A Village Boy’s Journey to become writer

It has been a long journey—one that began seven years ago, when a boy from a quiet village stepped into the chaos of a city, carrying nothing but dreams and a quiet determination to make something of himself.

I was that boy.

Back in the village, life was simple. We didn’t have much, but we had routine, we had familiarity. I worked in my father’s small shop and barely had time to study. I was a bright student, but my reality didn’t allow me to focus on books the way I wanted. My hands were always busy with customers and shop keeping. Still, I dreamed of something bigger.

Then came the day I left for the city. I had no experience, no social connections, no understanding of city life. I didn’t even know how to navigate a public bus properly. But I carried with me a quiet kind of confidence—that no matter what, I would learn to survive.

The city was a world of Its own. I remember standing on a street corner, completely overwhelmed by the noise, the traffic, the people rushing to work in suits and uniforms, some even working night shifts. I had never seen such fast-paced living. Back in the village, time moved slowly. In the city, it raced.

After many failed attempts, I finally passed the entry tests and got admitted to a university. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I believed this was the beginning of something good. But soon, reality hit me with a weight I hadn’t imagined.

The education I had received in the village was poor in quality. Suddenly, I was in classrooms where professors spoke in English—most of which I didn’t understand. My classmates had polished communication skills. I felt like a ghost in the room—unseen, unheard, and barely able to keep up. Worst of all, I had no money.

City life isn’t kind to the poor. I struggled with every single thing—from paying rent for a small hostel room, to buying proper shoes, clothes, and books. I remember skipping meals just to save a few rupees. Sometimes, I went to bed with an empty stomach and a mind so full of worry that I couldn’t sleep.

But I was not ready to give up.

It took me years—yes, years—to learn English properly. I joined grammar classes, writing workshops, and practiced late into the night. I used to listen to English news channels even when I didn’t understand a word. I memorized vocabulary like it was my only lifeline.

Eventually, I made progress. I became good enough to teach the basics—ABC, grammar, vocabulary, sentence structure. I started teaching at local institutes and academies. For a while, I thought I had made it.

But then came another heartbreak.

After all the hard work, the salary I was offered was so low it barely covered my daily meals. I remember holding that offer letter in my hand and breaking down in tears. All those years of struggle, late-night studies, starvation, rejection—and for what? A job that couldn’t even pay for a pair of shoes?

I cried so loud that day. But there was no one to hear me.

No one to tell me it would be okay.

Still, I didn’t stop. I took the job, learned from it, and moved on to the next. Then another. And another. I kept working, kept learning. But I couldn’t rest. I couldn’t sleep. Bills, rent, books—my mind was always racing. Even when I lay down, my thoughts were louder than ever.

After nearly a dozen years of fighting, surviving, and pretending I was fine—I realized I was depressed.

Not just tired. Depressed.

Stress had consumed me like a shadow that never left. I didn’t know back then that what I was feeling had a name. I only knew that I was always on edge, always anxious, always afraid of losing everything I had worked so hard for.

I never told anyone. People around me had their own battles. And in this fast-paced world, who really has time to listen to someone else’s pain?

So I kept it all inside.

Until one day, I picked up a pen.

Writing gave me something I had lost along the way—a voice. A way to speak, to be heard, even if no one was physically listening. I began writing my thoughts, my stories, my struggles. And in those pages, I found a strange kind of peace.

I decided I wanted to become a writer—not for fame or money, but because I had something to say. Something that might help others who feel unseen. Writing helped me process what I went through. It helped me connect the dots of my life, and finally acknowledge that I was not weak—I was tired, and I had every right to be.

Today, I still live with challenges. But I no longer let stress control my life. I’ve learned to pause, to reflect, to be kind to myself. I still work, still chase dreams—but I do it with awareness, not fear.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re going through your own version of this story. Maybe you’re tired too. I want you to know: it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to cry. But don’t give up. You are not alone, even when it feels like it.

Hold on to your dream.

One day, your pain will become your power—and your story will be the reason someone else finds hope.