Sometimes when I fail myself, when I feel like giving up because certain situations or people go beyond my understanding and I simply cannot handle them, and I don’t know what to even do in these situations because i have lost the power to answer back or fight.But I am trying to really pause and remember something important. I remember that there were people in my life who taught me how to love gently, how to remain soft in a harsh world, how to be kind, how to be a good human being. They taught me that if I engage in unnecessary clashes and triggered emotions it does not define my strength. They showed me that I am capable of far greater things than I believe.

There was someone who helped me rise from a place where I felt buried, when my vision was foggy and I doubted my own capacity. I did not know if I would make it through that phase, but I did. This is an ode to that person. To the one who stood quietly beside me and reminded me of who I was when I had forgotten.

I understand that people do not build or destroy us on their own. We hand them that power. The remote control is always in our hands, yet sometimes we willingly place it in someone else’s. And it happens quietly. One comment. One expectation. One moment of wanting to be understood. Slowly, our reactions begin to depend on someone else’s words. Our mood shifts with their tone. Our confidence bends with their approval. Without noticing, we lose access to our own centre.

When we give someone that power, we do not just give them influence. We give them access to our peace. We begin reacting instead of living. We begin explaining instead of simply being. We begin proving instead of growing.

And, then losing the remote control means losing access to our natural responses. We stop asking what we truly feel and start asking how we will be perceived. We stop choosing freely and start calculating reactions. That is when life feels heavy. That is when even small things begin to feel like failures.

And then the defeating thoughts arrive. A comment brushes against an old wound, someone questions your existence or your intentions, or stirs a part of you that is still healing. For a moment, it unsettles you. For a moment, it feels like you have fallen short. Misery lingers and sounds louder than gratitude. I find myself wondering where my calm disappears in those moments. I know I have grown. I react less outwardly now, my words are measured and my silence steadier. Yet inside, I can still feel deeply shaken, sometimes to the point of doubting myself.

But why does it not always happen differently?

If the real work is gently taking the remote back, why do we still hesitate? Why is it so hard to choose our responses consciously? Why do we continue to outsource our peace, even when we know the cost? Why does breathing before reacting feel like effort in moments when emotions are louder than wisdom? And why, even when we understand gratitude, does misery sometimes speak in a stronger voice?

Maybe because healing is not a straight line. Maybe because awareness does not instantly become practice. Maybe because reclaiming ourselves requires unlearning the habit of seeking validation and relearning the habit of self-trust.

Taking the remote back sounds simple. Living it is layered. It asks for pause. It asks for restraint. It asks for courage to sit with discomfort instead of projecting it outward. It asks us to believe that our peace is worth protecting, even when someone tries to disturb it.

So perhaps the question is not why it does not happen like this every time. Perhaps the real question is how many times we are willing to return to ourselves.

And each time we choose to return, even after reacting, even after giving the remote away again, we grow stronger in holding it.

I do not think I have anything left to prove to anyone. Not my worth. Not my depth. Not my intentions. Because i know that the constant need to prove drains the soul. It ties you to a stage where you are always performing for an invisible audience.

Yet because of the good humans in my life, I want to exist. I want to do good. Not to prove anything. Not to silence anyone. But because goodness feels aligned with who I truly am. They did not teach me to fight the world. They taught me to stay rooted in myself.

There will always be people who misunderstand, who trigger, who question. But there will also always be people who build, who soften, who hold space. It is good that such humans still exist.

I just need to breathe.

And I know this too shall pass.

I am reminded of these lines by Rumi:

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

Maybe the triggering words, the moments of doubt, the fog, the failures, all of them are openings. And maybe the light that entered me came through the kindness of those who chose to build me instead of break me.

And this time, the remote remains in my hands. I will choose to be kind to myself now, and I will choose it again the next time, if that moment comes. Because maybe the constant repetition of moments like these is slowly leaving me blank, and I cannot just let exhaustion replace who I am.