
# Leaving My First House

I am moving out of my house.

My first house.

The first place I moved into alone.

It has been around one and a half years. Now that I am packing, I keep looking at small things and remembering when I bought them.

Because for one and a half years, this place saw me every day.

It saw me wake up late.

It saw me wake up early.

It saw me cook a lot of food.

It saw me sit silently after long days.

It saw me do nothing and still feel tired.

When I first moved in, I think I was more excited about the idea of living alone than the actual reality of it. Living alone sounds peaceful from outside. You get your own space. No one asks questions. No one tells you what to do. You can eat when you want, sleep when you want, clean when you want.

And yes, all of that is true.

But a house does not feel like yours on the first day.

At first it is just a place where your bags are kept.

Then slowly you buy one thing. A bed. A TV. A table. A chair. Some vessels. A small thing for the kitchen. Something for the wall. Something you did not need urgently, but bought because the place started feeling empty without it.

Slowly the house starts looking like your life.

Not in one big moment. Just little by little.

One day you look around and realize, okay, this is my place now.

But slowly you also realize the other side.

No one wakes you up.

No one reminds you to eat.

No one notices if you are not doing okay.

No one is coming to fix your routine for you.

You have to become the person who tells yourself, "Get up."

And that is harder than it sounds.

## Food

One big memory from this house is food.

I cooked a lot here.

Not fancy food. Mostly normal food. The kind of food you make because you are hungry and Swiggy is getting too expensive. Poha, rice, idli, upma, dal, random experiments, and sometimes full confidence with zero skill.

I was always a good cook :)

But cooking alone still teaches you something.

![Food I cooked in this house](/assets/blog/first-house/poha.jpg)

Slowly, cooking became less about food and more about taking care of myself.

There is something very grounding about making your own food. You cannot fake it. If you do not put salt, there is no salt. If you burn it, it is burnt.

At the end of the day, it is you and fire cooking the food. It humbles you.

Life gives feedback very directly in the kitchen.

![Another plate from the kitchen](/assets/blog/first-house/idli.jpg)

I think I learnt that in this house. Small things matter. Washing the plate after eating matters. Buying fresh vegetables every single day matters. I did not have a fridge, so there was no "whatever is left" backup plan. If I wanted to eat properly, I had to step out, buy what I needed, and cook.

I also shared food with my neighbours sometimes. Nothing big. Just some extra rice, some curry, something I had made a little more of. But those small exchanges made the place feel less lonely.

These are not big life lessons, but when you live alone, these small things become your life.

## Living Alone

Living alone teaches you many things, but not in a motivational quote way.

It teaches you by making you face yourself.

You realize you are your own enemy a lot of the time.

Not the world.

Not luck.

Not people.

You.

Your laziness. Your overthinking. Your bad sleep. Your phone addiction. Your ability to postpone one simple task until it becomes a problem. Your talent for knowing exactly what is good for you and still doing the opposite.

That was one of the biggest lessons of this house.

When there is no one around, you cannot blame anyone for how your day goes. If the room is messy, it is you. If the sink is full, it is you. If you slept at 3 AM and woke up feeling dead, again, it is you.

At first that feels irritating.

Then slowly it becomes freeing.

Because if you are the problem, maybe you can also become the solution.

Not every day. Not perfectly. But slowly.

## Leaving

Now I am leaving this house, and I do not know what exactly I feel.

I am not crying. I am not heartbroken. I am also not completely casual about it.

It is just one of those moments where you look around and realize a place has become part of your life without asking for permission.

This house was not perfect.

Some days it felt lonely.

Some days it felt like freedom.

Some days it was just four walls and a kitchen.

But it was mine for a while.

![A meal from this chapter](/assets/blog/first-house/rice.jpg)

I learnt to live here.

I learnt to cook here.

I learnt that discipline is not some big personality trait. Sometimes it is just waking up, washing your plate, making food, doing your work, sleeping at a decent time, and repeating it even when no one is watching.

I also learnt that independence is not always exciting. Sometimes it is boring. Sometimes it is lonely. Sometimes it is just you standing in the kitchen wondering what to eat.

But I am grateful for this house.

It gave me space.

It gave me silence.

It gave me a version of myself I had to meet properly.

And now I am moving out.

To a better house.

Still living alone.

Not with a big lesson.

Not with a perfect ending.

Just with some packed bags, a few food photos, and a quiet feeling that this place mattered.


Leaving My First House


# The Kid Inside Me Is Still Here

Hi Everyone,

Today I turn 24.

I honestly do not know how to feel about that.

I remember writing a blog when I turned [21](/posts/turning-21). Back then even 21 felt like a big thing. I was thinking about adulthood, about the little kid inside me, about whether my younger self would be proud of who I had become.

Now somehow three years have passed.

And I still do not think I have an answer.

Maybe that is the funny thing about birthdays. Every year the number changes, people wish you, maybe there is cake, maybe there are calls, maybe someone puts your photo on a story, and then the day ends.

But inside, nothing changes in one clean moment.

You do not sleep as 23 and wake up as 24 with some new adult software update installed.

No patch notes.

No bug fixes.

Same person, just slightly more aware of the bugs.

I was born on July 3, 2002.

That means I have completed 24 years of being here, which is a very normal sentence until I actually sit with it for two seconds.

Twenty-four years.

That sounds like a lot.

But also not enough.

I still feel young. I still feel confused. I still feel like I am figuring out basic things that I assumed adults just knew automatically.

When I was a kid, I thought people in their twenties had life sorted.

They had money.

They had confidence.

They knew what they were doing.

They did not overthink every small thing at 1 AM.

Now I am 24 and I can confirm that was a scam lol.

## Turning 21

When I turned 21, I wrote about how strange it felt to become an adult.

I had this line in that post:

> never let the kid inside you die

At that time, I think I understood it in a simple way.

Keep having fun.

Do silly things.

Do not become too serious.

Eat chips with curd and do not let anyone judge you for it.

I still stand by that last point btw.

Chips with curd is elite.

But now that I am 24, I think that line means something slightly different.

The kid inside you does not stay alive just because you laugh or make jokes or act childish sometimes.

He stays alive when you do not become cruel to yourself.

He stays alive when you still let yourself be excited.

He stays alive when you still believe that small things matter.

He stays alive when you are tired, but still curious.

He stays alive when life disappoints you, but you do not become fully bitter.

That is harder than I thought.

Because adulthood does not kill the kid inside you dramatically.

It does not come with a sword and say, okay enough, childhood is over.

It is slower than that.

It happens when you start measuring every day by productivity.

It happens when you feel guilty for resting.

It happens when your dreams become tasks.

It happens when you stop doing things just because they are fun.

It happens when you look at yourself only through what is missing.

And if you are not careful, one day you realize you are not living. You are only managing yourself.

I think I have done that a lot.

## Becoming An Adult, I Guess

The last few years have changed me.

Not in a movie way.

There was no one big scene where I became mature.

It was more like many small things slowly piling up.

Work happened.

Responsibility happened.

Money started mattering differently.

Health started mattering differently.

I moved out of the house.

I started living alone.

I learned that independence is not only doing whatever you want. It is also remembering to buy groceries, cleaning your own room, eating something decent, paying attention to bills, and realizing nobody is magically going to fix the small things for you.

I solo tripped.

That one changed me more than I expected.

There is something about being alone in a new place that makes you meet yourself properly. You have to decide things. You have to ask strangers for help. You have to eat alone sometimes. You have to figure out where to go next. And slowly you realize being alone is not the same as being lonely.

Friendships changed.

Some people stayed.

Some people faded.

Some days were good.

Some days were heavy for no clear reason.

I traveled more. I drove more. I wrote more. I made mistakes. I learned things the hard way. I also had some moments where I looked around and thought, damn, life is actually beautiful sometimes.

And somewhere in between all of this, I became more adult than I realized.

Not fully.

Obviously not fully.

But enough to feel the difference.

There are things I handle now that would have scared younger me.

There are conversations I can have now that I would have avoided earlier.

There are failures I can survive now without thinking the world has ended.

That is growth, I guess.

But growth is weird.

Because sometimes you become stronger and softer at the same time.

You learn to carry more, but you also become more aware of how heavy everything can be.

You learn to be independent, but you also realize how badly humans need people.

You learn to move on, but some memories still sit quietly inside you like they own the place.

Maybe that is what 24 feels like.

Not old.

Not settled.

Just more aware.

## The Six-Year-Old Question

In my 21st birthday post, I kept thinking about my 6-year-old self.

The little boy who wanted a big birthday bash.

The boy who used to read books and imagine growing up.

The boy who ate chips with curd like it was some five-star dish.

The boy who probably thought adult me would be very cool.

I still think about him.

Not every day.

But on birthdays, he comes back.

I wonder what he would think of me now.

Would he be proud?

Would he be confused?

Would he ask why I worry so much?

Would he ask why I stopped celebrating small things loudly?

Would he ask why I look tired sometimes?

Would he ask why I keep trying to become someone else before accepting who I already am?

That last question would hurt a little.

Maybe my 6-year-old self does not need me to be impressive.

Maybe he does not care about my job title, salary, goals, productivity, or whatever version of success I keep chasing.

Maybe he only wants to know if I am kind to myself.

If I still laugh.

If I still try.

If I still notice the sky sometimes.

If I still get excited before a trip.

If I still write because something inside me needs a place to go.

If I still remember him.

## Remember Who You Are

Recently I came across this line connected to Lewis Hamilton.

Some fan had apparently told him:

> Remember who you are

And for some reason, that line stayed with me.

Maybe it stayed with me more because Lewis also won recently.

As someone who has watched him for years, that felt nice in a very personal way, even though obviously he does not know I exist lol.

There is something beautiful about watching someone you admire struggle, doubt, keep going, and then suddenly remind everyone, and maybe himself too, who he is.

Also, by the time I became 24, RCB had won twice.

Twice.

If you had told younger me this, I would have asked you to stop lying.

Maybe miracles do happen after all.

Maybe because it sounds simple.

Maybe because it is the kind of thing we only need to hear when we have started forgetting.

Remember who you are.

Not who you are trying to become.

Not who people expect you to be.

Not who LinkedIn wants you to look like.

Not the version of you that has everything figured out.

Just who you are.

The real one.

The one who gets scared before doing new things.

The one who acts strong but still wants reassurance.

The one who wants to build a good life but also wants to sleep peacefully.

The one who loves people but sometimes does not know how to show it properly.

The one who still wants to be seen.

The one who is trying.

I think birthdays are good for that.

They force you to pause for a bit and look at yourself without the usual noise.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just enough to ask:

Am I still me?

Am I becoming someone I actually like?

Am I taking care of the parts of me that do not look useful from the outside?

I do not know the full answer.

But I want the answer to be yes.

## What I Am Grateful For

I do not want this to become one of those birthday posts where I pretend everything is perfect.

It is not.

There are things I am still figuring out.

There are days where I feel behind.

There are things I wish I handled better.

There are people I miss.

There are versions of myself I am still trying to forgive.

But I am grateful.

Very grateful.

For my parents.

For the fact that I have people who care about me even when I am not the easiest person to understand.

For friends who have stayed.

For friends who may not be close now, but still gave me memories I would never want to erase.

For work, even when it is stressful.

For the body that lets me travel, run, lift, eat, dance randomly, and do all the stupid things I decide are good ideas.

For the trips I got to take.

For the mistakes that did not completely break me.

For the version of me that kept going even when he did not feel very brave.

For writing.

I do not know what I would do without writing.

Sometimes I write because I have something to say.

Most times I write because I do not know what I am feeling until the words come out.

This blog has seen so many versions of me.

Confused me.

Excited me.

Dramatic me.

Sad me.

Philosophical-at-2-AM me.

And now 24-year-old me.

Still here.

Still typing.

Still trying to make sense of things.

## 24

So yeah, I am 24 now.

That feels strange.

Not bad.

Just strange.

I do not think 24 is supposed to come with some grand realization.

Maybe some years are not about becoming a completely new person.

Maybe some years are just about returning to yourself a little more honestly.

Maybe this year I do not need to promise that I will become the best version of myself.

That phrase is exhausting anyway.

Maybe I just want to become a kinder version.

A calmer version.

A version that works hard but does not treat rest like a crime.

A version that dreams big but still enjoys ordinary days.

A version that takes care of the people he loves.

A version that does not let ambition turn him into someone he would not have liked as a child.

Maybe that is enough for now.

![young-me](https://i.ibb.co/sCsj03h/Whats-App-Image-2023-07-03-at-11-22-10-PM.jpg)

I do not know if my 6-year-old self would think I became cool.

Maybe he would be confused.

Maybe he would ask why I worry so much.

Maybe he would ask if we still eat chips with curd.

Yes bro.

Sometimes.

Not enough, but sometimes.

I hope he would see that I am trying.

Trying to be kind.

Trying to build a decent life.

Trying to not become too serious.

Trying to keep some part of him alive.

So yeah.

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

The kid inside me is still here.

And maybe that is enough.


← ~/devcoffee

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