It was late evening. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light a small desk lamp casting a pool of gold across Rohit's notebook. He sat cross-legged on his bed, spine slightly hunched, a pencil in hand, staring at the makeshift progress chart he'd taped beside his study table.
Another week had passed.
A table drawn with black ink logged each attempt—each struggle—day by day. Dates filled the columns. Some boxes ticked cleanly, others scratched out with apologetic crosses. The ink was messy, smudged in places. But it was real. It was his.
Rohit's eyes trailed down the log.
Three, sometimes four workouts a week. Not perfect, not yet. But enough to prove he hadn't given up. On the days he skipped, he left a blank space instead of an excuse. He'd learned not to lie anymore.
Behind him, the hum of a ceiling fan filled the silence. Outside, faint city noise drifted in—distant traffic, the occasional dog barking. But inside this small room, it was just Rohit .
He tapped his fingers lightly against the wooden floor. A nervous rhythm. His mind had wandered to a familiar place—the thought of failure. What if this wasn't enough? What if he slipped again?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The dull sound echoed like a heartbeat, as if each tap tried to push the thought away.
But instead of retreating into distraction, he inhaled deeply and opened his notebook. In the next section, he had begun noting his reading habits. First, it was just five pages a day. Now, it was ten, sometimes more.
He flipped to the latest entry. His handwriting was rough, uneven—but improving. Much like himself.
He'd started with suspicion. He used to scoff at self-help books. Snake oil for the soul, he once thought. All those motivational phrases, cookie-cutter life lessons—how could one person's story apply to another?
But in his desperation, he gave them a shot.
"Even if they give me just a 1% shift," he remembered thinking, "that's still better than nothing."
Now, he read to understand—not others, but himself. To learn the shape of his emotions. To name the fogs that clouded his days. And slowly, that fog was lifting.
Of course, cravings still clawed at him—sugar, screens, sleep. The unholy trinity. Sometimes he gave in. But now he logged those too, without shame. Each misstep was noted—not to punish, but to observe.
He had created a daily checklist: simple tasks, small wins. Drink water. Move the body. Journal. Read. The routine wasn't perfect—some days it collapsed—but he had begun to hate breaking the chain. There was satisfaction in drawing that tick mark. A quiet pride in seeing more ticks than crosses.
He turned toward the wall calendar. Red ink marked completed days. The clusters of ticks were growing, pushing back the blank spaces like slowly blooming ivy. He smiled faintly.
His mind drifted to fragments of effort:
—His sweaty palms wrapped around the cold iron of a pull-up bar, arms trembling as he failed rep six… but tried rep seven anyway.
—That moment outside the fast-food stall, nose catching the scent of fried temptation, fists shoved deep in his pockets, breath held… then walking away without buying anything.
—The day he said no to all junk food. The whole day. No cheat, no compromise.
—Waking up early after only a few hours of sleep, eyes burning but still getting up.
Small victories. Quiet ones. But they added up.
And through it all—beneath every tick mark, under every logged workout or slip-up—was the biggest change of all:
He had stopped lying to himself.
Rohit remembered a video clip he'd once seen—Conor McGregor, speaking with that manic intensity of his, saying:
"Lying to yourself is poison. It keeps you in guilt. In self-pity. You become your own cage."
Back then, Rohit had nodded along half-heartedly. But now he understood.
That sentence had burrowed deep. Lying to yourself is poison.
It had become his silent mantra.
Now, he didn't pretend to be more than he was. He didn't fake productivity for validation. If he worked, it was real work. If he failed, he faced it head-on.
The guilt was still there sometimes—but self-pity? That was fading. And in its place, something else was forming: clarity.
He leaned back slightly, shoulders relaxing, letting his back press against the wall. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling the coolness of the evening on his skin.
"It's hard work. I do it daily. I struggle, and I proceed. That's who I am now."
His mouth formed a dry smile. He knew tomorrow would be another battle. But he also knew this—
He had stopped hiding from himself.
And in that, he had already begun to win .