After the idea of a "happily ever after" faded from fairy tales and into the background of my life, what remained was reality—raw, relentless, and demanding more from me than I thought I had to give. I wake up every morning hoping to feel free—physically, emotionally, mentally. But instead, what greets me is a strange sensation in my body: flambe—a burning discomfort—pouring out nonstop, from the moment I get up in the morning till I lie back down again. It's not fire, but it’s close—a heat that seems to ooze from every pore, leaving me in pain, restless, and confused. Why water from my body keep oozing out nonstop while I drink some water and yet more that the intake of bad water from my body is overflowing. I do not understand why this happens. Why does my body betray me this way?
I want to be physically free, free from the stiffness, the sickness, the sensations that don’t make sense. My left foot swells for reasons I cannot grasp. The doctors offer theories. I offer my silence. But deep down, I don’t understand why it’s only the left. What is the guilt in my feet I hold on to? Why can't I force the changes in myself forcibly and why am I holding on to others people's stories or opinion for. Why can't I release myself from this pain, hatred, afraid ness once and for all. My stomach bloats and although I know my body is still unmarried, untouched by the reasons people typically associate with such symptoms, it does not mean I’m unaffected. My body speaks, and I don’t always understand its language.
Yet, strangely, I can automatically do the Isha exercises with ease. My body moves in rhythm when I let go. My breath flows like it knows the path, like some ancient map is embedded in my veins. There are moments of stillness, where the Isha practices unlock something sacred. But those moments are brief. My body wants to exercise, to move, to heal—but my mind blocks it. A mental blockage always interrupts. The will is there, the pain too, and somewhere in between, the effort collapses.
Then there’s my emotional chaos. I speak, and emotions come out—not just words, but tears, frustrations, truths I didn’t mean to expose. When I listen to others, I absorb their energy like a sponge—sometimes too much. My mind races, full of thoughts I don’t want. Sometimes bad things—not because I’m bad, but because I feel too much. This frightens me. I ask myself, “Is this madness?” Perhaps. Or maybe it's pain without direction.
This is why I do not want to attach myself to anyone. My emotions don’t stay in place. They run all over the place, flooding my system like an overfilled river. I try to control them. I fail. I try to be silent. The noise grows inside. I try to act strong. I collapse. I question myself. I hurt others—not by action, but by the weight of my words. I say things I regret. I create what feels like a disaster in the peaceful space of others, and then I carry the guilt like a second skin.
I sometimes wonder, “Is this my own stupidity?” To carry all this emotional weight, to let others penetrate my mind so easily, to let their moods become mine? Why can’t I be like water—soft, flowing, untouched by the stones beneath? Why must every small ripple feel like a storm?
I don’t know the answer. But I know the longing—to be emotionally balanced, to wake up and not feel the heaviness, to speak and not cry, to listen without spiraling. To walk with light feet, unburdened by swelling, bloating, or the burning sensation of flambe. To have a mind of my own—quiet, strong, steady.
I keep returning to Isha because it reminds me of who I was before all this. Sometimes I wonder, will Sambhavi Mudra help? Will it silence the storm within? Will it stop the madness and realign the chaos? They say it connects you to your true self—that self I feel I’ve lost. That self that’s hidden under layers of guilt, pain, overthinking, and regrets. That self that knows peace.
So I sit, I close my eyes. I breathe. I do the Mudra. Some days, it helps. Some days, it doesn’t. But I try. I try to lubricate my body with gentle movement instead of punishment. I try to hold back the emotional floods. I try to forgive my body's strange ways—the swelling, the pain, the inexplicable flambe. I try to see it not as betrayal but as a call to slow down, to listen deeper.
This isn’t the happily ever after I once imagined. But maybe it’s the real ever after—raw, unfinished, uncertain. Maybe it’s in this messy space that I will find a truer version of myself. Not the perfect one. Not the one who never feels pain. But the one who stands in the storm with a gentle smile and says, “I am still here. I am still trying. I am still becoming.”
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