What Keeps Us Going

I often ask myself — what truly keeps us going?

Every morning, we rise and step back into the current of life — into routines that rarely pause, into demands that don’t always come with recognition. We move forward, often silently, carrying burdens no one sees and making sacrifices no one speaks of. Our efforts are quiet, constant — and so often, invisible.

The world doesn’t always meet this quiet perseverance with kindness. Some people — knowingly or not — chip away at our spirit. They question our worth, dismiss our efforts, and cloud our clarity with comparison and doubt. The noise of judgment is loud. The silence of appreciation — louder.

Still, we go on.

Not because it’s easy. Not for applause. But because something within refuses to give in. Sometimes it’s duty. Sometimes love. Sometimes it’s that flicker of stubborn defiance that won’t let darkness claim the final word.

We don’t always run on ambition or glory. More often, we’re powered by promises we made to ourselves. By responsibilities we choose to uphold. By the quiet belief that even the smallest good we create — a moment of peace, a word of kindness, a held-back tear — matters.

In a world obsessed with visibility, we carry the weight of unseen strength. The parent who puts their child first without ever asking for thanks. The worker who shows up through personal storms. The friend who smiles so others won’t worry. These aren’t signs of weakness. They are acts of quiet bravery.

But bravery like this often goes unnoticed. Sometimes, it’s even met with resistance — with discouragement, with doubt. And yet, we still rise. Not because we’re unbreakable, but because we’ve learned how to bend without giving way.

So why don’t we give up?

Because deep down, there’s a fire. Small, steady, unrelenting. It may not always burn with hope. Sometimes, it burns with the sheer will to keep standing. To keep trying. To not let go.

We keep going because we’ve realized that worth isn’t something others can assign. That value isn’t dependent on validation. We’ve learned that real strength doesn’t need to shout. It simply endures.

Real strength is rising again, unseen. It's carrying on without applause. It's choosing to believe, despite the silence, that what we do — who we are — matters.

It is the sacred act of holding on when everything tempts us to let go. It is choosing love when love feels heavy. Choosing effort when effort feels thankless. Choosing hope, not because it’s easy, but because something eternal inside us whispers, not yet.

And maybe, just maybe — that is what real strength has always been.

Emotions empower me. They are a source of strength, not a sign of weakness.

 

Life nowadays often demands a kind of emotional detachment that is at odds with how deeply some people experience life. You spend years honing your skills, believing excellence will always be enough and then come face to face with systems that do not always reward those things. That dissonance can feel like a personal betrayal.

In today’s world, adaptation often outweighs competence. If you do not align with the prevailing culture, you risk being side lined regardless of how capable or skilled you are. In such environments, conventional notions of right and wrong blur, and truth becomes subjective. It is often hard to distinguish between authenticity and performance.

How do we thrive in a system that often demands conformity over authenticity? Must we reshape ourselves to fit in, surrendering personal values to survive? Or is it still possible to carve out success while remaining anchored to what truly matters our empathy, our heart? The tension between adapting and staying true is real, but perhaps excellence lies in learning how to do both.

However, it is easier said than done. Because the heart wants to believe what the mind does not. The heart, with its longing and emotional truth, often dances to music the mind finds hard to hear. And when your heart yearns for goodness, fairness, or authenticity in a space that seems indifferent, it creates a kind of internal war between what you feel and what you know.

Sometimes, surviving is not just about strategy it is about preserving that tension long enough to figure out how it can work for you. Some of the most powerful leaders, artists, and changemakers lived with that very conflict and used it as fuel.

In a world that asks for composure more than connection, I have found myself carrying tension like a silent weight between what my heart longs for and what my mind accepts as necessary. The workplace, the relationships, the systems do not always honour emotion. But I do. And I have come to realize that tension is not weakness it is evidence that I still care.

I no longer ignore the discomfort. I name it. I understand where it comes from whether it is betrayal, fear, or longing. I ask myself what values are being stretched, and what those emotions are trying to tell me.

I do not see emotional conflict as a flaw. I see it as a spark. If I feel something deeply, it means I am still engaged. That tension is a signpost showing me where I am growing and what I am fighting for.

Rather than letting frustration simmer, I turn it into something active. I write. I speak. I create. I learn. I do not wait for conditions to change I start shaping them myself, even in small ways.

I do not escape the pain. I stretch through it. Because I know every time I do, my emotional range expands. I get stronger not in spite of my heart, but because of it.

This is how I survive and how I grow. I do not numb myself to fit in. I tune myself to rise above. Tension is not where I break, it’s where I build. And in a world that asks for silence, I choose to speak with my heart strategically, fiercely, and with purpose.

Back to living my dream once again…

 

After 12 long years, I’m back.

Back to the space where I once found joy in reading and occasionally writing — the very reason this blog came into being.
Never did I imagine that I would go twelve whole years without picking up a book, let alone writing a single line. But that’s how life unfolds sometimes. We get swept up in routines — managing home, juggling work, raising children — and somewhere along the way, we lose touch with the things that once made us feel alive. We forget our passions, push aside our dreams, and neglect what brings us happiness. Worst of all, we stop taking time for ourselves.

Looking back, I realize how often we use “life” as an excuse — a convenient justification we offer to others and to ourselves. But the truth is, if something truly matters to us, we can always make time.

So here I am — trying again.

So, what’s changed in these twelve years?

Quite a lot, actually. Life back then felt simpler, quieter — lighter somehow.

One big reason? There was no WhatsApp.

No constant pings. No endless forwards. No group chats demanding attention at all hours. Back then, silence wasn’t awkward — it was comforting. We had space to think, to feel, to simply be.

Today, we’re always “on,” always connected — yet somehow, more disconnected from ourselves than ever before.
Technology brought convenience, yes, but it also brought noise. And in all that noise, it became easy to lose touch with who we are and what really matters. But maybe it’s time to unplug, even if just a little.

To go back — not in time, but in intention.

To reclaim the quiet, and with it, the parts of ourselves we left behind.

Nothing is truly impossible when the desire is real.
That’s what makes us human — our ability to hope, to strive, to begin again.
When we deeply want something, we don’t just wish for it — we try, we act, we persist.
Because at the heart of it, our efforts reflect our intent. And even the smallest step forward is proof that we haven’t given up.