tired

I’m 25, and I am tired. Not the “had a late night” kind of tired. The bone-deep, always-on, slightly wired but permanently exhausted kind. The kind where you wake up already thinking about the next thing you need to do, and by 3pm you’re wondering how this became normal.

Sometimes I look at my parents and genuinely can’t imagine them feeling like this at my age. They worked hard. They raised families. They built lives. But did they feel this constantly drained? Or is this something uniquely ours?

Because it feels like we’re running on empty, all the time.

Our generation is tired in a way that isn’t just physical. We’re mentally overcrowded. There’s no real “off” switch anymore. Even when we’re resting, we’re scrolling. Even when we’re watching something, we’re half-working. Even when we’re meant to be relaxing, our brains are quietly ticking through tomorrow’s to-do list.

We’re constantly reachable, constantly informed, constantly comparing.

At 25, it feels like we’re expected to have figured everything out careers, relationships, finances, health, side hustles, social lives, personal growth. We’re told to “enjoy our youth” while also being responsible, ambitious, emotionally intelligent and financially stable.

Our parents followed more linear paths. Milestones were clearer. Society moved slower. Now, everything is an option, which somehow makes everything heavier. There’s pressure not just to live, but to optimise life.

Rest feels earned. And often, we feel like we haven’t earned it yet.

Even when we’re doing “well,” it doesn’t always feel secure. Buying a home feels distant. The cost of living keeps rising, and the safety nets our parents had often don’t exist in the same way.

They could work hard and see progress. Many of us work just as hard, if not harder, and feel like we’re standing still. That kind of effort-without-reward is quietly exhausting.

We’re more emotionally aware than previous generations and that’s a good thing. We talk about mental health, boundaries, burnout, healing. But awareness doesn’t make us immune. If anything, it makes us more conscious of how tired we are.

We’re not failing because we’re tired. We’re tired because we’re living in a world that never stops asking.

Maybe the answer isn’t more productivity hacks or stricter routines. Maybe it’s allowing ourselves to admit that this level of tiredness makes sense. That rest doesn’t need to be justified. That slowing down isn’t falling behind.

At 25, being tired doesn’t mean we’re doing life wrong. It might just mean we’re doing it honestly in a world that moves too fast.

And maybe learning how to rest, without guilt, is the skill our generation has to master.

A Taste of Home

There’s an undeniable magic to Indian food, a direct line connecting it to my very being. It's not just about eating, it's about comfort, memory, and who I am in every bite. The scent of sizzling cumin, the crackling of mustard seeds in hot oil, and the slow simmer of dhal filling the kitchen it wasn't just a collection of aromas and sounds, it was both nostalgic and incredibly comforting, it's what made home, home.

Growing up in the UK, food was always the thing that kept me connected to my roots, even when everything else felt distant. No matter how British my surroundings were, dinner was always Indian. A plate of hot rotli and shaak, dal that tasted like warmth itself, and a kitchen that smelled like my childhood.

Food is where culture survives. It’s in the recipes passed down without measurements, the unspoken rules about which dishes belong to which occasions, the way we instinctively reach for the dahi to cool down a spicy bite. It’s in the way our grandmothers knead lott with practiced ease, the way our mothers insist no one leaves the table hungry, the way every meal is a reminder of where we come from.

And yet,despite my love for it, despite knowing how much it means,I’ve never truly learned to cook. Maybe I’ve taken it for granted, assuming the food will always be there, that someone else will always make it. But I know that if I want to keep this connection alive, I need to learn.

Because food isn’t just about eating. It’s about carrying forward a piece of home, no matter where in the world we are. And I owe it to myself, and to the generations before me, to make sure that piece never gets lost.

the heartbeat of heritage

There’s a moment at Navratri, just before the music begins, when everything feels electric. The dandiya sticks are clutched tightly in our hands, the air is thick with the scent of incense and anticipation, and in those first beats of the tabla, suddenly, the whole room is alive. Feet move in perfect rhythm, ghagras swirl, and voices rise in unison. In that moment, I don’t just feel Indian, I know I am.

Growing up in the UK, being Indian has always felt like a balancing act. There’s the life we live every day, where our names are mispronounced and our culture is often misunderstood. And then there are the moments like this, where being Indian isn’t just a part of me, it’s all of me.

Navratri is more than just nine nights of dance, it’s a celebration of resilience, devotion, and community. It’s about stepping into a hall miles away from Gujarat and feeling completely at home. It’s about elders watching proudly from the sidelines, about little kids trying to keep up with the fast-paced garba circles, about aunties adjusting their chunni's as they break into a flawless raas routine. It’s about the unspoken understanding that no matter where we are in the world, our culture will always find a way to thrive.

It's in moments like these that I feel a deep, undeniable pride. To be Indian. To be Gujarati. To be here. To belong to something so vast yet so personal. Because no matter how far from home we might be, we carry it with us. In our music, in our traditions, and most of all, in each other.

what renovated my house taught me about being human (not a LinkedIn post)

I’ve always been fascinated by how people experience something mildly inconvenient and somehow turn it into a LinkedIn thought leadership post about their company.

So naturally, after finishing a full house renovation, I felt it was my duty to do the same. But honestly, renovating didn’t teach me much about strategy, leadership, or synergy, but what renovating a house actually teaches you about being human.

First lesson: optimism. Renovation requires a level of belief that things will work out, even when they’re half done and don’t make sense yet. You learn to trust the process, even when it looks chaotic in the middle.

Second lesson: decision making. You make a lot of choices, some big, some tiny, all while realising that perfection is overrated. You learn to commit, move forward, and live with your choices, which is honestly a life skill.

It also teaches collaboration. Renovating isn’t a solo sport. It’s about listening, compromising, and figuring things out together, as a family. You learn quickly that being aligned matters more than being right.

There’s also something grounding about building a space intentionally. Choosing how you want to live. What feels comfortable. What feels like home. It makes you more aware of what you value and what you actually need.

And when it’s finally done, you realise the biggest lesson wasn’t about the house at all.

It was about patience without pressure.
Progress without perfection.
And finding joy in creating something that’s meant to be lived in, not showcased.

So no, this isn’t a lesson in business strategy.

It’s a reminder that sometimes growth looks like building a home and enjoying the process along the way.

2022 felt like

2022 felt like a breath after holding it for too long.

After two years of corona, of pauses, uncertainty, cancelled plans and quiet resilience, this year has with a different energy. Not perfect. Not magically fixed. But lighter. Hopeful. Alive again.

It was the year we slowly returned to ourselves.

Life started opening up. Rooms filled again. Laughter sounded louder. Plans felt possible instead of conditional. There was a collective softness in the way people showed up, like we all understood something we hadn’t before. That time is fragile. That connection matters.

2022 carried positive vibes in the simplest ways. Saying yes again. Travelling without fear. Celebrating milestones that had been delayed. Being together without screens in between. It reminded us how good normal moments can feel when you’ve gone without them.

It was also a year of appreciation. For health. For freedom. For the ability to move through the world without constant caution. Things that once felt automatic suddenly felt like privileges.

2022 wasn’t about pretending the last two years didn’t happen. It was about carrying the lessons forward without the weight. Choosing joy intentionally. Letting life feel full again.

For me, it will always represent renewal. A quiet reminder that even after long periods of stillness, growth returns. Energy returns. And so does hope.

2022 felt like the world exhaling.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.