I CARE ABOUT Myself (2025)

06/10/2025

Not Introvert, Not Extrovert: What If You're Actually Both? (And Why Classification Might Be the Real Problem)

"So... What Are You? Introvert or Extrovert?"
You've been asked this.
In an interview. At a networking event. On a personality quiz your company made you take. Maybe even in a marriage bio someone was writing for you.
We're obsessed with classification.
But here's the problem:
Last week, I was in a closed group meeting with a couple of new faces.
I talked. And talked. Cracked jokes. Pulled pranks. Made everyone laugh. Anyone watching would've labeled me: Extrovert. Clear as day.
Two days later, I'm at a medical conference.
One speaker has me spellbound - the way she commands the topic, the precision of her presentation. I'm leaning forward, absorbing every word.
The next session? Pure self-propaganda.
I watch the speaker's polished smile - sophisticated, artificial, the kind that never reaches the eyes. The ego practically rings in the air around him.
Between sessions, I'm standing alone near the coffee station.
Some attendees are buried in their phones, scrolling through the very slides being presented. Am I also doing this now? I glance at my own screen.
One senior physician walks past - someone I've admired from afar. I want to approach, say something meaningful. But there's a wall there. Unreachable.
Another colleague catches my eye and drops a single line - something so insightful it reframes everything I've been thinking about a case.
Yes. That. That's why I'm here.
And I'm also judging all of this. The performances. The egos. The genuine teachers. The noise.
When did I become this person? 😂
Same person. Two completely different versions.
In my profession, I have to be decisive.
I break bad news. I convince people to act rather than succumb to disease. That's not optional - it's essential.
But inside?
I create space for my patients to ask what they call "silly questions." There are no silly questions, I tell them. Only questions.
And I mean it.
Because I'm constantly digging inside myself trying to answer my own.
What am I, really?
The guy who talks nonstop in the right room? The guy who observes and judges at a crowded conference? The doctor who speaks with authority? The person who still isn't sure of his own classification? 😂

Now there's a new term: Otrovert.
Not introvert. Not extrovert. The "other."
And I get it - people need frameworks. Labels help us make sense of complexity.
But what if the complexity itself is the truth?
What if I'm not "one thing adapting to situations"? What if I'm genuinely different people in different contexts - and somehow, all of them are real?
The dilemma:
In a closed group, I'm energized by banter. At a conference, I'm somewhere between captivated and critical - depending on who's speaking.
With patients, I'm assertive and clear. With myself, I'm endlessly questioning.
I can be logical or I can be pleasing - but rarely both at once. So sometimes I choose to act dumb just to avoid being swept into arguments I don't care about.
Which version is authentic?
All of them. None of them. Does it matter?

Here's what I've realized:
The pressure isn't to be introverted or extroverted.
The pressure is to be consistent.
To have a personality that makes sense to observers. To fit a story people can understand without effort.
But I don't owe anyone that story.
I can talk for hours with two close friends. I can stand silent in a room of fifty, watching, judging, learning.
I can lead a surgical team with conviction. I can sit alone and question everything I just said.
What if it's not inconsistency at all? What if it's just... fluidity?
Responding to what the moment needs - and deciding whether I choose to show up for it or not.

Maybe we don't need another classification.
Maybe we need permission to stop performing one.
Maybe the freest thing you can be is unapologetically situational.

✨ A question for you:
Are you still trying to figure out "what you are"?
Or have you realized that being multiple things - depending on the context, the people, the energy in the room - might be the most honest version of human you can be?

I don't know what I am. And I've stopped needing to.

PS: I share reflections on growth, medicine, and what it means to live authentically. If you're navigating your own contradictions, follow along - you're not alone in this.

01/10/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞: 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

Row 9A. Gujarat to Kolkata. Mahashasthi morning.

The flight attendant offers coffee. I shake my head. My mind is already elsewhere—suspended between what I’m leaving and what I’m returning to.

Gujarat gave me a job. A position. Stability. But did it give me a home?
Bengal is home. But what’s left there? Jobs vanishing. Politics toxic. The culture I love turning into carnival.

The plane climbs. Below, India spreads—rivers bending, cities bleeding into fields, borders dissolving at 30,000 feet.

But I know when we land, the fractures show.

The shiuli flowers are already calling. A scent that exists nowhere else, in no other season.

Logic says stay in Gujarat. Heart says go back to Kolkata. Why choose heart when I know what’s waiting?

Mahashasthi Evening — When Smell Defeats Reason

Dum Dum Airport. The air hits different. Thick. Humid. Memory-soaked.

Then it comes—shiuli. That autumn smell you can’t explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it.

The cab passes a pandal. Massive. Themed. “Sustainable Development Goals” in LED lights. Three corporate sponsors stamped across the arch.

This is what’s changed. Puja as brand activation. Devotion as marketing opportunity.

But then the dhaak begins. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

It cuts through everything. Ancient. Unchanged. Unsponsored.

How do these coexist? Corporate themes and traditional drums. Commercialization and devotion. Both real. Both happening.

My phone buzzes. The school group:

“Reached, bhai? Tomorrow Saptami. 12 noon. School gate. 7 No Riverside Road. Then food and drinks. 12 confirmed.”

Twelve people. From Class 1 to 10. Thirty-plus years of knowing each other completely.

This is why logic fails. You can’t spreadsheet friendships formed before social media existed.

Mahasaptami Noon — The Gate Where We Began

12:00 PM. Ramakrishna Vivekananda Mission, 7 No Riverside Road, Barrackpore.

Twelve men at a school gate. Indranil, Sudeb, Subhajit, Suvo, Souvik, Suman, Palash, Aranyadev, Atanu, Abhishek, Dibakar. And me, Sudip.

We just stand there. Looking at the building that shaped us from six to fifteen.

“It looks smaller.”
“We’ve gotten bigger. Or just older.”

Or both. Definitely both.

“Remember that failed stunt on the playground?”
“At least I tried. You were commentary from the sidelines.”

Laughter. Same energy. Three decades and nothing essential has shifted.

They knew me before I became a doctor. Before identity had a title. When I was just another boy trying to figure out who I was.

The gate hasn’t changed. The faces have—time written gently and honestly.

We’re the same. We’re different. How can both be true?

The Adda Where Everything Spills

Usual place. Beers on the table. Food on the way. Phones face down—unspoken rule.

No warmup. Straight to the truth.

“IT is finished, bhai. Recession everywhere. I’m counting days till I’m fired.”
“At least you have a job to lose. I’ve been ‘benched’ for three months. Paid to wait.”
“Work culture is killing us. I had a panic attack last month. Couldn’t tell anyone. They’d mark me weak.”

This is why we meet. Because where else can you say ‘panic attack’ without it becoming ammunition?

They turn to me. “Healthcare is stable, right?”

I breathe. Then: “Not like you think. Healthcare is business now. Doctors as revenue units. Patients as margins. P/L over people.”

I tell them why I left the previous hospital—the forty-a-day squeeze, the dilution of care, the equitization of everything.
“Even in Gujarat—teaching hospital—it’s better, not different.”

Am I complaining? Or reporting? Both feel true, which is its own confusion.

Silence.

Then: “So basically every industry is f**ked?”

Dark laughter. True laughter.

“At least we’re drowning together.”

More laughter. Relief hiding inside honesty.

When It Turns

“Okay. Enough. Picnic?”

Heads lift.
“This year again.”
“Someplace affordable.”
“But good food.”
“And no corporate-retreat vibes. Just us being idiots.”

Old stories resurface.
“Remember Class 8 picnic? The ‘not my girlfriend’ saga?”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Sure. Just a friend who wrote daily love letters.”

The table erupts. Even the waiter smiles.
Old slang slips back into our mouths like it was waiting there.

This bond was forged before we learned to curate ourselves. Before metrics. Before performance. Tiffins and secrets. That was the syllabus.

Split-Screen Mind

They’re debating mutton vs chicken. I’m in the room and outside it.

Look at this. Twelve people. Zero pretense. This is what survives.
Outside—recession, toxic cultures, healthcare commodified, Bengal declining. Jobs disappearing.
Maybe we’re proof that something endures. Or we’re the last ones who know how to be present without performing.
Stop analyzing. Be here.
But the hum doesn’t stop. The hum keeps humming.

“Where’d you go, Sudip?”
“Just thinking how rare this is.”

“Don’t get philosophical. We’re deciding where to get drunk.”

We laugh. Eyes meet. They know I know.

This is precious. Fragile. Irreplaceable. And maybe unsustainable.

Mahashtami Morning — Ma’s Kitchen, 8 AM

The dhaak wakes me. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

Ma’s already in the kitchen. Kishore Kumar on the radio.

“You’re on time. Start kneading. Fifteen years later and your technique is still terrible.”

My hands sink into flour. The dough resists, then yields.

Fifteen years. Same ritual. Same corrections. Same sounds.

The drums outside gather pace. A child’s cap gun cracks. Incense drifts in. A priest somewhere begins the morning mantras.

“Stop overthinking,” Ma says. “Feel the dough. Your hands know.”

I press-fold-press in rhythm with the drums.
Dhak dhak dhina—knead, press, fold.
Dhak dhak dhina—knead, press, fold.

Maybe that’s the answer. The hands remember when the mind doubts.

“First batch. Drop carefully.”

The luchis sink. Float. Puff into gold.

Ma smiles. “See? Your body remembers what your head forgets.”

The kitchen fills with hot flour and childhood.

Everything is changing. This ritual isn’t. Maybe that’s why it matters.

Walking Through Contradictions

New clothes stick to my back. Humidity already winning. But it’s Puja. Logic can wait.

At the main pandal: “Climate Action” theme. Recycled plastic installations. LED screens. Hashtags and sponsors.

Emotion commodified. Devotion sponsored.

But the drummer sits beside the spectacle. Eyes closed. Hands a blur. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

The rhythm is older than the branding. It refuses to be absorbed.

An old woman prays—not filming, not posting—just praying.
Kids run past with cap guns. Crack crack crack. Same game, different century.

The priest chants. “Yaa Devi Sarva Bhuteshu...”

Both exist. Performance and prayer. Commerce and faith. Neither cancels the other. I can’t resolve it. I can only witness it.

Mahanavami — Writing at the Dining Table

The drums outside. Old Puja songs from a balcony. Incense and frying batter mingling.

Yesterday loops:

IT recession. Toxic work. Healthcare as business. Bengal struggling.
And also—unfiltered laughter. Brutal honesty. A picnic that somehow keeps happening.

How do I hold all this? Collapse and connection. Sponsorship and sincerity. Margins and mantras.

I don’t know. I just know I flew here knowing exactly what Bengal is now. Knowing what Puja has become. Seeing all the contradictions clearly.

Because some things pull harder than analysis.

Shiuli. Drums. Ma’s corrections. Twelve people who’ve seen every version of me and still show up.

Not arguments against change. Reasons to participate despite it. Or because of it. I’m not sure.

Holding Without Resolving

You can acknowledge decline and still feel joy at the scent of shiuli.
You can critique commodification and still make luchi beside your mother with full presence.
You can see Puja’s marketing and still be moved when the drums slice through the noise.
You can discuss recession and still plan a picnic that may or may not happen and still matters.

Maybe life is contradictions we learn to carry, not problems we learn to solve.
Maybe authenticity is participating fully while seeing clearly.

Traditions don’t survive in museums. They survive in kitchens. Imperfect hands. Honest effort. People who see what’s broken and still choose to show up.

The Discomfort That Might Be Growth

Tomorrow I fly back to Gujarat—modern hospitals, AI conversations, P/L statements, curated persona.

But something shifted. Not loudly. Quietly.

Holding contradictions feels more honest than resolving them.
Presence doesn’t require denial.
Participation can be conscious—even when nothing is pure.

The drums swell toward aarti. Dhak dhak dhina dhina DHIN DHIN—

“Stop writing,” Ma calls. “Come eat. Luchi’s getting cold. Life is in the kitchen, not in that laptop.”

She’s right. Some moments don’t need documenting.

They need living.

The question I’m leaving with:

What if the point isn’t to resolve the tension between tradition and change, nostalgia and progress?
What if the point is to engage with all of it—eyes open, heart conflicted, presence complete?

I don’t have the answer. I have this: shiuli, drums, Ma’s voice, twelve unfiltered conversations, children’s cap guns—
and the choice to show up anyway.

Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...
Next year: same confusion. Different questions. Full presence.

For Indranil, Sudeb, Subhajit, Suvo, Souvik, Suman, Palash, Aranyadev, Atanu, Abhishek, Dibakar—bonds that survive everything. Faces that knew me before I became anything. Conversations that need no filters. Same energy. Different decades. Still unresolved. Still showing up.

16/09/2025

Who Are We Really Protecting? A Four-Move Method for Hard Conversations

The 68-year-old woman sits quietly while her daughter whispers, “Doctor, please don’t say it’s cancer. She isn’t strong enough.”

I look at the patient. Four children. Decades of hardship. A home run through uncertainty. And yet… a word might break her?

I turn to the patient.

“This is your medical information. How would you like me to share it—with you, with someone you choose, or both?”

Her daughter begins to answer. The mother raises her hand.

“I’ve buried a husband and raised four children through poverty. You think a diagnosis will break me?”

Pause.

Who are we protecting here?

The Different Faces of Medical Fear
Anticipatory terror. Google has declared a verdict. Facts haven’t.

Protective panic. Family can’t bear the news, so they assume the patient can’t either.

Control fear. “If we control information, we control outcomes.” (We don’t.)

Denial rage. Anger at the messenger because we can’t strike the cancer.

Bargaining ignorance. “Call it a growth. Maybe it won’t be real.”

Different fears. Same function. Managing helplessness—not protecting the patient.

The Four Moves That Fit Real Life — PAIR
P — Preference (ask ownership, not permission)

“This is your medical information. How would you like me to share it—with you, with someone you choose, or both?”
A — Agree & write (one line in the note)

“Preference recorded: direct / family-designate / both. Patient may change anytime.”
I — Implement (honour it now)

“You asked for full details with your daughter present. I’ll do that. Stop me anytime.”
R — Reflect (quick bias check before you speak)

“Would I do the same if this were a 40-year-old engineer? What evidence—not impression—suggests limiting info?” If you must deviate, add one sentence: why + when you’ll re-check.
That’s it. Four moves. Ninety seconds. No committee.

Three Rooms. Three Lessons.
1) The Engineer (45). Notebook ready. Questions precise. Family: “Don’t worry him with details.”

PAIR: Preference asked → documented → honoured—quick bias check. Agency restored. Conflict cooled.

2) The Farmer (72). Educated son: “He won’t understand staging.” I ask the father. “Explain it like crops with fungus—some you treat, some you manage, some you accept.”

PAIR: Preference honoured in his language. Adherence improved.

3) The Mother (38). Husband answers everything. Two minutes alone: “Not knowing is scarier than any truth.” PAIR: Preference documented. Disclosure with him present—on her terms.

Family Override. Without a Fight.
“Don’t tell her.”

“I hear your concern. I’ll first ask her how she wants information handled. If she prefers you to lead, I’ll follow that—because it’s her choice.”
If private time is resisted:

“A two-minute private check is part of respectful care. I’ll be right back, and we’ll continue together.”
When Capacity Is a Real Question (Keep It Minimal)
Task-specific. Four fast checks:

I understand the gist.

Appreciates how it applies to them?

Reason through options?

Choice expressed consistently?

If one is clearly missing: pause depth, involve a senior/advocate per local policy, and tell the patient (at their level):

“I want to explain this safely. I’ll bring a colleague so we decide together.”
Still speak to the patient. With respect.

Culture. Nuance, Not Excuse.
Two steps. Every time.

“What’s usual in your family?”
“…and what feels right for you today?”

Cultures aren’t monoliths. People choose.

Pocket Scripts (Steal These)
Ownership opener: “This is your medical information. How would you like me to share it…?”
Preference note (10s): “Pref: direct / designate / both. Revisit anytime.”
Chunk & check: “Let’s pause. Questions about this part before we move on?”
Bias reflex: “Same plan if 40/M/engineer? What evidence would justify a limit?”
Follow-through: “You can change how we share info anytime—just tell me.”

The Uncomfortable Questions
Whose emotions am I prioritising?
What am I assuming about who can handle what?
Am I serving the patient—or avoiding family discomfort?
Can I show, in one line, that I honoured what the patient asked?

The Close
Protection without permission is control. Ownership turns protection into partnership.

So ask. Write one line. Do what they choose. Check yourself.

PAIR it. Do the work that matters.

28/08/2025

The Quiet Sabotage: When "It's OK" Becomes the Enemy

A surgeon's late-night confession about the small betrayals that become big collapses

We don't notice when it happens.
That tiny whisper in the head: "It’s ok."
One more bite. One more scroll. One more silence.
And suddenly, what looked harmless… has already started leaking away pieces of us.

🍟 Health — The Quiet Betrayal
It wasn't hunger. It was fear.
The night after a complication — distension, hypotension, a leaking anastomosis — I caught myself reaching for sugar. Not a bite. A binge. And my thumb? Scrolling like it had a deadline.
As if sweets and reels could stitch back the storm inside me.
I muttered: "Ok, just today."
But I knew. I wasn't feeding my body. I was feeding panic.
The operating room teaches you precision. Every millimeter matters. Every decision has weight. But somehow, that same surgeon who won't tolerate sloppy sutures will shove processed food down his throat at 11 PM, telling himself it's "just stress eating."
The irony cuts deep.

Other times, it was reward.
Finish a tough surgery? Fries. Crack an exam? Chocolate. "You've earned it," I'd say.
But here's the catch — real rewards don't leave you weaker.
Now, I stretch. I journal. I sit in silence, even when silence feels like sitting with a stranger. And the strangest thing? The more right you do, the easier it gets to keep choosing right.
The body remembers kindness. The mind craves what you feed it most.

And then escape.
Not hunger. Just hiding.
Chewing because quiet scared me. Scrolling because thoughts scared me.
Food as filler. Feeds as filler. Both junk. Both clutter. Both numbing.
I'd finish a long surgery, my hands steady for hours, my mind sharp as the scalpel I wielded. Then I'd walk to my quarters and become a different person — mindless, grazing, consuming content like it was oxygen.
The same hands that had just saved a life were now destroying my own. Slowly. Quietly. With full permission.

And the oldest excuse of all: "Don't waste food."
But my gut isn't a dustbin.
Better to cook less. Order less. Share more.
Different triggers. Same escape hatch: "It's ok."
Except it's not.
Because health doesn't collapse in one day. It crumbles, spoon by spoon, scroll by scroll.

❤️ Relationships — The Unspoken Distances
It's the same leak. Just wearing another mask.
Childhood.
I had a close friend. But there was one truth I never told him: "I don't think your father is a good man."
I swallowed it. Told myself: "Ok, skip it."
Years later, that silence grew into a galaxy between us. Some friendships don't end with fights. They end with things unsaid.
The surgical training kicks in here too — we're taught to speak up about complications, to voice concerns, to never let politeness override patient safety. But in relationships? We become cowards. We let kindness become complicity.

Marriage.
Same pattern.
When my wife and I didn't align, I shut down. Passive-aggressive. Silent treatments. That silence was poison.
But we clawed our way back.
Now we fight. Argue. Pause. Restart. It's not pretty. Not perfect. Not final. But it's alive.
Alignment, I've learned, isn't one big agreement. It's dozens of unfinished conversations we're brave enough to keep returning to.
In the OR, when something goes wrong, you don't walk away. You stay. You problem-solve. You communicate. You adapt in real-time.
Marriage is the same surgery, every single day.

Family.
Parents. Siblings. The ones we assume will always be there.
"Did you eat? Where are you? When will you come?" They ask.
We sigh. Snap. Roll our eyes. "It's ok, I'll answer later."
But beneath those boring questions is the only language they know — love wrapped in worry.
And the real trap? Forgetting to love them back loudly enough.
Distance doesn't just happen with miles. It happens with assumptions. With taking granted what should be treasured.
I think about my patients' families — how they hover, ask the same questions, worry about details that seem small to me. Their love is loud, urgent, unashamed.
Why do we save our patience for strangers and ration it for the ones who made us?

🌊 The Larger Truth
Health doesn't collapse in a single burger. Relationships don't break in a single fight.
They leak. Slowly.
Through stress disguised as sugar. Through silence disguised as peace. Through neglect disguised as "ok."
Prevention isn't fear. It's respect.
Respect for your body. Respect for your people. Respect for yourself.
In surgery, we have a saying: "Small bleeds become big bleeds." A tiny arterial nick, if ignored, can become a catastrophic hemorrhage. The same is true for life.
The "ok" moments are the small bleeds.
The extra serving you don't need. The conversation you avoid. The call you don't return. The truth you don't tell. The boundary you don't set.
Each one seems harmless. Together, they become the emergency you never saw coming.

What changed for me?
I started treating my life like I treat my patients — with attention, with intention, with the understanding that small things matter immensely.
When I catch myself reaching for food that isn't hunger, I pause. I ask: "What am I really feeding?"
When I want to avoid a difficult conversation, I remember: "Silence isn't peace. It's just delayed pain."
When I'm tempted to skip the call home, I think: "Love unexpressed is surgery half-done."
The beautiful thing about this awareness? Once you see the pattern, you can't unsee it. And once you can't unsee it, you start choosing differently.
Not perfectly. But consciously.

🎯 The Practice
Tomorrow, try this:
Before you put anything in your mouth, ask: "Am I feeding my body or feeding something else?"
Before you avoid a conversation, ask: "What am I really protecting here?"
Before you dismiss someone's concern as trivial, ask: "What love is hiding underneath this worry?"
The answers might surprise you.

Tell me —
Where are you whispering "it's ok" in your life… when deep down you know — it's not?
What small bleed have you been ignoring that's ready to become something bigger?
And what would happen if you treated your own life with the same urgency, the same precision, the same care you bring to your most important work?
The operating room taught me that every decision has consequences. Every cut matters. Every stitch counts.
Life is no different.

Some nights, I sit in my hospital quarters in Gujarat, tea growing cold in my hands, and I think: We spend so much time learning to save others. When do we learn to save ourselves?
Maybe it starts with stopping the small bleeds. Maybe it starts with saying no to "ok" when everything in you knows it's not.
Maybe it starts tonight.

12/08/2025

Nano Practice: Winning by Inches, in Classrooms, Apps, and Living Rooms

I used to think learning was about how much you could pack into your brain in one sitting.
School trained us for it.
The night before an exam, my table looked like a post-war battlefield—textbooks open like wounded soldiers, pens rolling away like deserters, and a cup of tea so cold it could be iced coffee.

We’d cram until midnight, eyes burning, brain buzzing.
And it worked. For the exam.

Then, a week later—poof. Gone.
The science now calls this the “steep forgetting curve,” where up to 80% of crammed information disappears in days.
Why? Because our brains never got the time for the proper protein building blocks (CREB proteins) to lock in those connections.

I didn’t know that then. I do now. And it’s changed how I live.

Scene 1: From Cramming to Compounding

Fast forward to today.
I’m still learning. But differently.

I’m enrolled in an MBA. I have miniature video lectures that I could binge-watch like a Netflix series. But I don’t.
I space them. I repeat them. I revisit notes from last week, and sometimes even from last month.

Why? Because neuroscience has shown over and over that spaced repetition is like compound interest for the brain. You put in small, regular deposits of effort, and they grow into something far bigger than the sum of parts.

Scene 2: French, Love, and the Little Green Owl

And then there’s Duolingo.

My wife and I are learning French together. We nudge each other—sometimes gently, sometimes with the emotional force of “Hey, you’re breaking our streak!”
It’s playful, but it’s also science in action.

Each mini-lesson reactivates memory traces before they fade.
It’s the same principle researchers have confirmed for decades—small, spaced reviews are more effective than long, infrequent sessions.

The best part? Our French is sticking. I can now ask “Où sont les escaliers ?” (“Where are the stairs?”) without looking like I’m solving calculus in my head.

Scene 3: The Body Learns the Same Way

Your brain isn’t the only thing that loves spaced learning.
Your muscles do too.

I used to believe that if you weren’t sweating buckets, you weren’t training. Now? I train smarter.

Home-based, simple moves:
• Bodyweight squats while the coffee brews.
• Resistance band pulls while watching a video lecture.
• Walking around during calls.
• Stairs instead of the lift.

Sometimes I do a single set at ~80% of my max reps, spaced hours apart. This is called Grease the Groove. Instead of pushing to exhaustion, you repeat small efforts often, teaching your nervous system to fire more efficiently. Over time, you get stronger without feeling wrecked.

And science loves this too: frequent moderate movement boosts BDNF—the brain’s “fertilizer” for learning and memory. It slows cognitive decline, sharpens recall, and keeps both body and mind young.

The Thread That Ties It All Together

Whether it’s:
• A French lesson with your spouse.
• A five-minute MBA module.
• A quick set of push-ups in the living room.

The secret is the same: nano practice, spaced out, repeated often.
Your neurons love it. Your muscles love it. And your future self will thank you.

Tomorrow doesn’t have to be the day you start.
It can be the day you continue.
Just for two minutes.
Just one set.
Just one word.

That’s how inches become miles.

Evidence & References
1. The Neuroscience Behind the Spacing Effect – BrainFacts
2. The Effectiveness of Spaced Learning – ScienceDirect】
3. SPACED REPETITION VERSUS CRAMMING – IRJMETS
4. Spaced Practice – UCSD Psychology
5. Parallels between spacing effects during behavioral and cellular learning
6. Grease the Groove – Dr. Muscle
7. Greasing the groove – Freeletics
8. Neural ageing and synaptic plasticity: prioritizing brain health
9. Lifestyle Modulators of Neuroplasticity – PMC

29/07/2025

🩺 Wearables: Wellness Tool or Worry Trigger?
A Journey Through Data, Doubts, and Daily Life

1. When Was the Last Time You Felt Your Heartbeat?
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Do you remember the last time you actually noticed your heartbeat?
Not racing after a run.
Not pounding with panic.
Just... there.
I didn’t.
Until one day, my watch whispered something I never asked:
“Your heart rate is unusually low for this time of day.”
And suddenly, I was listening.
That’s how it began.

2. Why Are Young Professionals Falling Like Old Trees in Storms?
You’ve seen the headlines:
✨ “32-year-old engineer dies of cardiac arrest while jogging.”
✨ “Startup founder collapses at his desk. Dead before help arrived.”
It’s no longer rare.
And it’s no longer someone else.
According to the Indian Heart Association, 1 in 4 heart attacks in India now strike people under 40.
The culprits?
🚫 Stress
🚫 Sedentary lives
🚫 Sleepless nights
🚫 Lack of early detection
The scariest part?
Most had no warning.
No red flags.
Just one quiet moment — and gone.

3. What If That Warning Could Be Whispered On Your Wrist?
The Apple Watch doesn’t scream.
It taps.
Softly.
“Time to stand.”
“Your heart rate variability is dropping.”
“You’ve closed your rings five days in a row.”
At first, I dismissed it as gimmickry.
Until the science spoke louder.
📊 A 2023 umbrella review found wearables increased daily steps by 1,300, weekly moderate activity by 58 minutes, and detected atrial fibrillation with ~97% accuracy.
Tiny nudges.
Big shifts.
What once felt like a tech toy now felt like a behavioural medicine toolkit — strapped to my wrist.
And somewhere between those steps and that breath...
I stopped living on autopilot.

4. What Changed for Me?
I began observing — not just what I was doing,
But what was doing me in?
• My heart rate soared during high-stakes meetings.
• My sleep was shattered after endless scrolling.
• My mood dipped when my rings didn’t close — not from guilt, but from lost rhythm.
The data never judged me.
But it held up a mirror.
And I could no longer look away.

5. What I Did Next
🌀 I stopped chasing perfection.
🌀 I turned off the noise — unnecessary alerts, goal guilt, all of it.
🌀 I honoured rest days.
🌀 I set goals that felt right — not just looked right.
My mantra became:
No guilt. No glorification. Just guidance.
I don’t idolise my wearable.
It’s not a verdict.
It’s a tool — like a modern-day stethoscope, tuned to daily life.
And it helped me reconnect.
With myself.

6. But... Is There a Flip Side?
Absolutely.
• One woman recorded 916 ECGs on her smartwatch in a single year.
All results were expected. But her anxiety spiralled out of control.
• Others obsess over closing rings, pushing through fatigue and guilt.
• There's even a name now: Orthosomnia — sleep anxiety from trying to “optimise” rest to perfection.
Studies warn that excessive self-tracking can create stress instead of insight.
So here’s the key:
💡 Don’t let a machine tell you how to feel.
💡 Let it remind you to feel — then breathe, and let go.

7. What I Tell My Patients, Peers, and Professionals Like Me
Especially those who are overworked, overachieving, and underslept:
🔹 Don’t wait for the heart attack.
🔹 Don’t mistake silence for safety.
🔹 Don’t ignore the whispers — they come before the screams.
Instead...
✅ Wear your tracker.
✅ Set kind, realistic goals.
✅ Watch weekly trends — not daily blips.
✅ Learn your baseline — not someone else’s target zone.
Your resting heart rate.
Your sleep rhythm.
Your movement pattern.
They are your fingerprint.
Wearables don’t replace intuition.
They bring you closer to it.

8. How Can You Start? Try This:
🌿 Step 1: Wear the device for one week.
Don’t try to “win.” Just observe. Let the data speak.
🌿 Step 2: Notice one pattern.
Less sleep? Heart spikes during work calls? Sitting all evening?
🌿 Step 3: Gently intervene.
A short evening walk. Earlier screen cut-off. A midday stretch.
🌿 Step 4: Talk about it.
To a friend, your spouse, your coach, or your doctor.
Let connection, not the device, drive your accountability.
🌿 Step 5: Rest.
Not everything needs to be tracked.
Sometimes, the most critical metric is:
How do you feel?

9. So... Is It Worth It?
If you're looking for a quick fix — no.
If you're chasing validation — no.
But if you're seeking awareness…
A quiet partner…
A slight nudge back to yourself…
Then yes.
This tiny device helped me reconnect.
Not just with steps or stats…
But with life itself.
Because prevention isn’t dramatic.
It’s quiet.
Gentle.
Measured in choices — not in emergencies.
And sometimes...
All it takes is a silent tap on your wrist
to remind you:
You’re still here.
You still have time.

I CARE ABOUT Myself

06/10/2025

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