There was a time when I loved drawing and painting more than anything else. It wasn’t just a hobby for me; it was my way of expressing emotions that I couldn’t put into words. With every stroke of color, every pencil sketch, I felt a sense of peace, as if I was creating a world that truly understood me. I wanted to be an artist, someone who could bring life to blank canvases, someone whose work could speak to people in ways words never could. But my parents never saw it that way. They never supported my passion, dismissing it as something insignificant, something that wouldn’t lead to a “real” career.
At first, I kept painting in secret, hiding my sketchbooks under my bed, stealing moments of happiness whenever I could. But over time, their indifference, and at times, outright discouragement, started sinking in. The excitement I once felt when picking up a brush turned into a dull ache, a reminder that no matter how much I loved it, it wasn’t something I was supposed to pursue. And then, as depression took over my life, everything became even harder. I lost the energy, the motivation, the will to create. My hands, once so eager to paint, became too heavy to lift. Colors lost their vibrancy, sketches remained unfinished, and one day, without even realizing it, I stopped completely.
Another thing I deeply loved was playing badminton. It was never just a game for me, it was about the moments spent laughing and competing with my school friends, my father, my brother, and my cousins. I still remember those evenings filled with excitement, the thrill of every rally, the feeling of pure joy when I won a match, and the playful arguments over who cheated and who didn’t. But as we grew older, things changed. Everyone got busy with their own lives, responsibilities took over, and the people I once played with simply weren’t there anymore.
I tried to find someone to play with, hoping to relive those moments, but it wasn’t the same. The carefree laughter, the feeling of belonging, all of it had faded away. Now, I can only look at my old badminton racket gathering dust, just like my forgotten paintbrushes, and wonder if I’ll ever find the same happiness in those things again.
Maybe we all outgrow the things we once loved, or maybe life just takes them away from us, piece by piece. Either way, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost a part of myself along the way.
The Thought Box 
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