A few days ago, I went to the cash machine, then walked directly to the supermarket. I bought a full load of groceries and walked back home.
I had no major fatigue or back pain flaring up. Believe it or not, this was notable progress.
It sounds so insignificant, but in the context of what I’ve been experiencing, this is a sign that I can slowly rely on my body again. It’s also incrementally more than I’ve been able to do in the last few weeks, and a much better bodily response than I’ve had in years.
Tag: #personaldevelopment
Surrendering to the winds of the world
For the first time, I played with the notion that I may never recover. Perhaps the energy of old will never return. My new existence is one of exhaustion and management.
This may sound defeatist, but I don’t think it is. I do believe that I will recover, slowly, but surely. But considering how long this has gone on, and realistically how far off anyone’s expectation this has been, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility to think that I may never get better.
Rather than sounding bleak, there is a sense of simplifcation that comes with such a thought. No longer do I need to constantly find this something that I need to fight. No longer do I need to feel like I am delaying my life to a magical ‘when’ time. It allows me to be present, and not worry too much about the future. There is a freedom in this.
The Paradox of Recovery
I’m waking up with nausea. My back is flaring up. A fifteen minute walk is leaving me in agony. I’ve had to cancel on three social events this week.
I’ve regressed to the point that leaving the house seems like a risky endeavour. The nausea leaves my appetite in confusion. I know that I need to eat, but my sense of appetite is totally suppressed.
Such is the world of recovery. One week is good, another three weeks are difficult.
When conventional wisdom isn’t working
Last year, I stopped going to the gym. I had been going around two to three times a week. I had a personal trainer, who set me different strength exercises and increasing weight goals. On paper, I was doing everything I should have been.
Just before stopping, I got a blood test. Generally my health was good, but my cholesterol was particularly high. Most notably, my HDLs (the ‘good’ cholesterol) was quite a lot lower than they should have been.
If conventional wisdom were to be followed, my health should have gotten worse. I was no longer exercising, I stopped paying too much attention to diet and I returned to a very sedentary lifestyle.
Aging and the Quest to Find Peace
I’ve come to the conclusion that my happiest days will be my final ones. I think I will live a long life, and I think I will be fortunate to retain relatively good health up until the end.
In those final few years, I will be at peace. I will, perhaps finally, feel free. No pressures from society. Enough financial security to live out my last days. And, most importantly, my internal pressures to serve others finally satiated.
It’s probably odd for me to talk about the end of my life. Indeed, I think it’s actually somewhat taboo. Going past our ‘prime’ years in the big cities is some frightening thought. The idea of even mentioning death brings up such discomfort that people avoid it at all costs.
Witnessing a Moment in History
Yesterday, Bangladesh had its national elections. But this was no ordinary elections, it was the first that was broadly fair and free in nearly two decades.
In the West, the idea of a free and fair election is taken for granted. So is the idea of general state stability. Post-colonial South Asian politics has no such luxury. Bangladesh has been mirred with in-fighting, coups and counter-coups throughout its young history. A descent into military rule has very much been on the cards over the last few years.
As such, these elections were historic. Nonetheless, the slight irony is that the results themselves feel somewhat anticlimactic to me. Although broadly peaceful and open elections are to be celebrated, reforms and genuine positive change will take a lot more hard, earnest work.
Letting go of our braced bodies
I went to a tango class this week. For one reason or another, I found myself feeling far more stable and grounded.
On the surface, nothing had particularly changed I had been to a class only a week before, and although I did feel a bit better that day, there was not an obvious reason for such a sudden improvement.
But in the context of my bodily recovery, this shift actually makes quite a lot of sense. For the first time in my life, I am focussing on keeping my body relaxed. I feel like I have reached the tipping point where I am actually guided by my body, rather than constantly pushing it along.
The lost art of keeping discipline
Although I’ve learnt the game of ‘celebrating my successes’, it’s always been one that I’ve done because I’m meant to, rather than because I feel naturally inclined.
In my previous management roles, I used to talk to my staff about the importance of ‘cashing the cheque’ – when a good piece of work had been done, it was important to sing about it from the rooftops. Otherwise, all that hard graft would most likely go unnoticed. I accepted this as part of the game, even if I had a personal distaste for it.
Yet there is a fundamental issue when our value comes from the showing rather than the doing. The laborious, harder graft has become devalued.
Waiting for the World to implode
I don’t think I’ve seen as much pessimism at the start of the year than I have in 2026. We’ve got to the point where we openly speak about how tumultuous things are right now.
The political watershed moment of the week came from Mark Carney, Canadian Prime Minister. Speaking at Davos, he openly talked about the ‘illusion’ of the rules-based international order. He went as far as to say ‘the system’s power comes not from its truth, but from everyone’s willingness to perform as if it were true’.
The problem is that the illusion is slipping. It has been for a while now.
On Family and Duty
The subject of duty has been deeply imprinted in my mind this week. It relates to the idea of expectations and roles, passed down by family and society.
I went back to see my parents in London, where I also reconnected with the works of my grandfather, Delwar Hussain Chowdhury. Before his death in 1977, he wrote many poems that my father compiled after his death.