bhaskar saikia

The end of the year often arrives with noise—lists, resolutions, urgency dressed up as hope. I’ve learned, slowly, that I don’t belong to that noise.

Not everything meaningful enters our lives loudly. Some things arrive the way evening does—without announcement, without spectacle—only a gradual softening of light.

I move slowly through my days now. Not because I am uncertain, but because I am listening. To spaces between moments that teach patience without instruction. To doubt, which sharpens honesty. To time, which reveals itself only when I stop asking it to hurry.

I have also learned something about myself this year: I offer myself in layers.

There is a version of me the world meets easily—competent, thoughtful, calm. And then there are deeper layers that take time. Parts of me that need safety more than expression. Parts that open only when silence is not mistaken for absence.

This isn’t withdrawal. It is care.

I work, I write, I observe. I teach and remain a student at the same time. I let questions remain unanswered longer than most people are comfortable with. There is dignity in not knowing yet. There is wisdom in resisting premature clarity.

Love, in my life, does not demand performance. It sits beside me. It understands pauses. It knows that presence does not always need words. In that space, I am not required to become more—I am allowed to be precise.

As this year closes, I am no longer rushing toward reinvention. I am choosing alignment over acceleration. Depth over display. Attention over ambition.

If there is one thing I carry forward into the new year, it is this truth: A life does not need to be extraordinary to be deeply meaningful. It only needs care.

So I step into the coming year gently. Listening. Staying. Offering myself—not all at once, but honestly, and with intention.

Thank you for reading, for pausing, and for staying with words that do not hurry.