There’s a kind of ache that comes not from being hurt, but from being unheard.

What is one supposed to do when you’ve used every version of your voice—gentle, firm, broken, quiet, loving, pleading—and still, it lands nowhere?
I’ve asked myself this question so many times, it echoes even in my silences.

You try explaining with kindness, using “I feel” instead of “You did,” hoping that maybe vulnerability will open a door. You try anger, hoping it’ll shake them awake. You try silence, thinking absence might speak louder than words. And yet…
Nothing.

Maybe they say sorry. Maybe they promise change.
But the patterns stay the same.
The story loops back, like a scratched record stuck on the same chorus.

And each time you bring it up again, you’re met with— “You always fight.”
“If you don’t like me, go find someone else.”
“I said sorry, didn’t I?”

That’s not understanding. That’s deflection.
That’s a wall where a bridge should be.

So then I wonder—
Is it me? Am I the problem? Do I just not know how to express myself?
Or… is it that they’ve grown used to the idea that I’ll stay?
That my boundaries are elastic, stretched by love, or fear, or just sheer hope.

And here’s the thing that hurts more than anything:
When you’re willing to grow with someone, but they expect you to shrink for them.

That’s when love becomes a quiet kind of grief.

But I’m learning something.
Trying isn’t always noble—it can become a trap. A loop of proving your worth to someone who stopped listening long ago.
And boundaries? They’re not a punishment. They’re a mirror. They reflect back to you what you believe you deserve.So maybe the question isn’t “Why won’t they change?”
Maybe the real question is—
Why am I still hoping they will?

I know it’s been a while since I last wrote—so much has been going on, and I’m just trying to keep up! I’m new to journaling, but I promise to improve. I’ve finally managed to follow a schedule—I might break it tomorrow, though. It’s late, and I’m too darn sleepy, but I had to write today. I’ve been going to bed on time, waking up early, taking walks, hitting the gym, and eating well. All in all, I’ve made some very good progress. Sometimes I wonder, how long can I keep up with it?

That’s the good part. As for smoking, I haven’t been able to quit completely, but I’m down to just one or two cigarettes a day. I’ve made it a point to only buy loose cigarettes—no ordering entire packs online. I walk to the little corner shop near my place, buy a single cigarette, and smoke. Each trip reminds me of my goal to cut down, and I even enjoy the brief walk as a way of showing some care for my body.

Today, while sitting in a cozy café with a friend, we were sharing how I’m finally starting to feel at peace and get my life back together. Then, out of the blue, my phone rang and a familiar name flashed on the screen. He contacted me again, and at the sight of his name, my composure slipped away—my heart began racing, my face grew warm, and my ears turned red. I ignored the first few calls and messages, but on the fourth ring, I answered.

He asked how I was doing, and I replied that I was fine. He apologized sincerely for past hurts and admitted that he missed me a lot. Unsure of how to respond, I told him I was busy and would call back—though, truthfully, I didn’t want to. My friend, noticing my distress, gently advised me to relax and not give in until I get what I rightfully deserve. I was astonished that he still held so much power over me—why couldn’t I just let him fade away and block his number? When he asked if I still wanted him, my heart silently confirmed that I did.

He suggested that I reclaim my power by setting a clear boundary: I would only consider welcoming him back if he agreed to make a serious commitment—marriage, in his case. I never imagined that love could turn into a game of power. Is everything in life so political? I felt conflicted—doesn’t love mean putting someone else’s happiness before your own? Yet, many say that self-love is most important. I found myself torn, overwhelmed by the uncertainty of what to do next.

In the end, I took his advice. I told him that if he truly wanted me, he should return to my homeland and commit to marriage—and that I wouldn’t be waiting around indefinitely. I’m still not entirely sure what that means or how it’s supposed to work, especially since we agreed not to speak until he was ready to meet my terms. To my surprise, he listened and promised he’d get in touch in two months. Can I trust him to follow through? I don’t know—I’ve seen him back out before.

Today was one of those days where I did absolutely nothing.
Literally nothing.

I lay in bed, endlessly scrolling through Instagram reels, ate a ton, took a long bath, and enjoyed a stress-free day—so much so that I limited myself to just two cigarettes. That, in itself, was a win.

I spent some time in introspection today. I’m in a long mourning period now; it’s been a month. I wouldn’t blame myself—just when I thought I was moving on from one heartbreak, another hit me, and I sank back into mourning. My low energy and detachment even made me feel like I sabotaged an important interview.

I’ve picked up a few vices along the way:
Smoking, eating too much junk, skipping workouts, sleeping until noon…
Among others that I’m still hesitant to write about. I promise that one day I’ll give each vice its own blog post.

But today, I’ve decided to get back to a routine—fix my sleep schedule, return to the gym, eat healthier, and finally quit smoking.
It might sound surprising, but that’s how I used to live.

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Personal issues can really fuck everything up.

When I was younger, I cared more about my professional life—I even remember praying to God that I could fight with my boyfriend all I wanted, as long as I never made a faux pas at work.

Now, most of my validation comes from my personal life. A good, healthy relationship makes me feel confident and alive, and yes, I can be a little snobbish about it too.

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I see myself as a dreamer who creates her own reality and lives in it.
Sometimes, though, I’m so oblivious to the truth that I ignore the signs my body sends me.

It’s been far too long since I’ve been single.
I started dating at 16, had two serious relationships, and a bunch of flings—though, in retrospect, some of those “flings” felt quite serious at the time.

So here I am, single at 34—I just turned 34 earlier this year. It’s been a shitty year; I was supposed to get married in January, and now, a month later, I’m trying to pick myself up and embrace being single.

I really want to be alone for a while.

I already have people who want to date me, but I’m still grieving my ex and don’t want to rush into something new.
I don’t think I’ve learned how to grieve properly—how to sit with my feelings instead of escaping them.

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I’m an escapist.

I desperately search for short-term distractions from pain—smoking, Bumble dates, even a hookup that left me feeling utterly empty.

Now, I’m determined to mend my ways and learn to be with myself in a structured manner.

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This blog is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I’m starting it at one of the lowest points in my life, and yet the thought of writing fills me with excitement.

Words flow easily when I write—they capture all my thoughts, my truth, and the raw chaos inside me. I’ve never been this honest, not even with myself.

When I type, I peer into my soul, seeing my flaws and strengths with stark clarity.
There’s immense peace in the sound of my keys.

Just a Glimpse of What This Page Is Going to Be About

Life has been a bitch. It mostly is.

I am 34 and single. (Recently broke up—from being proposed to being rejected—but that’s a story for another day.)

I just messed up an important interview that could have changed my life. Got rejected in the final round, which is very hard to mess up.

I had decided on buying land in the hills—everything was finalised, the agreement made, an advance paid—but even that deal is about to fall through.

Life has been hitting hard from all ends.

Is it just me, or does life always seem to shatter like a house of cards the moment it feels sorted? Disappointments everywhere. Too much to deal with, right?

And in all this stress, I’ve been smoking. Sometimes 10 a day. I’m trying to quit, but it all falls apart. It’s the only thing keeping me going right now. It relieves stress. It makes me feel cool when I light a cigarette in front of my bathroom mirror, AirPods in my ears, blaring some loud Punjabi song, making me think I’m the coolest fucking person alive with all the swag.

That’s been my escape. Quite ironic, isn’t it? The one thing harming me the most is also the only thing bringing me peace.

But then the cigarette burns out, and I hate the aftermath—the taste in my mouth, my body feeling sluggish, my hair smelling of smoke, and my skin looking a little dull.

I’m a pretty girl, and I glow even harder when I’m not smoking. I look like a 24-year-old in a 34-year-old’s body.

Okay, maybe that’s a stretch—28 it is.

I’m slim, with light brown wavy hair and olive skin. Sharp cheekbones, a defined jawline, small pouty lips, and almond eyes. Almost perfect. Yeah, almost.

I oscillate between thinking I’m the prettiest girl around and feeling like I look completely average. Nothing spectacular.

Maybe it’s my hormones. Or maybe it’s just me. The under confident one or the goddess—I can never tell.

So that’s a pretty good insight into my mind.

And if you’re up for this, there’s going to be much more.

It’ll be anonymous, though.

Why is it always easier to say everything anonymously? Why is it so difficult to bare our true selves in front of everyone, yet so easy when no one knows who we are?

Anonymously, people might appreciate my personality, my grey shades.

But if they attach my words to my face, to the way I speak in person, judgment creeps in.

Sure, even anonymously, there will be judgment.

But it won’t affect me as much.

So, I’m starting this blog to be brutally, unapologetically honest—to say everything I want without filters. To connect beyond social labels.

Maybe, over time, I’ll drop hints about who I am.

Or maybe, it’s better if I stay a mystery.

Love <3 With a dash of chaos,
—Jenny

Read more: Welcome to My Chaos: An Honest Beginning