Tag: growth

Nothing Changes If Nothing Changes

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A few weeks ago I caught myself saying a sentence out loud and had this strange feeling of déjà vu. I was telling a friend how tired I was of my routine, how I felt stuck, how I needed to change something. She nodded the way people nod when they have heard it before. Then I realised she had heard it before. I had said almost the exact same words to her months ago, probably in the same café, probably while stirring the same drink.

That one stayed with me.

Because I really believed I had been working on it. In my head, I was in the middle of a big life change. I thought about it constantly. I made mental plans on the way home. I told people I was done with this phase. And yet if you took a photo of my life then and a photo of my life now, you would struggle to find the difference.

That’s when the phrase came back to me. ‘Nothing changes if nothing changes.’ I had heard it years ago and rolled my eyes, because it sounds like something printed on a mug. But it’s annoyingly true. If I wake up at the same time, scroll for the same hour, say yes to the same things I don’t want to do and no to the things that scare me, then of course next year will look like this one. It’s not bad luck. I’m just running the same day on repeat and being surprised by the result.

The worst part is how good complaining feels. You say “I’m so over this” and there’s a little release, like you’ve done something about it. You talk about change with such energy that your brain files it under progress. Then you go to bed, wake up, and it’s the same life with the same problems. I think I’ve spent whole months of my life just talking about being ready to start.

And there’s the “from Monday” thing. I have said “from Monday” more times than I can count. From Monday I’ll sleep on time. From Monday I’ll eat better, work out, reply to messages, be a person who has it together. Monday comes and something small goes wrong, like I wake up late, and I decide the week is already ruined, so we’ll start fresh next Monday. I’ve given up on entire weeks because of a bad first hour.

I’ve also been honest with myself about why I stay where I am, and it’s not glamorous. It’s not that I don’t know what to do. I know exactly what I should do. It’s that the unhappy version of my life is at least familiar. I know how a bad day goes. I know what to expect from it. Change is a coin toss, and staying put is a guarantee, even if the guarantee isn’t great. Somehow, I keep choosing the guarantee.

There’s also this fear I don’t say out loud much, which is what if I change and it doesn’t work. Or what if I change and realise I could have done it years ago. That one hurts a bit. It feels easier to stay in the loop than to look back and see all the time I spent circling.

But here’s what I’ve slowly figured out.

Nobody gets ready first. I used to think there would be a day when I felt confident and clear and prepared, and that’s when I would begin. That day never shows up. Every single thing I’m proud of, I started while feeling awkward and unsure and slightly like a fraud. The confidence came later, somewhere in the middle, when I wasn’t paying attention.

So lately I’ve been trying something that feels almost embarrassingly small. Instead of announcing a new me, I just do one thing. I go for the walk even when I don’t feel like it. I send the email I’ve been avoiding for two weeks. I book the appointment I kept pushing. I delete the app that eats my evenings without me noticing. None of it is impressive. Nobody claps for it. It doesn’t look like a transformation from the outside.

But something odd happens when you do one small thing. You feel a little lighter. And the next thing becomes slightly less scary. It’s not a montage. It’s just quiet, boring, slow, and it works anyway.

I’m not going to pretend it’s all easy. Some days I fall right back into old habits, and some days I miss my old routines even though they weren’t good for me. Changing also shifts things around you. Some people understand it and some don’t, and you can feel the distance in a few places. That’s part of it, and I’d rather be honest about that than make it sound like everything falls into place.

But staying the same has its own cost. It just doesn’t send you a bill right away. It builds up quietly. It’s the dream you slowly stop mentioning. It’s the version of you that keeps waiting patiently for you to catch up.

So I’m not overhauling my life by Monday. I’m not buying a new planner or waiting for the new year. I’m just doing one small thing today, on a very ordinary day, in a very ordinary week, with no one watching.

Because I’d rather be someone who tried something imperfectly than someone who spent another year saying she would.

I’ll go do my one thing now.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

‘What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?’

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When I was 10, I said I wanted to be a doctor. I said it with total confidence, the way you say things when nobody has yet asked you to explain how. A doctor was a job that sounded important and made adults nod approvingly. Nobody asked what kind of doctor or why. I just knew it was the right answer.

Somewhere between then and now, the question changed. Everybody still keeps asking some version of it, but now I keep asking it myself. What do I want to become? And the answer is no longer a job title.

I want to be a woman of range.

I know that sounds vague, so let me explain what I mean.

I want to be able to talk about fashion and actually understand the business behind it. Not just “that coat is gorgeous,” but why it costs what it costs, who decided it would be the color of the season, and how a fast fashion brand can copy a runway look in three weeks. I want to know why some brands survive for a hundred years and others vanish after two collections. Clothes are never just clothes. They are money, culture, labour and identity stitched together, and I want to understand all of it.

I want to be able to talk about books and know the difference between a book I love and a book I’m supposed to love. I want to read the classics and the thrillers with equal enthusiasm and without shame. I want to have opinions about an ending. I want to be able to recommend the right book to the right person at the right time because a good recommendation is a small act of love. And I want to be able to say “I disagree with the author and here’s why.”

I want to be able to talk about political issues and understand the history that got us here. I want to read past the headline. I want to know how a policy actually lands on the person it affects, not just how it sounds in a speech. I want to hold a conversation with someone who sees things differently from me and come away having learned something instead of just waiting for my turn to talk. I want to be informed enough to be uncomfortable and curious enough to stay in the discomfort.

I want to know about art and be able to stand in front of a painting for ten minutes without pretending. I want to know why one piece hangs in a museum and another doesn’t. I want to understand that value in art is part talent, part timing and part who’s in the room, and still find something in it that moves me.

I want to know about medicine because a part of that ten year old is still in me. I want to understand what’s happening in my own body. I want to be able to read a lab report without panicking, ask my doctor better questions, and explain to a friend what’s going on when she’s scared and Googling at 2am. I want to know how the healthcare system works, who it fails, and why.

But here is the part I don’t want to skip because I think it matters just as much.

I also want to have fun. Actual, loud, unserious fun.

I want to party a lot. I want to dance until my feet hurt and get home at an hour that embarrasses me. I want to have really strong opinions about a restaurant. I want to be the person who says “no, trust me, skip the main, order four starters,” and be right. I want to be well dressed and not for anyone else. I like walking out the door feeling like I made an effort for myself. 

I want to be well informed, well read, well travelled and well fed.

For a long time I thought these were two different women. There was the serious one, who read the news and had ambitions, and the fun one, who went out and wore nice things and had opinions about brunch. I felt like I had to pick. Be smart or be fun. Be substantial or be stylish. Be a doctor or be someone who cares about how her lipstick looks.

I don’t believe that anymore. I think that’s an old story we were handed and never had to accept.

The women I admire most are the ones who can do both without apologising for either. They can talk about a book at dinner, then dance at a club two hours later. They can argue about politics and then tell you exactly where to get the best sushi in the city. They are interested in things and that makes them interesting. Their curiosity doesn’t stop at the edge of one subject.

That’s really what range is. It’s not about being an expert in everything because nobody is. It’s about being open to everything. It’s about being curious enough to ask the question and humble enough to say “I don’t know, tell me more.”

What I want most is to be a woman who can walk into any room and always have something to say. Not because I’m trying to impress anyone and not because I memorised a few facts to drop into conversation. I want it to be natural because I’ve spent my life paying attention. To the world, to people, to what’s beautiful and what’s broken. To the small stuff and the big stuff.

I want to be at a gallery opening on Tuesday, a dinner party on Thursday and a dance floor on Saturday, and feel like myself in all of them.

It’s a lot to ask of one life, I know. I probably won’t get there in a year, or five, or ten. But that’s what I love about this kind of ambition. There is no finish line and no title on the door. It’s just a slow, delicious accumulation of things I’ve read, places I’ve been, people I’ve listened to and nights I’ve said yes to.

So, what do I want to be when I grow up?

Everything, a little bit at a time. And I plan to have a great time doing it.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

A bookstaversary, an algorithm, and the community that never lets you down

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There is a particular kind of dread that builds when you have been posting into what feels like a void. You make something with care, you hit share, and then you watch the numbers sit still, not moving, barely breathing, as if the internet has collectively decided to look the other way. That had been my reality for the past few posts, two or three in a row where the reach was so low it started to feel personal. So when my sixth bookstaversary came around and I was getting ready to post, I had already made a kind of peace with disappointment. I told myself it did not matter. I scheduled the post anyway.

Six years is not a small thing. It is a long time to love anything publicly, to keep showing up for a corner of the internet with your books and your thoughts and your photographs, through every algorithm change and every season of real life pulling you in different directions. This particular anniversary meant something to me, more than I think I fully let myself acknowledge before I hit post. But because I had already been bruised by a few quiet, reach-less weeks, I think I was protecting myself. Low expectations feel safer than hope when you have been consistently let down.

An hour passed. I almost did not open the app at all. I was bracing for maybe ten likes, a comment or two from the friends who always show up, and the familiar low-grade sting of a post that went nowhere. What I found instead was something I was completely unprepared for.

Over fifty likes. A flood of comments. DMs from people I had never once spoken to, not in posts, not through messages, not anywhere. Strangers, and yet not strangers at all.

I sat with my phone and just read. Every comment, every message. People were telling me congratulations and that six years was incredible and that my account had meant something to them. People whose names I recognised from other corners of bookstagram, people I had admired from a distance, people I had genuinely never encountered before were in my notifications telling me they were glad I was here. It was overwhelming in the very best way, the kind of overwhelmed that makes you exhale slowly and feel, for a moment, completely held.


And then the thought that arrived, and has not really left since: the people in your real life often do not show up the way you need them to. Not because they are bad people, but because real life is distracting and busy and not everyone understands what it means to have built something online over six years, to have poured genuine love into a bookish little corner of the internet for half a decade. It can be hard to explain why it matters. It can be hard to even ask for recognition for something that looks, from the outside, like you just posting pictures of books.

But bookstagram gets it. Bookstagram has always gotten it. There is something extraordinary about this community, something I think we forget when the algorithm is being unkind and the reach is low and it starts to feel like shouting into nothing. The people here are paying attention in a way that is easy to underestimate. They notice. They remember. They come out of the woodwork on the days that matter and they remind you, without you ever having to ask, that what you have built has weight and value and an audience that genuinely cares.


What this bookstaversary reminded me is that reach is not the same as connection. A post can perform quietly for weeks and still be landing somewhere, still be reaching someone who will remember it on the day they want to say something kind. The numbers that the algorithm shows you are not the full picture of who is watching and who values what you make. I had been measuring myself by a metric that was never really measuring the right thing.

Six years in, and this community still has the ability to completely surprise me. That feels like the most hopeful thing I can say. After all this time, after every change and every rough patch and every moment of wondering whether it was worth continuing, bookstagram can still make me feel like it was all worth it, in a single hour, on a random Friday, just by showing up.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

Outgrowing People Without Hating Them

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There is this one person I think about sometimes. We were inseparable for years, the kind of close where you stop needing to explain context because they already have all of it. They knew which version of a story I was telling based on who was in the room. They knew when I said I was fine that I was not, and they knew when I actually was. We had the kind of friendship that made me think, okay, this is one of those. This one is permanent.

And now we talk maybe four times a year. Warmly, genuinely, and then we hang up and weeks dissolve into months and neither of us panics about it. I am not sure when that happened. I have tried to find the moment and I cannot. There was no fight, no fracture, nothing to point to. Just life doing what life does, pulling people into their own separate currents, and one day you look up and realize the distance has become the default.

What I was not ready for was how much I would still love them through it. That is the part that messes with your head. You expect that if something is over, it should feel over. Clean. You expect the love to scale down to match the closeness. But it does not always work that way. Sometimes you can be sitting in a completely separate life from someone and still feel a rush of something real when you see them post about a good day. Still hope that they are okay. Still miss them in that way you miss a place you used to live in, not desperately, but with a familiarity that never fully leaves your body.

I spent a long time feeling guilty about the growing distance, as if I had let something precious slip through my hands by not holding tighter. I kept thinking I should call more, should try harder, should find my way back to what we were. But every time I imagined actually doing that I felt something in me go still, because I think some part of me knew that you cannot go back to who you were with someone once you have both moved. You can only meet each other as who you are now, and sometimes who you are now just does not need the same things from each other. That is not failure. It took me a while to stop treating it like failure.

The thing about people you outgrow is that they do not leave you, not really. They just stop being in your present and start living somewhere deeper. In the habits you picked up from them without noticing. In the songs that immediately make you think of a specific night, a specific version of yourself, a specific kind of happiness you had that you are not sure you have found again in quite the same shape. I still use a phrase I learned from them. I still order the thing at a restaurant that they recommended years ago. They are woven into the person I became even if they are not around to see who that is now. I find that more comforting than sad, most of the time.

What I am still learning is that love does not need a container. It does not need constant contact to stay alive. You can love someone across years of silence. You can love someone whose life has taken a shape you barely recognize. You can love someone and also accept, without cruelty and without drama, that the two of you have become strangers who share a history. That is a real kind of love. It just looks different from the kind they write about.

I think we put so much pressure on closeness to be the proof of love that we panic when it fades, as if the fading means the whole thing was a lie. But the whole thing was not a lie. Those years were real. That laughter was real. The version of you that existed inside that friendship was real and she mattered and she was not wasted just because she is not who you are anymore. You were supposed to grow. You were supposed to become someone that version of you could not have imagined. And so were they. That is not the end of something beautiful. That is actually kind of what beautiful looks like when it is honest.

I have stopped trying to make peace with it in a way that resolves it, because I do not think it resolves. I think you just learn to carry it differently. A little lighter each year. With more grace and less grief, until it becomes one of those quiet, tender things you hold without needing to look at too often. A warmth in the background. Proof that you have been loved, and that you have loved back, and that both of those things counted even if the story did not go the way you thought it would when you were laughing at 2am thinking, this is one of the ones that lasts.

Maybe it did last. Just not in the way either of you expected.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

What 2025 Left Me With

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I began 2025 in survival mode.

I just wanted to get through the year without messing things up. Without disappointing myself. Without making choices I would later wish I could undo. I moved carefully, overthought most decisions, and held on to people and situations tighter than I probably should have.

At the start of the year, I believed stability meant keeping everything the same. Same people. Same routines. Same version of myself. I thought if I tried hard enough, adjusted enough, stayed patient enough, things would stay intact. I was afraid that too much change would mean losing control.

But life rarely waits for comfort.

Things shifted anyway. People came into my life in unexpected ways, and some left just as quietly. A few stayed and became anchors. Others were only meant for certain moments. For a long time, I took every shift personally, like I had failed at holding things together. It took me a while to understand that not every ending is a reflection of effort or worth. Some are simply direction.

I spent a lot of this year inside my own head. Overthinking every step. Questioning my pace. Wondering if I was growing at all or just passing time. There were days I felt alive and capable, and days I felt completely behind, like everyone else had a clearer map and I was still figuring out the basics.

There were moments where I genuinely believed I had not grown at all. That I was the same person, just more tired.

Somewhere along the way, that mindset began to crack. Not all at once. Just slowly enough for me to notice.

I realised how much energy I was giving to things that did not deserve it. Every comment, every shift in behaviour, every small disappointment stayed with me far longer than it should have. Being bothered by everything never changed the outcome. It only drained me. Letting things pass, even when it felt uncomfortable, gave me more peace than holding on ever did.

By the end of the year, I feel different in ways I didn’t think was possible.

I am more aware of myself, my patterns, my limits. I trust my judgment more. I no longer feel the need to explain every decision or seek reassurance for every choice. I know what deserves my energy and what does not.

I am learning how to protect my peace through better choices. Better boundaries. Better habits. Better use of my time. I am building discipline into my days in a way that feels sustainable, not punishing. Showing up for my goals consistently, while still allowing myself to enjoy life.

That balance mattered more than I expected.

This year also guided me back to the things that genuinely make me happy. Real connection. Books that feel like company. Music that understands emotions I cannot always name. Moments of joy without guilt. Laughing more. Living more. Letting life feel full, not just productive.

I am ending 2025 more self assured than I began it. Not because everything worked out perfectly, but because I know I will be okay even when it does not. I am calmer. More intentional. Less afraid of change. More accepting of what stays and what leaves.

I am not closing this year with conclusions. Just clarity.

As I step into 2026, I hope for steadiness more than speed. I hope to choose alignment over urgency and depth over noise. I want to keep building discipline without losing softness, ambition without losing joy.

I hope I continue investing in what makes life feel meaningful. The people who feel like home. The stories that slow me down. The music that stays with me long after it ends. The balance between becoming and being.

I want 2026 to be a year of trust. In myself. In my timing. In the fact that I do not need to have everything figured out to be moving forward.

That is what I am carrying with me.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

Loving A Creative Dream Even When It’s Hard

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There is a specific kind of dream that doesn’t always look big from the outside, but it takes up a lot of space inside you.

The kind that keeps returning to you no matter how busy life gets. The kind that sits somewhere in the background of your mind while you’re doing ordinary things. Sometimes it is writing. Sometimes it is painting, dancing, singing, photographing, designing, building something from nothing. It can look different for everyone, but the feeling behind it is often the same.

You just love it.

That love is the reason you keep showing up for it, even when it’s hard to explain to people why it matters so much.

For me, a big part of that dream has lived inside the world of books and creativity online. Bookstagram became one of the places where I started sharing that side of myself. What began as simply talking about books slowly grew into something that felt more personal, more creative, and more meaningful than I expected.

But when you start building something creative, you also start seeing a different side of things.

There have been people who genuinely believed this space was not worth staying in. People who told me that it drains your time, your energy, your effort, and gives almost nothing back in return. They said it like a practical truth, like they were simply pointing out reality.

And sometimes those words stay with you longer than you want them to.

Because when you care deeply about something creative, you are already putting a vulnerable part of yourself out into the world. You are sharing your taste, your voice, your thoughts, your effort. So when someone questions it or doubts it, it doesn’t just feel like criticism of an activity. It feels personal.

There have been moments when people doubted what I was doing. Moments where it felt like others were measuring the value of it and deciding it didn’t really amount to much. There were times when the effort I put in felt invisible, like I was pouring hours of thought and care into something that most people would scroll past in seconds.

That kind of thing can slowly wear on you if you let it.

But at the same time, there have also been people who did the opposite. People who supported me in ways that felt genuine and warm. People who cheered for me, encouraged me, believed in what I was creating. Sometimes it was just a thoughtful message or someone telling me they enjoyed my posts, but those moments had a way of lighting up the journey again.

Support like that reminds you that your work is reaching someone.

Still, the most important shift happened when I stopped waiting for the outside world to decide whether my dream was worth continuing.

I started learning how to stand beside myself.

Because when you are building something creative, you cannot depend only on applause to keep going. Applause comes and goes. People’s attention moves quickly. But your relationship with your dream stays with you every single day.

So I learned how to trust my own reasons for being here.

To remind myself that I started this because I love books, creativity, and the feeling of sharing something meaningful. I stayed on days when the motivation felt thin. I kept showing up even when things felt slow or uncertain.

And slowly I realized something very simple but very powerful.

If you want a creative dream to survive, you have to be the person who stands up for it.

You have to believe in it even when others don’t fully understand it. You have to keep nurturing it even when the results are quiet. You have to remind yourself why it matters to you in the first place.

Because creative dreams are fragile in the beginning. They grow slowly, often in ways that are invisible to everyone else.

And this is not just about bookstagram or content creation.

This is about the person who stays up late practicing dance steps because they love how movement feels in their body. The person who sings in their room and dreams about one day sharing their voice with the world. The artist who keeps sketching even when their work doesn’t get noticed yet. The writer who fills pages because stories refuse to stay inside their head.

All of these dreams live in that same space inside a person.

If you have one of those dreams, you probably know how complicated the journey can feel. Some days you feel full of excitement and possibility. Other days you wonder if you are asking too much from yourself by holding onto it.

But here is the truth I keep returning to.

The world will always have opinions about what is worth pursuing and what isn’t. People will always try to place value on things based on how quickly they succeed or how visible they are.

Your dream cannot survive if you let those opinions decide its fate.

It survives because you keep choosing it.

You keep returning to it even when it feels uncertain. You keep working on it even when progress feels slow. You keep believing in it long enough for it to grow into something stronger.

And if you are someone who carries a creative dream inside your heart, I want you to know something very clearly.

I see you.

I see the effort you pour into things that others may overlook. I see the dedication it takes to keep practicing, creating, improving, and dreaming at the same time. I see the courage it takes to believe in something that doesn’t always come with immediate rewards.

That kind of commitment deserves respect.

Creative dreams are rarely easy paths. They ask for patience, resilience, and a lot of self belief. They ask you to stay when leaving would be simpler.

But they also give you something deeply beautiful in return.

They give you a sense that you are living honestly with the part of yourself that loves to create.

So if your dream feels small right now, if the road ahead feels uncertain, if you are wondering whether it is worth holding onto, I hope you give it another chance.

Stay with it.

Keep learning. Keep growing. Keep showing up for it.

Because sometimes the person who makes a dream real is simply the one who refused to walk away from it.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

One Year of #SoulfulSundaysWithDevika

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(a note to anyone who’s ever tried to keep a promise to themselves)

I started #SoulfulSundaysWithDevika on a random Sunday, yes but I had a feeling it would stay.

I didn’t know what it would look like,
or what I would talk about every week,
but I knew one thing: I needed something that would make me show up for myself.

And Sunday became that anchor.

For 52 weeks straight, no matter where I was or how I felt, I showed up.
I’ve been sick, exhausted, travelling, overwhelmed — all of it.
There were days my body said no, but my heart said, “You promised yourself.”
So I kept that promise.

That’s the part I’m proudest of.
Not the aesthetics or the words or the reels, just the simple act of showing up.

Every week.

Some Sundays, the words came easily.
Other Sundays, it felt like squeezing meaning out of a tired mind.
But I did it.
Every single time.

I didn’t create Soulful Sundays to impress anyone.
I created it because I needed one constant. One moment every week where I checked in with myself, sat still, felt things, and let them breathe.

Somewhere along the way,
other people joined in.
Quietly.
Softly.
Reading.
Responding.
Sharing little pieces of their own life back with me.

That part… was unexpected.
And really beautiful.

It reminded me that tenderness doesn’t need an audience; it just needs honesty.
A small circle is still a circle.
A few hearts are still a blessing.

Soulful Sundays taught me that you don’t need a loud life to have a meaningful one.
You just need something that grounds you.

It taught me that discipline can be gentle.
That showing up for yourself every week is an act of love, not pressure.

It taught me that consistency isn’t about perfection. It’s about honouring yourself enough to keep going, even when you’re tired or uninspired.

It taught me that community doesn’t need to be big; it just needs to be real.
That creativity can be simple.
That feelings don’t have to be explained to be understood.
That people will show up when you show up as you are.

The girl who began this didn’t think she could be consistent.
Didn’t think she could create something meaningful.
Didn’t think anyone was listening.

But someone was.
Even if that someone was just me.

And maybe that’s the magic.

As I sit here writing this, I’m not thinking of numbers or reach or “should’ve done more.”
I’m thinking of the quiet Sundays that saved me.
The warmth of familiar names.
The way my heart felt every time someone said, “I needed this.”

I think I needed this too.
More than I ever realised.

So here’s to one year.
Here’s to promises kept.
To starting even when you’re unsure.
To showing up even when your hands are empty.
To the small rituals that hold us together when the world feels too big.

And here’s to you for being here.
Whether you’ve been around since the beginning or just arrived yesterday.
Thank you for witnessing me.
For sharing pieces of yourself.
For letting this space matter.

Lastly, here’s to every Sunday that taught me how to listen.
And here’s to the Sundays still waiting for me.

I don’t know what the next year looks like.
I just know I’ll keep showing up.

That’s more than enough.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

Live While You Still Can

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I came across a post recently that said, “You’re going to be 24 for 365 days. And you could die at 25.” It hit me in a way few things do. We live as if time is infinite, like the people we love will always be there, like our youth will last forever. But the truth is, nothing lasts forever. Not your parents’ voices calling you for dinner, not the same old jokes that once made you roll your eyes, not even the friends who keep asking you to hang out. Everything fades, slowly, quietly, until one day, you realize it’s gone.

We’re always rushing somewhere. Rushing to grow up, to succeed, to have our lives perfectly planned out. But what if the goal isn’t to have everything figured out? What if the goal is simply to feel everything while we can? To laugh even when it feels silly, to hug people tighter, to say yes when your mom asks if you want to sleep beside her, to look up from your phone and notice that your dad’s hair has more grey than before.

We keep saying “next time.” Next time I’ll go out. Next time I’ll visit them. Next time I’ll take a break. But one day there will be no next time. There will just be a moment that quietly slips into never again.

We’re taught to chase success, but rarely to appreciate simplicity. Nobody reminds us that these are the days we’ll look back on. The ones that feel ordinary now. The night you stayed up laughing with your best friend. The morning you woke up to your favorite song. The small moments that don’t seem special until they’re gone.

We hide behind the idea of being too busy or too tired, convincing ourselves that isolation is strength. We call it independence, but often it’s just fear. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being hurt. Fear of being known too deeply. But the truth is, human connection is what keeps us alive. You’ll never be able to love someone at 35 the same way you do at 19. The innocence, the recklessness, the depth of feeling, it’s something that belongs only to this time of your life.

One day, your body won’t keep up like it used to. Your circle will shrink. The messages will slow down. You’ll realize that the version of you who stayed up too late, laughed too loud, and cried too easily was someone you’d give anything to meet again.

So stop waiting for the perfect time. Stop saving your favorite clothes for special occasions. Stop thinking you have to earn rest, joy, or love. You’re alive right now and that’s reason enough.

Life will never pause for you to catch up. The people you love will grow old, the things you take for granted will change, and your own heart will one day long for what it has now. So while your bones are strong, your laughter is loud, and your heart still races for no reason at all — LIVE.

Not just exist. Not just survive. But live.
Say yes more often. Forgive faster. Take the picture. Write the message. Go for that walk. Tell people you love them.

You won’t always be young, but you can always be alive. And that’s a choice.

Because one day, all you’ll want is one more chance to do it all again.

So do it now.
With every part of you.
While you still can.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~ Devika

2000 of You. Still Processing That

On By Sync With InkLeave a comment

I don’t even know how to begin writing this because nothing I say seems big enough to match what I’m feeling right now. But I’ll try anyway.

Yesterday I posted a 2000 followers giveaway. It felt special and exciting, but honestly, I didn’t expect anything crazy. I just wanted to say thank you and give something back to this community that’s given me so much. But what happened right after I hit “post” completely caught me off guard.

Within a minute, I had over eight likes. That might not sound like a lot to some people, but for me? I refreshed the page thinking it had to be some kind of glitch. I literally blinked at my screen and whispered, “Wait what?” Because not too long ago, I remember posting something and then waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. Half an hour would pass and I’d still be sitting with a single like from one of my close friends. It felt lonely sometimes. Like I was speaking into the void and hoping someone out there was listening.

And now suddenly, there are people not just listening but cheering me on. Liking. Commenting. Reacting to stories. Sending DMs that actually make me pause and smile because they’re filled with genuine love. I’m not sure how to wrap my head around it. It’s a lot. In the best, most overwhelming kind of way.

I think what’s hitting me the hardest is that this didn’t happen overnight. Behind that giveaway post is someone who has spent hours thinking about content, rewriting captions, re-editing reels, second-guessing almost every creative decision, and still showing up. Even on days when engagement dipped. Even when I felt like no one noticed. Even when I didn’t really have the energy. I kept showing up because deep down, I knew this space mattered to me. And now, looking back, I’m just… proud. Not of the numbers, but of the fact that I didn’t give up when it was quiet.

This 2k milestone isn’t just about a number on the screen. It’s about how far I’ve come since the first time I hesitantly started this account, unsure of where it was going. It’s about the people I’ve met along the way. The small circle that’s slowly grown into a community. The comments that feel like warm hugs. The support that still makes me emotional when I least expect it.

These are the days that make every hour of content creation worth it. Every time I pushed through a creative block. Every time I hit “post” even when I wasn’t sure it was good enough. Every little decision to stay consistent even when life got chaotic.

If you’ve ever liked a post, left a kind comment, replied to a story, shared something I created, or even just silently rooted for me—I hope you know how much that means to me. This is your milestone too. You’ve made this journey so much more than I ever imagined it could be.

So yeah. I’m overwhelmed. In awe. A little teary. A lot grateful.

Here’s to every small step that added up. Here’s to all 2000 of you. And here’s to whatever comes next.

I’m just really happy to be here.

*****

From my mind to this page to your screen— thanks for being here.

~Devika