality set in and I couldn’t shake it. It took over every fiber of my being. My body felt wavy. I started questioning reality. What is life?

Temporary.

Fragile.

Precious.

Can be taken in seconds.

I still had four days until the follow-up appointment. Those four days felt like eternity. Time is funny that way, isn’t it? I had thoughts swarming my mind incessantly. I had these thoughts before but not at this frequency and not nearly with the same magnitude.

If I died, what would I have accomplished with my life? What have I done? What am I proud of? What do I want to do in this life? If I die in a year, what would be the most important thing for me to do right now? If I have cancer, do I have to move back in with my parents to get through treatments? What does that mean for this career I feel so passionate about growing? Who am I?

Whoa.

My mind was off the rails. But it was asking valid questions. Questions I didn’t have answers to. Questions I didn’t know how to begin to answer. It's unfortunate that it took a shock to my system for these questions to be acknowledged with the attention they deserve.

I had spent life catering to my family and what society deemed acceptable. I did all the "right" things. I got good grades in high school, volunteered, did extracurriculars, went to college, worked almost full-time while getting my undergrad degree full-time, graduated, got a job, then got a better job. Decided to go to grad school part-time while working full-time in the SF tech startup scene, applied, got in, moved to San Francisco, overpaid for the apartment I was staying in, got better and better jobs. Maintained friendships, dated, challenged comfort zones, kept in close contact with my family, played the part.

Blaaaaaaah.

It wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough that I already broke cultural barriers in my family—I moved out of my parents house and was living on my own—even after finishing school. It wasn't enough that I was the first in my family to get a master's degree. Something else was calling me. Calling me to challenge myself in a way I had never before imagined. It was a distant, far-off fantasy.

I was actively living my younger self's far-off fantasy—living in San Francisco on my own, with a "good" job, solid friends, and freedom. What more could I want? What more could there be out there?

Realization set in, I had been living my life for others; my family's desires, society's expectations, my friends. I hadn't been living the life I wanted for me. I didn't even know the life I wanted for me. How does a person figure that out?

Question for the Readers

What was your eye-opening moment? The conversation, experience, emotion, or observation that helped you feel the fleeting nature of life? I would love to hear from you. What was the catalyst that brought you closer to your Self?