The story starts at a public preparatory school in the middle of Sydney. Every student was on pins and needles, waiting for his exam's result and envisioning parental pride and the sweet taste of reward. As the teacher entered carrying the papers, a hush fell over the classroom. The teacher started declaring the results: Ramy Ali, FULL MARK!! Haitham Omar, 97 out of 100!! and so on. A ripple of applause followed every name as the grades were distributed, until he said, “And John Jackson, 15 out of 100! Always the least mark.”. After the school day, while John was walking back home in solitude as usual, he ran into Ramy, the smart and big-headed kid notorious for taunting him after exams. A maelstrom of confusion and fear propelled John faster homeward. John reached home thinking how to tell his parents the bad news: It's not the first time he gets this low mark. Once again, hours of study yielded little fruit. Hardly he could summon the courage to reveal the unwelcome reality, his voice trembling slightly. At that moment, his parents' hopeful gazes turned into depressed eyes, a weight that bore down heavily on his 13-year-old shoulders and hardly saying, “You can do better next time." However, John has never lost hope. He knew he was capable, but his skills are still undiscovered. John entered his room and started writing down everything that happened in his diary, where his thoughts and feelings found form. It was a silent confidant, a sanctuary from the harsh realities of life. But it was not enough to give out all negative feelings. The past failures still came to his mind with memories of his dad's disappointment through other proud parents. John's dream was to achieve success only once to see these proud eyes. Lost in contemplation, John got a phone notification that was a flicker of inspiration, as he thought he found his chance to make the difference. It was about the writing contest that would be held next week. He knew that the contest would be fierce because of the $10,000 cash prize for the first place; however, his belief in his abilities made him more decisive to participate. Unfortunately, the ten-dollar entry fee cast a long shadow over his aspirations since his family's hard economic conditions rendered the cost an obstacle. He didn't know what he would do to get the money, but hopefully slept dreaming of a bright future. The following morning, on his way to school, he noticed a currency fluttering in front of his eyes and going away. With a jolt of adrenaline, he pounced, his heart pounding in his chest as his fingers closed around it. 10 dollars!! What a windfall! Memories of childhood deprivation surfaced—the unattainable toys, the yearned-for sweets that had always been beyond his grasp. However, his desire for his parent's esteem outshone all other yearnings. He resolved to invest his newfound treasure in the writing contest. The ensuing days were a whirlwind of creativity as he spent hours of hard work crafting an opus that was as much a product of his heart as his mind. When the day of the awards ceremony arrived, John's family gathered in the field, interestingly waiting for the winners' announcement. Memories of each failure and the comments following it came to John's mind; eventually, he heard a familiar voice. “John, I didn't expect to see you. Be tuned to clap for me.” Sneered Ramy, the conceited student. John, who was about to cry, was jolted back to reality by his father's fast reply. “You're that kid from John's school, aren't you? Let me enlighten you: success isn't merely a matter of academic prowess. With no morals, you'll always be nothing. So, I'm very proud of my high-moral, passionate, and diligent son, as I've always been.” John felt a kind of warmth he's never felt before. Silence prevailed for a minute, then ”The Champion of this year's writing contest is John Jackson!” the announcer declared in a charged air of esteem and applause. John's dad lifted him in the air, shouting, “It's my son!” John couldn't capture his happiness in words. After all his effort and failures, he did it. His family is finally proud of him. As Roy Bennett once said, “There are five important things for living a successful and fulfilling life: never stop dreaming, never stop believing, never give up, never stop trying, and never stop learning.”. Difficulties and obstacles are found on every step of the way to success. Sometimes we can't get over them, sometimes we think we took the wrong path, and sometimes we get confused. This doesn't mean to give up. Try again; try everything. There're opportunities of progression fluttering in front of your eyes every day. There's a happy life waiting for you to find it. You deserve it. Go for it. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself; my name is John Jackson, the narrator of this tale. I built my ladder to succumb to failures. If I could do it, so can you. Just, believe.

I had been reviewing concerts and theater for five years before the pandemic and it had become a pattern of my life. The pace was frenetic – with three or four performances to cover each week and turning in reviews as fast as possible, usually the next morning after a very late evening. In late February 2020 there was a concert I had been asked to review. It was modern music and some of the composers were young musicians from my town whose work I had never heard. I started to find out as much about them and their previous work as I could. The concert was disorganized. The organizer had neglected to copy programs and when I finally received one hot off the photocopier, I saw that the program had changed somewhat. It had billed a performance of Pauline Oliveros' Rock Piece as a Philadelphia premiere. That was blatantly incorrect. First of all, I had already heard this piece twice in Philadelphia. Secondly, I think the piece is totally absurd and dreaded having to endure it. It may have been brilliant when Pauline Oliveros had her original idea and wrote the piece in 1979, but the newness fades after you have heard it once. She instructed performers to hand out two rocks to each member of the audience and ask them to choose a rhythmic pattern and stick to it while their neighbors pick other patterns and do the same. When you experience it the first time, it is fun and slightly challenging to resist copying your neighbor's rhythm. The second time, it feels silly. This was my third time, so I was recalcitrant, but determined not to spoil it for anyone who had not experienced it. The organizer wanted us to fade out our rock beating and allow the following piece to fill in the void. We crashed at the end, several people unsure of how to stop: slow down, fade out, or what? Tap, silence, crash…giggle. Finally, the expert musicians playing the subsequent piece entered the void left by our awkward fishtailing. How could I review that shambles? I wrote: If you have never heard Rock Piece, you might enjoy your first opportunity to beat rocks together, but by the time you are handed rocks again for the next performance, you may sigh like a kindergartner asked to repeat an easy task. I did not challenge his claim that his concert was the Philadelphia premiere as I thought that would have been a bit mean. I did say we did not do a good job of setting up the atmosphere for the commissioned piece that followed: “What happened was a bit of a train wreck as the audience refused to stop clicking their rocks when the commissioned premiere began.” The rest of the concert was great and I reviewed it in positive terms and high praise, but the organizer was furious. He commented: “I suspect Ms. (Reviewer) was the kindergartner who can't take direction in this equation.” He went on to berate my lack of knowledge and competence and added that this is the twenty-first century (ignoring the fact that the piece in question was written in the previous one). His irate words really stung me and felt like an attack of my person rather than of my review. He added biting phrases like “one can only lament the halcyon days when a credible, respectable, reviewer would put in even the smallest effort to inform themselves of the music they were about to hear.” The attack felt so threatening and diminished my self-confidence so severely that I simply stopped writing reviews. It mattered little as there were so few performances after Philadelphia and so many other cities went dark on March 16, 2020. I began to explore other options for writing – delving into other areas relating to music, but in light of historical events rather than live performance. Two years later, I was asked to review a concert with a premiere by another composer commissioned by my aggressive detractor. I accepted, thinking I needed to face the monster once and for all. I looked up everything I could to prepare myself – and that is saying a lot as I spend an excessive amount of time on research before I review a concert. Soon after it was published, I received a forwarded email from my editor. The composer whose piece I had reviewed was delighted with my positive review and asked if I would review a compact disc of his compositions. A feeling of calm fell over me. Anyone might object to how I perceive their music, but that does not mean I should hide from them. It would be more productive for me to embrace their remarks and learn from them. I have taken time to reread my detractor's comments several times recently and I now see that if I want to continue reviewing, I should be prepared for reactions – not outwardly, but inwardly. Now that we are having more performances and I have started to review them again, I feel much stronger than before. I am accepting fewer assignments and spending more time trying to polish the reviews I accept.

Writing has always been something I have loved doing. I mostly use it as a coping tool in my life since I was young and over the last several years I have strayed from it. One of my dreams has always been to write a novel, not publish though. I just want the satisfaction of having written one but do not want anyone to actually read it. I am always afraid of letting people into my mind, not for fear of what is in my mind, rather, fear of giving parts of myself away. I decided that I am tired of not doing something I love out of fear of others thoughts because there is nothing I can do about that and I am only holding myself back. At the age of 32 I have finally decided to not let something I love only be a part of the negativity in my life because there is no logic in that. I anticipate most of my writing will be depressive but for me that is good. It is the only way I know how to heal from my pain no matter how much it may be in my head. It is the only way that I know how to free myself from my depression, anxiety and general frustrations of life because, lets be honest, life is not easy for anybody. We all have pain and we all struggle with something and it is all relative to our own life. This is how I know how to heal and continue in a forward motion. I am excited for the new journey I am taking and hope to one day actually write a book. Maybe I will even publish but at this point I am happy with the baby steps I am taking, with Biopage being the first. I created my first public writing a moment ago and it was for the writing contest. The moment I submitted I felt such pride in myself and excitement for what that represented for me. I have no fantasy of winning or even of anybody reading it but the fact that I even did it has made me feel so good. I currently have zero followers and am following nobody but I am here and I am proud. I never would have thought I would actually have the courage to write publicly and right now I don't even care if it is any good. I should have been asleep hours ago because I do have a toddler and work in the morning but I wanted to make sure I documented this pride in myself because it has been a while since I have felt any pride in myself outside of being a mother. That is not to say being a mother is not the best thing I have ever done but only to say I have to remember I am also an individual outside of my beautiful family. I am something outside of work and cooking dinners and running a household. I am worth the time to myself to use my desk that has been sitting here gathering dust and I will make myself proud. My family deserves the best from me and I am not at my best when I not writing.

Your beautiful in your own way………EMBRACE IT GIRL. I see so many people doubting there looks, but do not. Each person is unique and different in their own way. From your personality traits, to your looks and how small, tall or short you are. Be your you, and do not change yourself for the likes of others. Be positive with your amazing body and brain. If anyone, anyone, every tells you that your ugly, no just no. There jealous and they know they will not look good as you or, able to do the things that you can do. Just take a deep breath and walk away. Don't even hesitate to respond and waste your time, just walk of proudly, and proud of yourself. Knowing that you are the smart one, and how you did not reply to something stupid. Do not ever forget your amazing, beautiful and smart. Stay amazing as always. Support yourself in every single possible way and stay standing no matter what the situation or reason is. Do not ever let anyone stand in your way and go earn those dreams/goals you want to reach. Stay confident and just take a swerve around bad people or/and bad decisions. Live your life to the best of your abilities. As soon as you stepped onto this earth, you are an important person, think of the things you could do. You could even change the world if you were ready to take the time and risks, to make this opportunity work. It is alright to make mistakes, just keep your head high. Just know that it is good to make mistakes sometimes. This is how you get better at things; you learn from your mistakes. That way, in the future you can think about taking the same risks and making better decisions then the ones before. Do not push yourself into being somebody you do not want to be. Be your own self. Your goals/achievements you want to get, you need patience. Count on your heart and the universe to get were/what you want at the right time. Everything you can be/do is amazing and good, but never perfect. Nobody is ever perfect, no matter how smart or pretty you are. Somethings will always be wrong with everything in the world, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. Just remember to try your hardest and achieve things, for you, not anyone else who could have given you the idea. Use your motivation and the other people surrounding you, to keep you going. You thought of the plan, and made it come true, be proud of yourself. Remind yourself that it is amazing of the little or big things that your capable of doing or achieving. Every little good thing you do, your changing the world, even if people do not see that or point it out. Distractions can come in your way or people who may have conflicts or judgements against you. Family is also a pretty big influence on you and create parts of you. If you have one family member, or even better, more, be grateful, because some people end up having no real parents or no parents at all. As wells as friends which help you get through rough and tough times. They are there for you to have fun, laugh and have a good time. Also helping when your upset or mad at someone/something. You need a friend who you know will not be the one to hurt you or leave you. If you have a girl or boy gang, show some love and appreciate with who you can interact with or be with. Little did you know that this world is full of kind, loving and caring people, who would be proud to call you a friend, or even a best friend. It is frustrating to keep so many friends or friendship groups. So, try to stick with someone you appreciate the most or a lot without comparing who is better than the other. You need to have a friend in life, even if it is an animal. Animals can be very play full and comforting. But family is the closest friend that you will ever get. I love my family, friends and pets and I am happy to have them in my life. Try to have a confident attitude to change some not so good people and create a better environment/humanity for you and others around you. Sometimes people worry about if they will ever fit in or not. Or if they will get picked on or left out. But I say, always stay standing and keep your head high. If you see someone being left out, go up to them and talk to them, about anything really. And they will really be appreciated, that you talked to them, had a good time and had a laugh with them. Do anything to put a smile on anyone's face. It will make you happy, proud and feel as if you gave someone a whole new life. Because believe it or not, you just did. I also know that it you do not have a prince; does not mean you cannot be a princess. It is also important to have support and ongoing motivation from someone. It makes you feel good about what your doing or changing. You feel happy that you have someone to share every step of the way. I hope this small self confidence story gets big, to show the world to stay confident and happy all the times. Keep your head high and do not ever let your tiara fall.

There is a sign, of course, at the foot of the drawbridge: “Welcome to the inside of my head”. Ah yes... take in the brilliance of my Disney-like castle. The palatial grandeur, the iridescent colours. The bricks are units of time: from small second-bricks to huge year-ones. And those turrets? They're decades. The fourth one is still under construction. Do you see how my castle shimmers on a sunny day? When the skies are warm and blue, marvel at the French doors that swing open to the sound of music. Out pop amazing stories of wild adventures, daring encounters and breath-taking journeys. Out dance passionate affairs dripping in salacious details, followed by hilarious conversations, endearing anecdotes. Inside my Castle of Time it's like one of these multi-screen cinemas where rich assortments of films are playing simultaneously, in various languages and with different subtitles. There's upbeat jazz music – the quick tempo a perfect remedy for the chaos of my ever-spinning thoughts. Fairy lights are a-twinkle and the scent of freshly baked bread magics a smile upon your face. “How clever, how witty!” visitors say. “Super creative… fabulous imagination.” “Aren't you tired? There is SO MUCH going on here,” says a kind soul. “Inspirational.” “I can't stop laughing. Do you do this professionally? No? Well, you should.” “Those psychedelic dreams!” “So capable,” says a tourist, clapping me on the back. “Great potential. When is your book coming out?” But suddenly, thick clouds set in and drown out the sun. The drawbridge creaks and heaves as it clanks down. There, in that muddy moat that hugs the castle, live terrible traumas. Hideous monsters that rise from the murky depths. The tigers crouching under the drawbridge are males who touched me, uninvited. The dragons hiding in the rye are the screamers; dominant men who must be in control at all times. There are more demons in that pond, lurking in the shadows of the Castle. The snakes are the cheaters, the scorpions the contaminators. Worst of all are the piranhas; the loved ones that simply upped and left. They wake up when my castle is stressed, scared or worn out. That's when the CP (Condemning Priest) who rules the place spews his poison, his Sect of Smug Women screeching that nothing I do is good enough. “My book,” I tell the tourist, breathing away the tension, “Oh, I don't know. I…” By now, the grey sky is pressing down on me. I feel exhausted. I want to run inside the donjon and hide in a room marked PRIVATE. It has a sofa with a warm blanket, a TV, books, and mountains of chocolate. “You'll never amount to anything,” the CP sneers. His Smug Women snigger. They've caught up with me, loving the torture. “Others write better, more poignant stories,” they mock. “They're successful. You're not.” “You have no energy to pull it off, a book on the market? You're always tired. Loser!” “Failure!” “You've got wrinkles. Time's up.” “Your body is flabby, you can't stop bingeing.” “You say you work hard but you have only ONE child. Pish.” I try to ignore their scorn. Grunting, I shove the CP and his haters in the pantry and lock it. I have another tourist to show around. “And where are you from?” I ask as I throw away the key. “Macedonia.” “Great,” I smile, opening the golden doors. “Здраво. Јас сум Сузана. Како си? добро или лошо? Мило ми е.” The woman's mouth falls open. “How did you...?” “I learnt some Macedonian whilst studying in Barcelona.” “Which languages do you speak?” “Oh,” I say shyly. “English, Dutch... and to varying degrees, French, German, Spanish, British Sign Language, Arabic, Italian, Mandarin and Turkish. “Can you read the Cyrillic alphabet?” “It was amazing to read signs in Moscow,” I say excitedly. But in the distance, I hear banging and clanking. The CP and his army of Smug Women. They're breaking out of the room. I feel anger bubbling inside. “What about Arabic?” the tourist asks. “Love reading and writing from right to left.” “And the Chinese one?” “Don't push it.” Grinning, the tourist picks up a memory. “Wow,” she breathes. “You covered this posh hotel in the Seychelles? You're a journalist? A writer?” Before I can even reply, the CP comes galloping up, flanked by his faithful followers. “She was,” he barks, “but now...” BAM! My fist hits him square on the nose. He slumps on the floor, clutching his bleeding face. Did I just do that? The tourist is too wrapped up in pictures of tropical trumpet fish and gorgeous Creoles to notice. She grabs a Huge Fact off a shelf. “Who's this handsome little prince? You're a Mum too?” “Lazy sloth…” one Smug Women starts. "She..." But I don't let her finish. “Oi,” I say, yanking the Smug's hair. “I am the Queen of my castle,” I bite at them. “No one else. Shoo!” “That's right,” I tell the tourist as I glare at my retreating demons. "And I do both well.” Yes, I've got some fight left in me. But how do I banish the baddies from my castle forever? Time will tell.

He climbed the taut rope ladder with routine. High, very high up into the dome of the circus tent he rose, while down below the clowns made a few last tired jokes, packten their horns away and, under the slowly ebbing laughter of the audience, stumbled hastily outside. It got qiet in the arena. Three more rungs, two - then he stood upon the tiny platform and opposite to him was Nina, the pretty, petite little Nina in her tight white costume decorated with sparkling silver stars, her long blonde hair tied into a perky ponytail. It was her first appearance before an audience, and he admired her courage, so high up, leaving herself completely in his power, relying only on him and his strength and his precision, trusting in his abilities, she put her life literally in his hands. She was only 14 years old, his so beloved, adorable Nina, but she had been training since childhood. In another life, she could have become a prima ballerina or Olympic champion, but she was here, she was his trapeze princess, the shining star on his circus sky. The band played a fanfare and then it became quiet, very quiet, the people in the stands holding their breath, just as he did when Nina pushed away; she floated as lightly as a feather; one might have heard a pin fall as she danced on the trapeze, rocking, gaining momentum; he loved that moment of silence, this was his world, this was the moment he lived for. He caught Nina's gaze as he pushed away, wrapping his legs around the trapeze in fluid motion, his arms dangling overhead. Then he opened his hands; he knew that Nina would release herself from her trapeze the same split second, dropping in the confidence that he would catch her and he sensed the right moment, he felt her fingers in his and he grabbed her. She held herself securely in his grasp, then pulled up smoothly, waiting for him to do the same, until they both stood on the trapeze, and together they swung back onto the platform; high up in the dome of the circus tent they stood and his gaze lost itself in Ninas soul.

Everything in life is about us. Theres nothing, not even the smallest action, decision or thought, that we do not take selfishly. Aware of it or not, direct or indirectly, everything is always about me, me, me and me. It's constantly me. But what happens when we are not self-confidence? When we don't believe in ourselfs and I don't love me enough? Then we search for someone, someone who will give us the love and acceptance we don't give ouselfs. Someone who will make us feel good, alive for two seconds so that after he can make us drown, more and more deeply. We will ask ouselfs; what did I do wrong? why me? We are going to try to swim, get out, but the tide will be way to strong, there will be to much pain and we are gonna drown even more. It will hurt, there will be days where we just want to die and stop fighting becaouse it is easier. There will be a moment, where we will give up, we won't want to fight anymore, we will be tired. We will let all the water fill our lungs, carry us wherever it wants. Days will pass by, weeks, months..but one day, we will finally understand how it works and step by step, little by little we will start to swim. We will figure out that we first need to let all the pain in so that then we can get to know how it feels and works, so that we can fight it. Only that way we will be able to learn from it, grow strong and love ourselfs a little more every day. There will be a day, when we won't need anyone to feel loved, valued and to smile. We will be the one deciding what to do and how to do it. If there is a day, when a special someone arrives, someone who we feel like is worthy of our love, we are gonne let him in. But it is not gonna be becouse we need to feel loved, but becouse we want to share the life we have built up with that one person. It will be becouse WE want to.

Writing has always come easily to me. That isn't to say that my writing is anything special, only that when it comes to sitting down and putting a bunch of words together I think I'm pretty dang alright at it. I've met people that say they have such a hard time writing but it's difficult for me to understand that. Those same people always try to attribute my lack of understanding on the matter to my education (I have a degree in English) but the truth to that is I wouldn't have pursued a degree in this subject if I wasn't already good at it. I'm being 100% honest – being pro-active is not my strong suit. If it comes between making a decision of taking the “easy” route or the “hard (but, in the long run, more beneficial because it teaches you about hard work, perseverance and blah blah blah)” route I'm not going to think too long on which one I'd prefer to take. Essays in college were a breeze, although I'm still sometimes shocked at the quality of work I was able to produce under the circumstances I put myself in. Example: its 8pm the night before my 16 page essay on [insert some literary debate here] is due. I have yet to open a word document. Sure, I've put some thought into what I want to write. That's the hardest part, right? Sitting down and putting all my thoughts into words in one cohesive structure just came so easily to me. I think it has something to do with the amount of privacy you have while writing. No one is listening to you stumble through your words or hearing your attempts at constructing a well worded sentence. You have complete privacy to say what you're thinking. You have the ability to rewrite and reorganize your words. You can take a minute to think on exactly which word best articulates the thought you are trying to express and, if you don't like it, can decide to change it later. You can't do that when you're talking. Well, I suppose you could but it would be weird. This brings me to my road bump when it comes to writing – who will be reading my words? Because, like I said, I consider writing very private. Concern of who will read my writing once I'm finished is a huge deal to me. With college essays it didn't matter much because I knew the person reading my essay would be someone educated on the subject I had written about and would be judging my words based on my display of knowledge on the subject. That isn't too intimidating because it's not creative writing. It's not something that would unveil ideas and thoughts that completely originated in my mind. I once took a Science Fiction class in college and for the final we had to write a creative sci-fi short story. That terrified me. Completely and utterly terrified me. I couldn't hide behind facts and information that were accessible to everyone on a subject that has been widely discussed for years. These would be words and thoughts that were 100% my own. Had this not been an assignment and I was writing something for myself that I could decide who, if anyone, could read it I think I would have enjoyed writing it much more. Once the story was done I began second guessing all of my ideas. Is that really original or am I completely ripping something off? Is this plot even believable? Does it make sense at all? Those were my road bumps. The actual process of writing the story came effortlessly – thoughts into words. Easy. Having to deal with my thoughts on them afterwards – yikes. Turns out my instructor thought it was great and so did the select few I shared it with. They all told me I had a “gift” and should be very proud. This made me feel uncomfortable. Receiving praise for something that came so easily to me didn't seem merited or earned. I truly felt as though I made no effort. I've always sort of blushed when people make comments like these and brush them off faster than they can be laid on me. Only recently have I decided to try to embrace this “talent” I have and attempt to open myself up to the possibilities it may grant me. The catalyst for this change of thought occurred yesterday when someone told me how talented and gifted I was after reading a cover letter I wrote for a job. A cover letter. A simple, short, nothing-special piece of writing that I was trying to use to convince someone to hire me. I finally decided that I should try to start sharing my writing with people. So here I was with this brave (ha) new confidence. I went online to see where I could put this bravery to the test. The first think I came across was Biopage, and they were asking for people to submit writing on the subject of… anything they wanted. Well shoot, if there's anything else further from a prompt I don't know what it is. This project called for me to come up with something 100% on my own for others to read and it was perfect. So here I am. I sat down and just started writing. I figured talking about why I was here was as good as anything else I could come up with. So now I'm ready to get my ideas out there, terrified as I may be.

I remember sitting up in my room one night when i was little. I was always afraid to wear a skirt in class. I was that girl always playing tetherball and beating all the boys. My faborite colors were black and red. It wasnt until one day when i was coloring i realized something, The pink crayon i was using wasnt the shade of pink i wanted for the flowers. In fact this color pink was beautiful. It was so beautiful it stood out on my page , it danced around the dark black outlines; it shined. ‘You know what else shines like that ? ‘ i thought. ‘That dress thart your mom wore yesterday' and i kept thinking. My lips shine when i have on lip gloss. My dress shines in the light. My makeup will shine in the sun. My smile will shine because im happy. I wanted to be as beautiful as that damn pink. And thats how beautiful i was going to get. Im completely self absored, a real caramel goddes, if you ask me. But i probably wouldnt be this way , if i didnt steal my neighbors crayons.

As I put the phone of one of my family friend's down the other day and murmured with a sharp satire, ‘We need to talk', I discovered that I am encountering this phase often and frequently now more than ever. Wonder what had I done to deserve to hear this so often? A lot! I had aged 26 and was not married yet. I was working in one of the biggest international development partner bodies in the country but was only a beginner and not at a stable and secure position and so that is easy to belittle and obviously does not matter. I did not know a thing about cooking, my job with frequent field visits had taken over me maintaining a healthy diet, beautiful skin and the life of a social butterfly. To me, none of these sounds too bad because somewhere lost and caught up with so much expectations of so many people, I sometimes feel that my only true identity is probably this struggling job. I don't really feel sorry for myself for not living up to other people's expectations, I don't kill the peace of my mind over increased weight and hair fall and stressed skin for I knew my inside was stressed from so many things and it is normal to show up on my skin. I pursued a yearlong full-time master's program besides my full-time job and that turned my average days into 14-16 hours a day which equals to two full times. I would leave early morning for my office, would complete my office by the late afternoon and would catch up soon for the evening classes. Coming back to the great family friend story, the phone call was mainly to remind me that I am not aging backwards with the passing time and how I needed to start thinking and expediating the thought and materialization process of getting married but in my own mind and conscience, was I ready for marriage just because I was about what they call past the age for marriage? No, I was not and to be frank that does not matter. It is difficult to explain to your family that how you are of the ‘marriage' age and are still not ready for it? People can get mean on so many levels but one of many beauties of being born as a girl to a south Asian conservative set-up is that ‘mean' means normal and justified and words like ‘considerate' and ‘civic sense' pretty much do not exist. In fact, the dominant conservative south Asian countries are a warehouse of interesting norms. When it comes to the girl in the family, everyone in the family think that they have a right to decide what she should wear- the length of her hair and her dress, what and how much she should eat, what should be her skin color ideally and if it is not that which it is not mostly then how she should achieve that, where and with whom she should go out and with whom she should not and at what time and by what time she should be back and most importantly, when should she get married, have her first child, have her second child and the list goes on. To tell them that they do not actually have the right to decide and more often, their opinions are not welcomed if not asked for, is a sheer audacity and is a sign of questionable upbringing. Not that I ever liked the phase ‘we need to talk' but the frequent encountering the phase made me realize the extent of dislike I possess for this 3-word sentence. I had just turned 26 and was struggling with my new job in the multilateral entity. I was struggling with almost everything and was looking for my breakthrough in the job through the bumpy journey. Wonder how I feel confessing that I was still a beginner at 26 and was struggling with my job instead of having it mastered by this age and heading towards at least a semi managerial position if not managerial? Well, the answer is proud. I feel proud of myself and all small accomplishments of mine. Through the fast paced 25 years of my life, I have learnt that the life we live is indeed very small and so if what we achieve in it are small too, it is alright. Not everyone needs to climb the Everest or make it to the space, the valleys in the countryside hill-stations can make a wonderful escape destination too. Another thing I feel while I write naked confessions of my weaknesses and difficult times and that is carefree and brave. I feel brave because I know from my very short-lived life experiences that not all of us have the courage to admit to our faults and flaws and I feel carefree because I love my flaws and dents as much I love my strengths and stamina. Little do I know that the road to my beauty is paved through my flaws and the road to my power is paved through my fears and insecurities.