In a world that constantly demands our speed, performance, and perfection, we often overlook the very moments that make us feel alive. But if you pause—just for a breath—you’ll notice the world inside your home is filled with quiet magic. A magic that asks for nothing, yet gives everything.
Cherish it.
Cherish the moments that seem ordinary. Because they’re not. They’re pieces of your own living poem. Feel the silent language of love in the way your mother adjusts your blanket even when you’re asleep. In the way your father silently watches over you from across the room, not saying much, but saying everything in that stillness. The walls of your home have heard your laughter, your outbursts, your silence—they know the real you. The sun sneaking through the window in the early morning, dancing on your face before the alarm clock goes off—it’s not just sunlight, it’s a reminder that another day has come, another chance to live, to love, to remember.
Feel the gentle trickle of rain through the leaves of your balcony garden, or the soothing scent of wet earth. Hear the wind rustle the curtains like a lullaby only you were meant to hear. The bite of freshly cooked food, served not out of duty but love, carries memories—sometimes of comfort, sometimes of childhood, sometimes of just being safe.
Inhale deeply—not just the air, but the aroma of that warm, clean bedsheet your mother dried in the sun. The smell of incense lingering from the Puja room, gently wrapping around your spirit like a silent hug from the divine. These are not just sensory details—they are living testaments of warmth, rootedness, and love. They’re what give life its flavor, its texture, its meaning.
Stay silent and feel more. Speak less and listen more. This world is noisy, chaotic, and often deceptive. It celebrates the loudest, the quickest, the most popular. But life—real life—is found in the quiet. In the way your sibling pulls your leg but waits up for you when you’re late. In the way your grandmother folds your clothes with care, muttering a prayer as she does. In the laughter shared over spilled tea, in the stillness after everyone’s gone to bed but the house still breathes. These are not distractions from life—they are life.
Each of these moments is a page in your personal Book of Love. You may never publish it. No one else may ever read it. But it’s yours—and it’s worth writing well.
But then, as always, comes the morning train. The goodbye hug. The bags packed. The rush of returning to the outside world. The world that is not made of warm food and silent prayers, but of meetings, deadlines, traffic, uncertainty. The world that makes no room for your softness.
This world—the one outside—is your battleground. It doesn’t know your name the way your family does. It doesn’t wait up for you. It won’t dry your tears. It asks for your output, your performance, your productivity. It makes you prove yourself every day. It rewards speed, not stillness; success, not softness. It will not hesitate to push you down when you’re tired. It will not always care that you’re homesick. It may scar you, make you bleed—through rejections, heartbreaks, betrayals, or simple loneliness.
But don’t be disheartened. Don’t let it change who you are at your core. Because you are not made from this world—you are only passing through it, learning, growing, surviving. Your soul belongs to another place: a place called home. A place where your tears are wiped without asking, where your story is known without words, where your value is never up for debate.
Every scar this world gives you, every bruise it leaves behind—carry it not as shame, but as evidence: you fought. You stood your ground. You didn't give up.
And when you're tired—when the noise is too loud, when your heart feels too fragile—remind yourself why you're doing this. Remind yourself of the warm floor beneath your feet at home. The way your father silently hands you water when you’re unwell. The way your mother can tell by one look whether you’ve eaten or cried. The way your room smells when you come back after months—and everything, even the dust, seems to welcome you.
You fight in the world not to escape from home—but to return to it stronger, calmer, more grateful. You fight so that when you go back, you bring peace, not wounds. You bring stories, not burdens.
Because home is not just where you go back to—it’s what you must protect. And to protect it, you must survive the battle outside. You must wear your armor of patience, your shield of character, and your sword of clarity. You must keep moving forward, even when it hurts, even when the comfort of home feels galaxies away.
And when the world bruises you again—because it will—remember:
There is a place that has waited for you without asking.
A place that will always take you back without judgement.
A place where your name is not a title, but a feeling.
That place is home.
So keep fighting. Keep breathing. Keep soft, even when the world tries to harden you. Because you don’t just live to prove a point—you live to return to the people and places that gave you your soul.
And when you do go back—when the long road finally ends and you step into that familiar doorway again—let it all melt. Let the world fall off your shoulders. You’ve earned your return. You’ve earned the right to sit in silence again, to feel more, to speak less, to just be.
And as you take that first bite of home-cooked food, or lie back on your old bed with the same faded curtain swaying by the window—smile. Because you made it. You fought, you lived, and you returned. And that, my friend, is no small thing.
Thank you for reading — and if this resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone who could use a kind word today.
Warm Regards,
Amit Raj (Author, Learner and Trader)
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