In Folds Of Smile

Somehow, I ghosted my own blog for over a year — not because I had nothing to say, but because life was busy rearranging me without asking for consent.
I was becoming someone who could return responsibly.

Recently, a friend shared an analogy that stayed with me long after the conversation ended, and I felt compelled to share it here. She said: every mind, soul, and body is like a house.

A house with different spaces — a balcony, a corridor, a living room, dining room, bedroom… and the bed. Some people deserve a polite dismissal at the corridor. Some are welcome in the living room. A few earn a seat at the dining table. Very few are allowed into the bedroom. And the bed? That’s sacred territory.

What unsettled me wasn’t the metaphor itself — but the recognition it triggered.

I had allowed people to sit on the bed far too easily.

For a long time, I believed a house’s purpose was to stay open. Doors unlocked. Curtains drawn back. If someone knocked, I assumed they belonged. I learned early that warmth makes people stay. So I offered tea even when I was tired. I let people sit on the bed because it felt kinder than asking them to stand.

Some guests arrived with muddy shoes.
Some rearranged the furniture and called it “help.”
Some stayed too long — talking loudly while I tried to sleep.

I didn’t complain, because I thought discomfort was the price of connection. When rest became impossible, I blamed myself.
Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe this is what closeness costs.

Meanwhile, the place meant for rest grew crowded. The bed was occupied — and I found myself sitting on the floor of my own house.

Still, I didn’t change the guests.
I changed the rules.

But one night — exhausted — I locked the doors. Not forever. Just long enough to sleep.

And for the first time in years, I did.

Something shifted quietly after that. I noticed that when certain visitors left — by choice, by distance, or by neglect disguised as “low maintenance” — the house felt lighter, not lonelier. And some visitors knocked on the door quietly and waited for me patiently to rest, recharge, and unlock it again, slowly, on my terms.

I realized I’ve always been generous with emotional access.
Not because I lacked boundaries — but because I believed closeness was proven through access. Because I see potential, and I believed that was kindness.

What I’m learning now is simpler — and harder: Not everyone who understands me deserves me.

I crave depth. But depth without safety is just drowning slowly.

I don’t need to build walls. I just need gates.

A living room where conversation flows easily.
A balcony where anyone can admire the view.
A bedroom where only a handful are welcome.
And the bed — reserved for rest, safety, and deep trust.

Once you read this metaphor, you start noticing how unconsciously you grant access — not poetically, but practically. In an adult, energy-is-expensive way.

Somewhere in the middle of all this reflection, Google Photos resurfaced old snow pictures. I love snow. I miss it deeply. I also don’t enjoy the cold. Human contradiction, I know.

But winter — literal or metaphorical — has a way of turning the volume down. It forces you inward. It shows you what your house is built from. Who stays when there’s nothing to offer. Which rooms you keep heating unconsciously. Where your energy leaks.

That’s when it clicked.

The bed isn’t reserved for intensity, history, or potential.
It’s reserved for safety.
For those who don’t rush.
For those who don’t take rest personally.
For those who leave you calmer than they found you.

Sometimes that person is another.
Sometimes, in my case currently — it’s just me.

2025 taught me something quieter than all the dramatic lessons before it: not everything needs to pass. Some things need to be rearranged.

Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re doors with intention.
Turning inward isn’t withdrawal. It’s reorientation.
Filling your own cup isn’t solitude. It’s sovereignty.

And becoming your own best friend — and yes, your own lover — isn’t narcissism.
It’s the end of emotional homelessness.

I don’t yet know how the epic love story unfolds.
I only know this chapter is about learning who gets the keys — and why.

For now, the house is quieter. The bed is clear. The windows are open just enough to let the light in. And somewhere between honest mornings and softer evenings, I’m learning to live by a simple truth:

Mai apni favourite hoon. (I am my favorite person)

And somehow, that feels like the right place to begin…