by Neha Duseja
Did anyone notice the bruise on my face?
No, right?
Because there wasn’t any. And that’s the thing about some wounds – they don’t show up on the skin, they sit inside you, quietly, and rot everything you once loved. I was 22 when I first heard the term panic disorder. I remember sitting in that small room across from a therapist, nodding as if I understood – like labelling it would help.
It didn’t.
“Don’t worry,” the therapist had said. “You don’t look like someone who has it.” And I laughed a little.
Because what does someone with panic disorder look like? Do they wear it on their forehead? Well, no! I looked fine.
I still went to college, smiled at relatives, wore kajal, posted on Instagram. But no one knew that every night, my chest felt like it was caving in. That I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t explain, couldn’t sleep.
You see, I had just lost my mom. And when the rituals were done and people stopped calling – the grief stayed. Loud. Heavy. Too much to carry in my chest, so I started writing. At first, it was a letter to her. Then another. Then pages and pages – I told my diary everything I couldn’t tell people. The ache. The silence. The things I wished I’d said. And just like that, writing became my only way to survive.
It was never a plan. It was a lifeline!
Years passed. I started going to open mics. Started performing what I wrote. And people – strangers – came up to me and said, “That felt like me.” It felt like… maybe I had a purpose again. Maybe the pain wasn’t useless after all. So, at 28, I said – let’s do it. Let’s do a solo show.
It took all my courage, all my savings, all my heart. And I really believed that if I do this, maybe life will change. Maybe pain will finally turn into reward.
But life had other plans.
I did three shows. Three deeply personal, soul-baring performances. And you know what? Nothing happened!!! Ha, ha, ha yes nothing…
No grand applause from the world. No sponsor deals. No “you’ve made it” moment. Just silence again.
Only this time, it hurt even more. Because now I’d tried. I’d put my truth out there. And it still wasn’t enough. Slowly, writing – the thing that once saved me – started to feel like a burden. I’d sit with my pen, open a notebook, and feel… trapped. As if every word I wrote was dragging me back into the very darkness I was trying to crawl out of. So, I stopped!
Then I joined my husband’s office. Not because I had big corporate dreams. But because I needed to run away. Run away from this constant need to create, to inspire, to perform. I needed a space where no one expected me to be strong.
And I know, it sounds weird. Why would a writer walk into a world of Excel sheets and lunch breaks? But you know what I’ve learned? When you lose in the thing you love the most, you start trying to win at things you never even wanted. Just to feel that you’re not useless.
The irony! Even in that office, I found myself scribbling thoughts on sticky notes. Writing things I didn’t want to admit. Things like: “I feel like I’m disappearing”, “I miss her every day and I still can’t say it out loud”, “I don’t know who I am without the pain – but I don’t want to live inside it either.” I was sick of it, and I realised I’m still writing. Still trying to make sense of it all.
That’s the thing about mental health, isn’t it? It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it just sits with you in the room – quiet, invisible, heavy.
You can laugh at a joke and still feel empty. You can perform a poem and still want to cry alone in the cab ride home. So now, I’m telling you this – not as a story. But as a confession. Even now, when I feel stuck, when I feel like I can’t speak – I write. Because that’s the only way I know how to breathe.
Maybe you, reading this, are also carrying something unseen. Maybe you’ve been quiet for too long. Maybe you’ve convinced everyone you’re okay – including yourself.
So, here’s what I say – Next time you meet someone like me, someone who seems ‘fine’ but feels ‘finished’ inside – don’t fix them. Just sit with them.
Listen. Maybe even hug them if they let you. Sometimes, we don’t need answers. We just need someone who doesn’t look away.