I thought of writing something today, but then this thought came to me: what do I write that is not about women, or about myself, or about how life keeps testing me? What do I write that is not about being caught between Kashmir and Delhi, living in the cracks between two places and never fully belonging to either? I wanted to write something that is not a story, because people keep telling me that anyone can write stories. They say the real bravery is in writing about politics. But in my mind, I keep wondering, how is it bravery to write about what is happening in the country and not what is happening inside your own head?
How can anyone not understand how much courage it takes to put your heart on paper? To make a little fun of your own feelings so that people who are suffering, who are fighting the same silent battles, can read it and feel less alone for a moment. And if I am not even allowed to write my own story, then who will write it for me? Where will people go if they want to know me, not my political ideologies, not my qualifications, but the kind of human being I am?
I have always written about myself, and I will continue to do so. If life has taught me anything, it is this: nobody gets to tell me what I should or should not write about. That choice is mine.
I just want to write and remind people to be kind, especially to people like us, who overthink, who have storms raging inside their heads, who learn through years of struggle and self-doubt to finally accept who they are. People who learn to love themselves quietly, gently, almost secretly. People who, after years of walking cautiously on the earth, afraid to take up even a little more space than they need, still hesitate to spread their arms fully because they fear they will claim too much of the world.
Please, be kind to us. One hurtful word from you, and we collapse back into the versions of ourselves we worked so hard to leave behind. One careless sentence, and we are forced to start again, from the very beginning.
We talk about physical health so easily. You say you have a headache, you show a wound on your hand, and everyone worries. You wear a bandage, and people ask what happened. But what about the wounds carried deep inside? What about those who, after a stressful day, struggle to breathe at night? Who start shivering from head to toe because someone said something thoughtless? Whose hearts begin to race because the world suddenly becomes too loud, too heavy?
These illnesses don’t get attention. There is no bandage you can wrap around your mind to show that you are bleeding inside. You can’t go around wearing something on your head to announce, “I am fighting my thoughts today.”
And if you ever choose to be kind to someone like us, please don’t make it public. Do not turn it into a story you tell others. Because that, too, becomes a burden on our hearts. If you have ever been kind to me, know that I will always remember it. But also understand that accepting kindness takes immense courage for someone like me. So please, don’t make a big deal out of it, otherwise, I will hesitate to ask for help the next time I need it.
Being an introvert is already a lot. Being an introvert far away from your family, with no one to run small errands for you, is even harder. You have to gather all the courage you have just to step out into the world. And some days, that alone feels like climbing a mountain.
Still, we keep going. Quietly, slowly, but with a strength people often fail to see. And maybe that is why I write, to make sure people like us are never invisible, not even to ourselves. So, be kind to other people, be kind to writers, be kind to people who want to spread a good message through their stories. Don’t shut them up before they even begun to speak. Be kind to their stories, don’t tell them their story is worthless because you never know, the one story might be the only reason they are alive.
Shafiya Showkat is a student of literature at Jamia Millia Islamia New Delhi. She can be reached at shafiyashowkat33@gmail.com





