Pilot
The last two years felt like sitting in a Bugatti Chiron, strapped into the passenger seat while someone else slammed the accelerator to the floor.
I was gripping the door handle, praying this wild ride would slow down — or at least make some kind of sense before it ended.
Not even a week had passed since my 10th boards, and I was already stuck in a nail-biting situation, trying to comprehend life and asking myself the complex questions:
“What do I want to be? What fascinates me? Where am I headed?”
I still ask myself these pounding questions today — but I’ve learned not to lie to myself anymore. I’ve learned to accept that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. It’s okay to follow a tangent, as long as it leads to a full-circle moment.
Being clueless and confused, I took the most walked path to the clichéd idea of success: engineering. Safe, secure, and carved out.
“JEE is rigorous; you won’t have time unless you opt for dummy school,” said the big-mouthed uncles. I fell for it. And that one decision changed everything.
The Dungeon Diaries
“How many of you scored above 95% in your 10th boards?” our “coach” asked. (I refuse to call coaching faculty teachers — they’re mechanics making new machines, and they’re pretty good at it.)
Around 15–20 of the 60 students raised their hands. I could feel their swollen chests tighten my stomach.
“How many of you scored above 90%?”
Seated in the dim, dungeon-like room — blue and cream walls, projector light striking the tutor’s face — I raised my hand. He was middle-aged, and experience glimmered in his eyes. I respected him. But deep down, I pitied them — not to throw shade, but the profession never felt as charming as the paycheck.
I was advised to reach the institute by 11 a.m. and self-study until classes began at 4 p.m., lasting till 8 p.m. I followed it. I fumbled with the routine a few times but kept trying. Still, every time I entered that building, a wave of depression hit me.
It wasn’t the building — it was the isolation.
The Disappearing Act
Opting for dummy school, I had accepted the rigorous study schedule and endless sums. But I hadn’t accounted for the isolation.
All my life, I thrived in multiple friend groups, loved wandering, parties, and get-togethers. Suddenly, it was all gone. The boy who’d always scored well and learned quickly now struggled with basics.
Not being able to understand science concepts shook me. I started withdrawing. Slowly, I faded into the background. Being just another student was unfamiliar territory.
In two years, I made only one friend — we bonded over bad decisions. He was like me, stuck in the same chapter of life. But he was introverted, a contrast to my outgoing nature. Still, I cherished his company. I hope the feeling was mutual. Parallelly, I joined BNI, which helped ease the isolation — but that story’s for another blog.
Burnout & Bandages
As time passed, being alone in the rat race changed me. Unpredictably.
Even though I met friends occasionally, I’d lost the excitement. Fun banter had turned into frustrated talk:
“We’re so f*cked up.”
Months passed. I dragged myself through each class. I was on the edge of exploding.
The worst part? Everyone telling me, “This is normal, just stick it out.”
But I couldn’t. The pressure kept climbing. I began having mental breakdowns.
Episodes I’m not ready to replay. I may have been in a depressive state — maybe even had a panic attack — but I haven’t consulted a professional yet.
Eventually, I reached out to a teacher who had taught me from 5th to 8th grade. We restarted in late 11th. I quit the coaching institute and studied full-time with him. The curriculum wasn’t as intense, but we were both trying. Things felt stable — for a while.
The Shipwreck
The winds were calm. The shore looked close. Everyone was relieved. But it was the calm before the storm — one I didn’t see coming.
I’d blame myself too. The day I returned to that blue room, I felt discouraged. Trapped. And I rebelled — just like Harry in Snape’s dungeon. I created the chaos.
The storm hit. The ship wrecked.
It was disastrous.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the universe ticked something off a to-do list I never knew existed.
I had to decide again — what now?
Should I go to a mediocre college? Drop a year? Did I have the emotional strength to redo this mess?
Manual Override
Saying I didn’t screw up would be dishonest — and I’m done lying to myself.
But here’s the thing: I’ve taken the wheel now.
No, I don’t have it all figured out. I still don’t know where exactly I’m heading — and maybe that’s the point.
For the longest time, I was just a passenger — in a car someone else designed, on a road someone else paved. I was holding on, hoping the destination would justify the chaos. Not anymore. I’ve switched lanes.
Hell, I’ve switched the whole damn car.
With my family’s love and support — something I now hold closer than ever — I chose to leave the rat race. I stepped off the assembly line.
I’m now pursuing a BA in Political Science at one of the country’s top private colleges.
And that wasn’t a failure. It was a rebellion.
It was me saying: I’m not here to be built. I’m here to be discovered.
These last two years didn’t just teach me formulas — they taught me who I am when the noise fades.
I’m someone who doesn’t want to be defined by a label.
I want to wander. Explore. Taste life raw.
I’m no longer afraid of change — I crave it. I don’t need a fixed plan because my biggest asset now is openness: To new people. New paths. New places. And new parts of myself I haven’t met yet.
The burnout didn’t kill me — it burned the lies.
And what’s rising from those ashes isn’t just a comeback.
It’s a becoming. And this?
This was just one chapter of a story I’m still writing.
One part of a journey that’s only just taken the first real turn.
Wait till you see where I go next.
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