Beginning Again in 2026: Notes from a Year of Silence

It’s been a year since I wrote anything.

You may not have noticed—but I did.

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I’ve often wondered why I stopped. Not abruptly, but slowly, almost quietly. The things I once fought time for began to slip away, not because they lost meaning, but because life demanded a reset. What happened in between isn’t important to explain. What matters more at least to me is where it is all leading. Perhaps, if you’re reading this, we’re standing on a similar page of life, even if our stories differ.

Over time, the observer’s lens sharpened. Listening began to feel more powerful than speaking. Silence, I learned, does not equal disappearance. Chosen consciously, it can become a teacher rather than a void. In 2025, I stepped back not into isolation, but into observation. It was unexpectedly relieving. I watched everything unfold, resisting the urge to react or narrate.

When you’re not rushing to add your voice, patterns reveal themselves. You hear what people repeat and what they avoid. You notice where confidence is performed and where uncertainty quietly lives. As Susan Sontag once implied, attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity and silence makes room for it.

At some point in life, everyone gets lost. Sometimes knowingly, sometimes without realizing it. And strangely, something better often begins there. Not everyone likes struggle. Not everyone receives a happy ending. Not every life feels like living all the time and it’s a lie we were gently told as children that goodness guarantees safety. Life is far more honest than that. It is raw, bitter, sweet, and real. Each of these textures matters. Together, they make life what it is.

If there is one constant, it is this: Whatever you have, however you receive it, keep going. There may be no better instruction for living.

A few days ago, I visited a friend, and something she said stayed with me: we want to control everything, and the moment life moves even slightly off-script, we believe it’s falling apart. That resonated deeply. Much of my life was planned, carefully and optimistically. I was unprepared for the interruptions. And yet, I’m not unhappy. Not entirely. Perhaps acceptance carries its own quiet relief.

We all escape in our own ways and then, eventually, choose to face what we ran from. The courage that requires is immense. But on the other side of that confrontation lies a kind of peace you never knew you needed.

With a year left before stepping fully into my research life, I felt an urge to begin something now, something that might matter later. Every meaningful thing I’ve built so far started with an intention: a YouTube channel, a website, courses. Each effort offered results, but more importantly, lessons. The people I encountered became case studies in an observation. Intent, I’ve realized, shapes outcomes more than effort alone.

Mental fog will likely return, IT ALWAYS DOES. But human capacity is far greater than we assume, especially when clarity replaces urgency.

I’m not returning with a reinvention story or a declaration of purpose. Those tend to age badly. What I am doing is beginning again ,deliberately. I’ll be writing weekly essays. Not about my life, but about what I’m noticing. About power and people. About the contradictions we inhabit without naming. About how ideas move through institutions and settle into individual lives. About being human in a world that rewards speed over depth and reaction over reflection.

This won’t be polished wisdom or performative insight. It will be slow thinking, written with care. Observations, not confessions. Curiosity, not certainty. Some weeks will be sharper; others quieter. That variability is part of the work.

I’m resisting the urge to call this a journey. I don’t yet know where it leads. For now, it’s simply a return to paying attention, and to writing from that place.

If you’re still here, welcome back.

If you’re new, this is where I choose to begin.....