All the Colors I Can Hold

I've started to think that the right way... well, at least to me... to live is to experience life in all its colors. Not to skim past the hard shades or chase only the bright ones, but to feel each one fully and let it teach me something.

I grew up in a loving home. I was the kid teachers noticed and relatives praised. We had financial struggles, but I didn't really ever have to carry the weight of them; I was shielded enough to feel secure. I knew I was capable. I could study well, run fast, play sports, and generally do the things expected of me.

Then came competitive exams. That was the first big dip. I realized I don't enjoy working hard for something I don't enjoy... or, more specifically, I can't grind for something that doesn't add meaning to my life or to the things I value. I can work relentlessly on what I love, but the grind for the sake of the grind never fit me. That mismatch brought a heaviness... some depression, some confusion, a sense that I was stepping out of a line everyone else seemed comfortable standing in.

Work life brought a reset. I built a career that went well. I became the person people trusted with complex problems. I didn't run into technical walls I couldn't climb; if anything, I found a rhythm in solving things that looked tangled at first. At the same time, my personal life had its waves. Relationships rose and fell. I made mistakes and felt genuine guilt. I learned how responsibility feels when it's not about tasks but about people.

I've lived alone for long stretches, and that shaped me in quiet ways. I get attached easily... to places, routines, objects. A house isn't just a house. My car isn't just a car. Even the smell of the air in a town stays with me. I attach to the ordinary details... like the crack in a wall or the scratch on my car... because they remind me of a lesson, a season of my life, sometimes even a period of utter desperation and grief.

At work, as I grew into leadership, I hit another crossroads. I don't fit a predefined mold. I'm not a perfect follower or a soldier. I'm a builder. I need room to test ideas, take risks, and follow the thread of curiosity. Some leaders say there's no boundary between work and life. I can't really comment on that broadly; my perspective is that the boundary matters less when you enjoy your work and draw meaning from it.

The harder part has often been "networking." Not because I dislike people... I actually care deeply about people. It's that I care most about ideas, products, and the energy of building, and those priorities don't always match the social scripts many people follow. When the fit isn't there, the interactions feel performative. I can do them, but they drain me. When the fit is there, it's different: the conversation turns into a problem we're both trying to solve, and I feel fully alive.

I'm introverted in the sense that solitude refuels me, but I'm not a mystery to myself. I'm expressive with myself. I know what I'm feeling, and I let myself feel it all the way through... name it, analyze it, sit with it, accept it. That practice... feeling things fully... has been the theme of my life. It's how I process success and, even more so, my failures.

If there's a single idea I want to share by writing this, it's that experiencing life in all of its colors isn't about entertaining drama or adding artificial highlights; it's about brutal honesty in each moment.

Beyond simply putting this into the universe, I'm writing it down... and sharing it... so that if someone out there feels a similar pull toward meaning and purpose, this might serve as a reference point. And as for me, this is my love letter to the universe. I love you... I acknowledge you. It's okay.