Why I'm Writing Again (And Why I'M Done Pretending)

I started this blog when I was a teenager in Delhi.

Back then, I wrote because I had things to say and nowhere else to put them. I wrote about feminism, about social media, about the things I noticed around me — the city, the people, the contradictions. I wrote about what it felt like to grow up as a girl in Delhi, watching society closely and trying to make sense of it.

Sometimes people read it. Sometimes they didn’t. I was inconsistent. Then college happened. Life happened. And like most things from that phase, the blog quietly slipped into the background.

Now I’m back. And this time, I’m not going to romanticize it.

I’m writing again because I need money.

Let’s just say it plainly.

I’m in a new country, and there is no way in hell I’m magically making money here just by “trying harder” or “staying positive.” I came to Germany to do my master’s degree thinking it would open doors — because that’s the story we’re sold. New country, better systems, merit over connections, fewer politics, fewer compromises. Compared to what I had seen in India — especially in sectors tangled in bureaucracy, nepotism, and endless waiting — this felt like a clean slate.

I was wrong. Painfully wrong.

I don’t regret coming here. I’m actually happy I did my master’s. I’ve learned things, grown up in ways I couldn’t have back home, and I don’t take that lightly. But the idea that things would automatically fall into place afterward? That was naïve. The job market doesn’t care how hopeful you are. The system doesn’t care how qualified you feel on paper. And effort doesn’t always translate into outcomes — especially when you’re an immigrant trying to find your footing.

I look at my siblings sometimes and feel like we all played the same game with very different rulebooks.

My brother came to Germany on a work visa. Straight road. No master’s degree here. No student life. He got a job and built a life around it.

My sister went to the US. Her master’s degree was expensive — scary expensive — but she got lucky in ways that matter. She became an assistant professor, her loan disappeared, she earned while studying, and eventually she landed a job at Amazon. She worked hard, yes, but timing and structure worked in her favor too. Today, she’s doing well. Stable. Secure.

And then there’s me.

I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to make more money because I’ve quietly given up on the idea that a job is going to save me. Maybe that sounds dramatic. Maybe it’s just exhaustion talking. But it’s the truth I’m living with right now.

So I’m turning back to the one thing that was always mine: writing.

This blog isn’t a passion project anymore. It’s not teenage idealism or late-night thoughts typed into the void. It’s a skill I’ve carried for years, one that grew with me even when I wasn’t using it. I don’t write the way I did at 15 — I’m sharper now, more tired, more honest, less interested in pretending I have answers.

I’m writing because I have to.

I’m writing because I still have things to say.

And yes, I’m writing because I hope — very practically — that it pays me back this time.

If you’re reading this, I hope you actually read what I write. Not skim. Not scroll past. Read it. Sit with it. Disagree with it, even. Because this time, I’m not here to perform growth or sell a dream. I’m here to document what it actually feels like to start over — in a new country, in a new phase of life, with fewer illusions and a much stronger need to survive.

This is me, coming back.

Not because I found clarity.

But because I ran out of options.

And honestly? That might be reason enough.