15 April 2026 — A Lesson I Had to Learn Myself
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| Night ride in Karachi reflecting priorities with silence |
Simple on paper. Transformative in practice.
What struck me more deeply was not the lesson itself, but the fact that I had to arrive at it alone, through experience, trial, and emotional exhaustion — instead of receiving it from the very people who always claim to know better.
I have often used the phrase “Screenshot Therapist” for a certain type of person: someone who watches quietly while you struggle, says nothing when it matters, and then later points at your bruises and says, “See? I told you so.” They do not help you avoid the fire; they wait for you to burn, only to feel validated afterward.
That has been one of the deepest pains in my own life.
At home, I have often felt as though my individuality was treated less as something to be understood and more as something to be corrected. As if my uniqueness — the very traits that make me who I am — was an inconvenience that needed to be reshaped into a familiar mold. Not because I was harming anyone, but because I was different.
Let me be clear: I am not writing this to paint everything in black and white or to declare that everything my elders did was wrong. That would be dishonest. The purpose of this journal is balance — to document what I am thinking, what I am feeling, and what I have endured, so that memory does not get edited by time.
What hurts most is not disagreement — disagreement is natural. What hurts is disrespect disguised as concern.
There have been moments in my life where I felt reduced, sidelined, or made to feel that my worth was conditional. Even during my marriage, moments that should have reflected dignity and inclusion instead carried undertones of dismissal. Small gestures often reveal bigger truths. Sometimes, what is withheld says more than what is given.
And perhaps the hardest part has been this: my silence has too often been mistaken for acceptance.
Agree for disagreement
But silence is not always agreement neither it should be taken under obedience/disobedience. Sometimes, it is restraint. Sometimes, it is exhaustion. Sometimes, it is simply the way a person survives while trying not to become bitter.
I have never been someone who performs emotions for public approval. Even in grief, I have processed pain inwardly. When my brother died in 2007, I came back after my intermediate exam. I did not collapse in front of others. That was not because I felt less — it was because this is how I am built. My emotions have always run deep, even if they were not always visible, but my parents always in front of others say that I cried in front of others, I hate such things, and it should be respected.
That difference in temperament has often been misunderstood.
And now, at this stage of life, I understand something important: if I do not acknowledge what hurts me, others may write my silence as consent. The consequences of that false acceptance do not disappear — they return later, often heavier than before.
So this journal is not an act of rebellion. It is an act of responsibility.
Not just toward my present self, but toward the person I will become years from now — the one who may need to remember that even in moments of confusion, hurt, or loneliness, I was still trying to understand life honestly.
A Small but Lasting Moment — 9:16 PM
While riding, I felt my bike was consuming more fuel than usual, so I headed toward Waterpump Chowrangi to get it checked, because I have a thinking that such things from which you're earning is your asset and asset is something where you shouldn't compromise at any cost.
Last night, I reached Waterpump Chowrangi around 9:16 PM. I had gone toward my bike mechanic’s shop — the one near the famous milk shop that has become my mental landmark for that area.
I am not someone who instinctively reaches for a phone to document moments. I have never been picture-savvy. I usually carry experiences in memory rather than in photographs.
But when I arrived there, everything was pitch black.
For a moment, it felt surreal — like being pulled back into the strange stillness of the COVID-19 lockdown years, when the city would retreat into itself after Maghrib and silence would take over the streets.
To most people, it may have been an ordinary power outage or an early closure.
To me, it felt symbolic.
A reminder that darkness is not always dramatic. Sometimes, it arrives quietly — in familiar places, in ordinary hours, in moments when you are simply trying to get through the night.
And yet, even then, you keep moving.
Related posts
- When Control Enters Your Room Uninvited
- Cataract
- The Real Me - Murtaza Moiz Farooqui: It's 12:14 AM in Karachi, pitch black outside, and I'm wide awake with this raging fire in my chest—intense anger, heart burning like hell, a storm of helplessness crashing over me. But somehow, faith in Allah is still holding on, even if it's getting weaker by the day. God, help me cling to it.
— Murtaza Moiz Farooqui
The Real Murtaza
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