After turning thirty, life doesn’t feel like it’s moving forward—it feels like it’s looping.
Every day starts the same, like a clock that no longer needs winding. Wake up before the sun, rush through half-awake mornings, go to the office, stare at screens, come back home tired, eat dinner without tasting it, sleep without resting… and then repeat. Day after day. Year after year. Somewhere along the way, life stops feeling like living and starts feeling like surviving.
People say this happens to everyone after thirty. Maybe it does.
But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
Love life? It slowly disappears—not because we don’t want love, but because there’s no time, no energy, and honestly, no space left in the heart after carrying so many responsibilities.
Family life? It becomes duty before emotion.
Social life? Almost forgotten. Friends turn into memories, laughter into something we scroll past on old photos.
Sometimes I look back and wonder—where did that girl go?
The one who was active, fearless, full of energy.
The one who lived like a free bird, like a butterfly—moving from one place to another, not caring what society thought, not worrying about relatives gossiping behind her back. I didn’t need validation. I didn’t need permission. I was just… free.
And now?
Now I think ten times before taking one step.
Now I care too much—about society, about people, about “what will they say.”
Not because I want to, but because my priorities have changed.
Because my mother stands at the center of every decision I make.
I’ve learned this the hard way: when you lose someone you love, only then do you understand the value of the ones still standing beside you. Before that, we take them for granted. After that, every action feels heavy, because you know one wrong move from you can directly impact them. And that fear—of hurting the one person you’re living for—never leaves you.
Being a middle-class girl in the corporate sector is not glamorous.
It’s silent struggle.
No love life.
No excitement.
No real happiness.
Nothing interesting to look forward to.
Just targets, deadlines, responsibilities, EMIs, expectations… and a salary that disappears before the month ends. We don’t chase dreams—we chase stability. We don’t ask what we want—we ask what is needed. Personal life is slowly ignored, pushed aside, postponed “for later”… a later that never comes.
Some days, the tiredness is not physical—it’s emotional.
It’s the exhaustion of always being strong.
Of always choosing responsibility over desire.
Of living for others while quietly disappearing from your own life.
And sometimes, very quietly, a thought crosses my mind—
Everything sodun kuthe tari dur nighun jav…
Go somewhere far away.
Start a new life with people who don’t know me, don’t expect anything from me, don’t define me by my past.
A life with new hope, where I’m not just a daughter, an employee, a responsible woman—but simply me.
But then morning comes again.
The alarm rings.
And the clock starts its cycle.
And I get up—
Not because I want to,
But because I have to.
