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Loneliness doesn’t knock. It seeps. First into the hours you once filled so easily with conversation. Then into the smiles that don’t quite reach your eyes anymore. Then into the quiet moments—when you laugh at something and instinctively turn to share it... but no one’s there. And you start to wonder—was I ever truly connected to them, or was I just afraid to be with me? That’s where I was. And that’s when I picked up the Bhagavad Gita. Not because I was searching for spiritual wisdom. I wasn’t noble like that. I was just trying to hold myself together. Trying not to fall apart for the fifth time that week. But somehow, in those pages, I found a voice calm enough to match my chaos. Not one that promised to save me, but one that asked me to stop running.

1. You Are Not This Moment

Emotions visit; they don’t define who you are.

Arjuna—the warrior in the Gita—breaks. Not in front of an enemy, but in front of someone he trusts. He sits on the battlefield, shaking, crying, asking: “What is the point of any of this if it hurts this much?” That part gutted me. Because I had been there—on my own battlefield of overthinking and heartbreak—asking the same thing.
Krishna doesn’t say, “Don’t feel this.” He says, “Feel it, but don’t become it.” That line rewired something in me. Because I thought I was my sadness. I thought heartbreak meant I was broken. But the Gita said: You are not this emotion. You are the one witnessing it. That shift doesn’t erase pain. It just makes space inside it.

2. The Loneliness Wasn’t the Enemy, It Was the Mirror

Solitude revealed truths I kept running away from.

For the longest time, I believed being alone meant I had failed at something. Failed to be lovable enough, fun enough, needed enough. I wore my solitude like a scar—quiet proof that something in me must be lacking. But the Gita didn’t ask me to fix that feeling. It asked me to sit with it. “The mind is its own friend, and its own enemy.”
I started watching my mind the way I’d watch someone I used to love—softly, from a distance, forgivingly. The thoughts that once scared me became signals. The silence I once avoided became sanctuary. I didn’t stop missing people. But I stopped abandoning myself to fill that space. There’s a difference.

3. Letting Go Wasn’t a Choice, It Was a Kind of Survival

Detachment meant choosing peace over unreciprocated effort.

Detachment. The word used to sound so cold to me—like giving up. But the way the Gita taught it, detachment isn’t about caring less. It’s about holding softer. “You have a right to your actions, but not to the fruits of them.” I kept showing up for people who couldn’t meet me halfway. I kept doing things hoping someone would see, applaud, stay.
But what the Gita gently whispered to me was this: Show up anyway. Even if no one claps. Even if it’s just you. Especially if it’s just you. Because love that’s rooted in fear isn’t love. It’s negotiation. So I let go—not because I stopped loving them, but because I started loving me enough to not keep bleeding in places that never learned how to hold.

4. There Is a You Beneath the Ache

Healing uncovered a self untouched by pain.

The most painful part of healing was realizing I didn’t know myself without the need to be wanted. I didn’t know who I was without trying. Trying to be okay. Trying to be impressive. Trying to be chosen. But when all the trying tired me out, something quieter began to rise.
A stillness that didn’t beg. A peace that didn’t demand. A me that wasn’t performing anymore. The Gita calls this the true self. Eternal. Untouched by gain or loss. Not the version people love or leave. The version that’s always been there—watching, waiting for me to come home.

5. And Maybe This Is the Love I Was Looking For

Real love began when I chose myself first.

It didn’t arrive in a grand moment. It came slowly. Like forgiving yourself in pieces. Like realizing that happiness isn’t always a laugh or a full room. Sometimes, it’s making tea in the afternoon without needing someone to ask how your day was. Sometimes, it’s crying and not thinking it means you’re failing. Sometimes, it’s the courage to go to bed at peace, even when no one said goodnight.
I still miss people. I still ache, sometimes, when old memories float back. But now, the ache feels softer. Kinder. Like a bruise that reminds you of what you survived. Because when I met myself—truly, deeply, gently—I realized: I was never truly alone. I just hadn’t learned how to stay with me yet. And now that I have—I’m never letting go.

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