Still Becoming

The Script

I don't remember anyone asking me what I wanted to become when I grew up. Not because people didn't care. Because, honestly, there were only a handful of acceptable answers. Engineer. Doctor. IAS officer. That was the world I grew up in. Not just at home, but everywhere around me. Family gatherings, neighbours, teachers, relatives: everyone had the same definition of a successful life. Study hard. Get into a good college. Find a stable job. Build a secure future.

It never felt like pressure. It just felt... normal.

When you're a kid, you don't question the map that's handed to you. You simply assume that's the only road that exists. So I did too.

My father served in the Indian Navy for most of my childhood. Because of that, we moved a lot. By the time I finished school, I had studied in more than ten schools across different cities. At that age, moving didn't feel adventurous. It felt exhausting. Every transfer meant packing our lives into boxes again. Every new city meant another first day at school. Another classroom. Another uniform. Another group of students who already knew each other. And another version of me that had to start from zero.

I don't remember all the schools. I don't remember every teacher either. But I remember the feeling. Walking into a classroom where everyone already had friends. Trying to figure out where to sit. Learning new names. Wondering how long I'd stay this time. Then, just when that place started feeling like home... we'd move again.

Looking back, I don't think I realized what those years were teaching me. At the time, I just thought life was unfair. Why did everyone else get to grow up with the same friends while I kept saying goodbye? Why did they have childhood memories tied to one city while mine were scattered across maps? It took me years to understand that constantly moving gave me something I couldn't appreciate back then. I became comfortable with starting over. Meeting new people stopped feeling scary. Being the "new kid" stopped feeling awkward. I learned how to adapt before I even knew what the word meant. I didn't know it then, but those years quietly shaped the person I would become.

Growing up in a defence family also meant growing up around discipline. Not the kind you see in motivational videos. The ordinary kind. Waking up on time. Doing what needed to be done. Keeping your word. Finishing what you started. There wasn't a speech about responsibility. It was simply how life worked.

And because that environment was all I knew, I naturally imagined the same future for myself. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to join the Armed Forces. Not because someone expected me to. Because I genuinely admired that life. I admired the uniform. The discipline. The purpose. The idea of serving something bigger than yourself. When people asked me what I wanted to become, I had an answer. And for the first time, it felt like my answer.

Back then, I wasn't thinking about mountains. Or surfing. Or filmmaking. Or storytelling. I didn't know those worlds existed. Adventure, to me, was something you watched in documentaries. People climbed Everest. People crossed oceans. People flew across valleys with parachutes. But those people felt different. They looked like professionals. People who had dedicated their entire lives to those things. I never thought someone like me could simply decide to learn them. That thought had never even crossed my mind.

My world was much smaller. Finish school. Join the Armed Forces. Build a life. That was the plan. And for a long time, I never imagined it could be anything else.

It's strange how small your world can be without you realizing it. Not because someone is stopping you from dreaming. But because you've never been introduced to different dreams. No one had ever told me that ordinary people could climb mountains. That there were institutes where anyone could learn mountaineering. That surfing wasn't just something you saw in movies. That scuba diving wasn't reserved for marine biologists. That people with regular jobs spent their weekends sleeping under the stars instead of in shopping malls. None of that was hidden from me. It simply never existed in my circle.

You can't dream about places you've never seen. You can't chase a life you don't know exists. And for most of my childhood... I didn't.

I was simply following the script that had been handed to me. A script that made perfect sense. A script that millions of people follow. A script that still makes many people genuinely happy. I don't think that script is wrong. It just turned out that it wasn't mine.

The Dream That Didn't Happen

When I was in school, I never had a backup plan. Not because I was overconfident. Because I never thought I'd need one. Joining the Armed Forces wasn't just a goal. It was the only future I had ever imagined for myself. Everything I did revolved around that one direction. If someone had asked me where I saw myself ten years later, I wouldn't have had to think.

The answer was always the same.

In uniform.

After Class 12, I started appearing for the SSB interviews. Every attempt felt like another chance to prove that I belonged there. I prepared. I travelled. I waited for results. I convinced myself that maybe this would be the one. It wasn't. I appeared again. Another rejection. Then another. And another.

By the time I had gone through five or six SSBs, the process had become familiar. The hope never did. Every new attempt still carried the same excitement. Every rejection still hurt just as much. People often say that rejection makes you stronger. Maybe it does. But while you're living through it, it doesn't feel like character development.

It just feels personal.

The hardest part wasn't hearing "No." The hardest part was going back home afterwards. Everyone asks the same question. "How did it go?" And every time, you have to explain that you weren't selected. Again. You begin by giving detailed answers. Later, you simply smile and say, "Not this time." Eventually, people stop asking. And you stop talking about it.

There came a point where it wasn't about trying harder anymore. It was about time. The eligibility window was closing. Age doesn't negotiate. One day, I realised there wouldn't be another attempt. Not because I had decided to stop. Because I couldn't continue. That was a strange feeling.

You spend years chasing one dream, believing that persistence is enough. Then life quietly reminds you that some opportunities don't wait forever. You don't always get another chance.

Sometimes, the chapter simply ends.

I wasn't just disappointed. I felt lost. For years, I had introduced myself to the future in one way. Now I had no idea what to replace it with. People around me seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Some had already joined colleges with clear plans. Some knew what branch they wanted. Some were preparing for engineering entrances. Some had already mapped out the next five years.

I had nothing.

Not because I lacked ambition. Because my ambition had disappeared overnight. Looking back, I don't think I was grieving a career. I was grieving certainty. For the first time in my life, I didn't know who I was trying to become. And that's a difficult place to be at eighteen.

You're expected to make life-changing decisions at an age when you're still trying to understand yourself. Everyone asks, "What next?" As if the answer should come naturally.

Mine didn't.

Beyond the Screen

College gave me something I had never really had before.

Time.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't moving to another city because my father's posting had changed. I wasn't preparing for another SSB. I wasn't chasing a dream that had only one possible outcome.

Life had slowed down. And somewhere in between lectures, assignments and hostel life, I found myself spending more and more time on the internet.

At first, it was no different from everyone else. Programming tutorials. Coding videos. Technology blogs. Interview preparation. College projects. The internet was simply another classroom.

But slowly, the algorithm started showing me something else. It began with one video. Then another. Then another.

A man climbing a mountain. Someone surfing in the middle of the ocean. A filmmaker living out of a backpack. A group of strangers hiking through the Himalayas. Someone sleeping inside a tent at five thousand meters. Someone scuba diving in water so clear that it almost didn't look real.

I don't remember the first video I watched. I remember the feeling it left behind.

Until then, I genuinely believed these were things that belonged to a different world. People in documentaries. Professional athletes. Adventure influencers. People who had somehow built an extraordinary life. Not ordinary people like me. Not someone studying engineering. Not someone preparing for placements. At least, that's what I believed.

Then I started noticing something. Most of these people weren't full-time adventurers. Some were engineers. Some worked corporate jobs. Some were photographers. Some were doctors. Some travelled only a few times a year. They looked... normal. The only difference was that they had decided to experience the world instead of only reading about it. That realization stayed with me for days. Then weeks. Then months.

Nobody had ever told me that these things were possible. No one had ever said, "You can learn mountaineering." Or, "You don't have to be an athlete to climb mountains." Nobody told me there were institutes where anyone could learn rock climbing, glacier travel or rescue techniques. Nobody told me that surfing schools existed. That scuba diving was something you could actually learn. That people spent their weekends trekking through forests instead of shopping malls. It wasn't that this world was hidden from me. It simply wasn't part of the conversations I grew up around. And you can't dream about something you've never been introduced to.

The strange thing was... Nothing around me changed. I still attended classes. I still wrote code. I still prepared for internships. I still worried about placements. I was doing everything I was supposed to do. But somewhere inside, my definition of success had started changing.

Earlier, success meant getting a better package than last year. A better internship. A better company. Now another question had quietly entered my mind.

What kind of life am I actually working for?

That question refused to leave.

I wasn't against earning money. In fact, I still wanted it. I wanted to become financially independent. I wanted to support my parents. I wanted to give them the comfort they had spent years giving me. That had never changed. What changed was my reason for wanting money.

Earlier, money felt like the destination. Now it felt like a tool. I didn't want money because I wanted a bigger car. Or a more expensive phone. Or a larger apartment. I wanted money because I wanted freedom. Freedom to disappear into the mountains for a month. Freedom to learn mountaineering. Freedom to travel without constantly checking my bank balance. Freedom to say yes to experiences that didn't make financial sense but made complete sense to me.

Some people collect watches. Some collect sneakers. Some collect properties. I realized I wanted to collect stories. Stories that I'd remember long after the gadgets stopped working. Stories that couldn't be bought. Stories that had to be lived. That thought changed everything. Not overnight. Not dramatically. Quietly.

It became impossible to sit in front of a screen every day without wondering what existed beyond it. Every coding session ended with another search. Basic Mountaineering Course. Surf schools in India. Scuba diving certification. Paragliding training. Himalayan expeditions. Backpacking routes. I wasn't planning trips anymore. I was imagining a different version of my life.

I didn't know it then. But I had already crossed a line. There was no going back to being the person who believed life began after retirement. Because now I knew what was out there. And once you've seen a bigger world... It's impossible to convince yourself that your room is the whole universe.

The First Yes

Around the same time, I did something that felt completely unlike me. I booked a week at a surfing school. Alone. There wasn't a plan with friends. No one convinced me to go. No familiar faces waiting there. Just me, a backpack and a train ticket to a place I'd never been before.

Until then, almost everything I had done was within the comfort of people I knew. This was different. For the first time, I was choosing to step into a completely unfamiliar place, knowing I'd have to figure everything out on my own. I was nervous. Not because of surfing. Because I had never travelled somewhere like that by myself before.

When I reached the school, everyone else seemed to settle in quickly. Some had come with friends. Some already knew each other. I didn't know anyone. For the first few hours, I mostly observed. Slowly, conversations started. Over breakfast. While carrying surfboards to the beach. While waiting for the next lesson. By the end of the first day, I realised something I wish I had understood much earlier: You don't have to know people before you travel. Sometimes, travelling is how you get to know people.

The surfing itself was much harder than I had imagined. The first lesson wasn't about standing on the board. It was about learning to respect the ocean. How to paddle. How to read the waves. How to fall safely. How to stop fighting the water.

For the next seven days, my life followed the same rhythm. Wake up before sunrise. Walk to the beach. Carry the board. Paddle. Fall. Swallow a little seawater. Laugh. Get back on the board. Repeat. Most of the week looked exactly like that. And I loved it.

There were moments when I managed to stand for just a few seconds before falling again. Those few seconds meant far more than they should have. Not because I had become a surfer. Because I had stopped imagining what it would feel like. I was finally living something that had spent months sitting on my bucket list.

What stayed with me wasn't the surfing itself. It was the feeling of doing something completely alone and realising I was capable of much more than I had given myself credit for. I didn't need a group to start living the life I wanted. I didn't need everyone's schedule to match mine. I didn't need the perfect plan. Sometimes, all I needed was the courage to book the ticket.

That week quietly changed the way I looked at travelling.

Since then, going somewhere alone hasn't felt lonely.

It has felt freeing.

The Safe Route

Today, I'm twenty-three. I'm about to graduate. I've been placed. Soon, I'll start working full-time. On paper, everything is going exactly the way it should. Sometimes I think about the next ten years. Not because I'm worried about them. Because they seem so predictable.

I'll work. Hopefully, I'll do well. I'll earn more than I do today. Maybe I'll buy a car. Maybe I'll help my parents with a house. Maybe I'll finally be able to give them the kind of comfort they've spent their entire lives giving me. And honestly, I want that. After everything they've sacrificed for me, I want them to feel that it was worth it. I want them to feel proud. That part of my future has never been a question.

But after that... The script continues. Get married. Have children. Work a little harder. Save a little more. Think about school admissions. Think about home loans. Think about retirement. It's a good life. For many people, it's the dream. And I genuinely understand why. Some of my closest friends want exactly that. A stable job. A loving partner. A home that belongs to them. Children running around the house. Weekend family trips. A quiet life. I don't think they're settling. I don't think they're choosing less. They're simply choosing a life that makes sense to them. And I respect that.

The problem is... Whenever I try to imagine that future for myself, something doesn't fit. Not because I think marriage is wrong. Not because I don't believe in love. I've been in love. I know how beautiful it can be to find someone who understands you. But marriage has always felt like a promise that asks for certainty. And I'm still trying to understand myself. How can I promise someone forever when I don't even know where my own life is going? How can I ask someone to build a future around me when I'm still figuring out what that future looks like? Maybe one day I'll have those answers. Today, I don't. And I'd rather be honest about that than pretend I do.

What scares me isn't responsibility. It's routine. I sometimes imagine myself at thirty-five. A good job. A decent salary. A car downstairs. EMIs. Meetings on weekdays. Groceries on weekends. Annual vacations planned months in advance. A life that looks perfect from the outside. Then I ask myself one question.

Would I still feel alive?

I don't know.

And that question refuses to leave me.

The older I get, the more I realise that my biggest fear isn't failure. It's postponing life. Telling myself, "I'll do it next year." "I'll travel once I'm financially secure." "I'll climb that mountain after I buy a house." "I'll learn surfing when work becomes less hectic." "I'll start living after..." That sentence scares me more than anything else. Because I've met too many people who kept saying "after." And one day, "after" quietly became "never."

Every time I go trekking, I meet people in their forties and fifties. Some of them tell me stories that stay with me long after the trek ends. "I always wanted to do this." "I should've started earlier." "I kept waiting." Those conversations never leave me. Not because those people regret their lives. But because they remind me how quickly time moves when you're busy building a future.

I don't want to wake up at fifty and realise I spent my strongest years preparing for a life that never actually arrived. I want to remember them. I want my twenties to be filled with stories. With mistakes. With places that challenged me. With mornings that started before sunrise. With mountains that made me question my limits. With oceans that reminded me how small I really am. With friendships that only happened because I said yes to something unfamiliar.

Sometimes people tell me, "Travel later." "Invest instead." "Don't spend so much on experiences." And maybe that's good advice. Maybe, financially, they're right. But I've stopped looking at these experiences as expenses. I see them as education. Not the kind that gives you a certificate. The kind that quietly changes the way you look at the world. Every trek has taught me something. Every solo trip has taught me something. Every conversation with a stranger has taught me something. None of those lessons came from a classroom.

I don't know what my life will look like ten years from now. Maybe I'll still be writing code. Maybe I'll be climbing mountains more often than I do today. Maybe I'll end up somewhere I haven't even imagined yet. I honestly don't know. What I do know is this. I don't want to spend my life collecting things while postponing experiences. If I ever become successful, I don't want success to be measured only by what I own. I want it to be measured by the life I've actually lived.

Because at the end of everything, I don't think I'll remember the phone I bought. Or the car I drove. I'll remember the mornings that took my breath away. The people I met when I travelled alone. The mountains that looked impossible until I stood on top of them. The waves that threw me off my board over and over again. The stories that changed me. Those are the things I want to carry with me. Everything else can stay behind.

What I'm Really Chasing

People often ask me why I travel so much. Or why almost every month I'm planning another trek. Another trip. Another adventure. Sometimes they ask it jokingly. Sometimes they're genuinely curious. My answer is usually simple: "I just like travelling." But that's never been the complete answer.

The truth is, I'm not chasing places. I'm chasing a feeling. A feeling that's surprisingly difficult to find in everyday life. It's the feeling of being completely present.

When you're halfway up a mountain, your mind isn't thinking about unread emails. It isn't thinking about deadlines. Or LinkedIn. Or salary hikes. Or the hundred other things waiting for you back home. You're thinking about your next step. Whether the rock beneath your foot is stable. Whether you packed enough water. How far the summit still is. Life becomes incredibly simple. And I love that.

I think that's why mountains keep pulling me back. Not because they're beautiful. Although they are. But because they don't let you pretend. A mountain doesn't care how successful you are. It doesn't know where you work. It doesn't care how much money you make. It treats everyone exactly the same. If you haven't trained, you'll struggle. If you're impatient, it'll humble you. If you're careless, it'll remind you why nature deserves respect. There's something honest about that.

The ocean taught me something similar. When I was learning to surf, I spent more time in the water than on the board. Every wave felt different. Sometimes I'd catch one. Most times I wouldn't. There was no shortcut. No hack. No way to negotiate with the sea. You simply kept trying until your body slowly understood what your mind couldn't. That week taught me more about patience than I expected. Not because I became good at surfing. Because I realised progress is often invisible while you're living it.

Travelling alone has taught me things I never expected to learn. It has taught me how to sit with silence. How to start conversations with strangers. How to ask for directions. How to be comfortable eating alone. How to spend an entire evening watching a sunset without feeling the need to take out my phone. The first solo trip felt uncomfortable. Now it feels natural. Not because I don't enjoy travelling with friends. I do. But travelling alone has a different rhythm. You notice more. You listen more. You spend more time with your own thoughts. Sometimes that's uncomfortable. Sometimes it's exactly what I need.

One thing I've started noticing is that almost all my favourite memories have very little to do with luxury. I don't remember hotels. I remember conversations. I don't remember expensive meals. I remember sharing tea with people I'd met just an hour earlier. I don't remember airports. I remember the bus rides. The train journeys. The walks back after sunset. The moments that weren't planned. Those are the memories that stay.

Over the last couple of years, my bucket list has quietly grown. I want to learn mountaineering. Not just climb mountains. I want to understand them. I want to spend weeks learning rope work, glacier travel, rescue techniques and everything that comes with moving safely in high-altitude terrain. I want to learn paragliding. Not just fly once. Actually learn. I want to dive deeper into scuba. Spend more time underwater than above it. I want to climb bigger peaks. Cross longer trails. Sleep under clearer skies. Not because I want to tick boxes. Because I want to experience the world while I still can.

Sometimes people hear that list and assume I'm chasing adrenaline. I'm not. If it were only about adrenaline, there are easier ways to find it. What I'm really looking for is perspective. Every time I stand somewhere that makes me feel small, my problems somehow become smaller too. The things that felt urgent back home suddenly don't seem that important. A mountain has never solved my problems. But it has changed the way I look at them. And sometimes, that's enough.

I don't know if this phase of my life will last forever. Maybe one day I'll slow down. Maybe my priorities will change. Maybe I'll want different things. I'm open to that. People grow. Dreams change. Life changes.

But right now... This is the version of life that feels the most honest to me. Not because it's exciting. Because it feels real. Every trip reminds me that life isn't waiting somewhere in the future. It's already happening. And I don't want to keep watching it through someone else's screen. I want to be there. Even if I don't have all the answers yet. Especially because I don't have all the answers yet.

There's one experience I keep thinking about more than any other. Skydiving. Not because I want to post the video. Not because I want to tell people I've done it. Because I keep wondering what it must feel like to stand at the edge of an aircraft, fifteen thousand feet above the ground, knowing that the next step is entirely yours. No one can jump for you. No one can make that decision except you.

I imagine those few seconds before the exit. The engine humming in the background. The wind rushing through the open door. The world looking impossibly small beneath you. Your heart trying to convince you to stay inside while another part of you knows that's exactly why you came. Then you let go. For a few moments, nothing else exists. No deadlines. No expectations. No past. No future. Just you, the sky, and the kind of silence you can only hear when you've left the ground behind.

That's what pulls me towards becoming a certified solo skydiver. It isn't the freefall itself. It's the idea that somewhere between the aircraft door and the moment the parachute opens, you meet a version of yourself that only appears when fear and freedom exist at the exact same time. I don't know if that jump will change my life. Maybe it won't. But I know I'll never forget the feeling of choosing to step into the sky when every instinct tells you to stay where it's safe.

A Big Part of Who I Am Is Who I'm Not

People often ask me where I see myself in ten years. The truth is... I don't know. And for the first time in my life, I'm okay admitting that. There was a time when I always had an answer. As a kid, it was the Armed Forces. Later, it became engineering. Then internships. Then placements. Every phase of life came with a clear destination. Now it doesn't. And strangely, that uncertainty doesn't scare me anymore. It excites me.

I know what I want in the next few years. I want to become really good at what I do. I want to build a career I'm proud of. I want to become financially independent. I want to give my parents the life they've spent years trying to give me. I want them to stop worrying. I want them to know that all the sacrifices they made were worth it. None of those dreams have changed. They never will.

But I also know something else. I don't want my career to become my entire identity. When someone asks me who I am, I don't want the answer to be just the company I work for or the title on my LinkedIn profile. I want my life to be bigger than my profession. I want to be remembered for the stories I lived. The places I explored. The people I met. The risks I chose to take. The curiosity I refused to lose.

Maybe that's why I don't feel the need to have everything figured out right now. The older I get, the more I realise that life isn't something you solve. It's something you experience. Some people experience it by building families. Some by building businesses. Some by dedicating themselves to one craft for decades. And I admire all of those paths. Mine just happens to look different. At least for now.

I don't know whether I'll still feel this way when I'm thirty-five. Maybe I'll laugh at the person writing these words. Maybe life will surprise me in ways I can't imagine today. Maybe I'll meet someone who changes my perspective completely. Maybe my priorities will shift. I'm open to all of that. Because growing older shouldn't mean becoming more certain. It should mean becoming more honest.

What I do know is this. I never want to lose my curiosity. I never want to stop being excited by places I've never seen. I never want to stop learning things that have nothing to do with my career. I never want to become so comfortable that I stop challenging myself. If there's one thing I've learned over the past few years, it's that almost every experience I've been most proud of started with discomfort. Walking into a new classroom. Moving to a new city. Appearing for another SSB. Booking my first solo trip. Joining a surfing school. Standing at the base of another mountain. Every one of those moments began with uncertainty. And every one of them gave me something I couldn't have found by staying where I was.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have looked like if I had cleared the SSB on my first attempt. Maybe I would've been happy. Maybe I would've never discovered this version of myself. I'll never know. And I don't spend much time thinking about it anymore. Because every rejection, every detour and every unexpected decision quietly brought me here. To a life I never planned. But one I'm grateful to be living.

This blog isn't me saying I've figured life out. If anything, it's the opposite. I'm still confused. I still change my mind. I still wonder whether I'm making the right decisions. I still question what success really means. But maybe that's okay. Maybe life isn't about reaching a point where all the questions disappear. Maybe it's about asking better questions as you grow.

If someone reads this ten years from now, I hope they don't see it as advice. I hope they see it as a snapshot. A snapshot of a twenty-three-year-old trying to understand the kind of life he wants to build. Nothing more. Nothing less.

So, who am I?

I'm still finding out.

And maybe that's exactly the point.

Because a big part of who I am...

...is who I'm not yet.