Author: Cristine Thomas

I don’t always understand the point of everything I have survived, but I’ve made peace with the fact that not all pain comes with a neat explanation. Some things happened simply to nudge me into becoming someone stronger, softer and more aware.

So yes, I’m done with certain chapters – not out of bitterness, but because I finally respect the person I grew into while crawling through them. And I want to see what life looks like now that I’m no longer carrying what tried to break me.

I used to think purpose had to be loud and dramatic. Now I think purpose is simply choosing not to stay where your soul has already packed its bags. So I’m turning the page. Not because I have the next chapter figured out. The truth is, I don’t know exactly where I’m going next. I am terrified of repeating old patterns. But I have also learnt to have faith in myself. To be kind to myself. I’ve shed versions of myself that were built around survival, and now I’ve room to build something around joy and contentment. Maybe that’s enough purpose for now – showing up for my future self with curiosity and trust instead of fear. I got this.

Today, I did something I’ve never done before—I packed myself lunch.

Not because I had to. Not because someone reminded me. But because I had the time, the headspace, and maybe for the first time in a long while… the desire.

Spicy Korean noodles. Some curd, with boondi packed separately so it’d stay crisp. A handful of grapes. A bottle of cold water, because yes, that matters too. Nothing fancy. But it felt… deliberate.

I remember pausing and thinking, “This doesn’t look like much. What if I’m still hungry?” The old version of me—the one constantly juggling responsibilities, battling burnout, surviving long shifts—would’ve packed way more or skipped lunch altogether because it’s so much easier. But I also remembered those reels, you know? The ones where people pack tiny portions of different foods in pretty bento boxes. It always looked excessive and unnecessary to me, but suddenly, it made sense. Smaller amounts. Variety. Texture. Joy.

And it was enough. I felt full. But more than that, I felt satisfied. I tasted every part of my lunch. I noticed how the spice from the noodles played with the coolness of the curd. I noticed the pop of the grapes, their perfect crispness. I drank my cold water like it was something to be enjoyed, not chugged between patients or meetings.

It sounds small. But it felt like something big.

Because for the longest time, food was just a checkbox. Something to be squeezed into the cracks of a chaotic day. I didn’t stop to think about what I ate—just whether I had eaten or not. Survival mode doesn’t really allow for indulgence.

And today… for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t in survival mode.

That’s when the thought crept in: this—this ordinary, quiet moment—is luxury. Not in the expensive, curated Instagram way. But in the deeper, more human sense of having the freedom and clarity to choose what you want, to care for yourself gently, to pause.

Today, I ate like someone who wasn’t in crisis. And that, in this world, feels like the ultimate indulgence.

I don’t know if I’ll always have the time or energy to pack myself a neat little lunchbox with boondi in a separate bowl. Life will probably get loud again. But I do know what it felt like to sit with myself, to eat slowly, to care just a little extra.

And now that I’ve tasted that kind of peace—I think I’ll try to make room for it again.

Even if it’s just grapes in a quiet corner.

She was raised to be strong. Not by choice, but by necessity. Strength became an expectation rather than a choice—something woven into her identity, shaping who she was and how she moved through the world. From an early age, reliance was a luxury, and vulnerability was a weakness. Softness was something you earned after all the work was done, but the work never stopped.

So, she became a surgeon. A damn good one. Precision, endurance, control—these were the things that kept her moving forward. In the operating room, every decision had to be fast, every hand had to be steady, every move calculated to ensure that nothing, not even the smallest mistake, could be made. The pressure was her constant companion, but she thrived in it. The OR was a place where she could control everything, a place where competence was the only currency that mattered.

But outside the OR, the game changed. Working as a woman in a male-dominated field meant that every step she took had to be flawless. There were no room for mistakes, no room for weakness, and certainly no room for asking for help. Every moment felt like a performance—showing too much emotion, too much vulnerability, too much struggle—would signal to everyone that she was not capable, not fit to hold the knife. It was a silent contract she had made with herself: to be competent, to be strong, to be unyielding, no matter the cost.

Yet, the cost was high.

Hyperindependence, she learned, was an invisible force that built a fortress around her. Each brick of her solitary strength was laid carefully, never allowing a crack to show, never letting anyone see her falter. Because in this world, showing any sign of weakness wasn’t just a personal failure—it was proof of incompetence. And no one could afford that in a world designed to make you feel like you’re always on the edge of being replaced.

But after years of pushing through, something inside her started to fray. She had mastered the art of surviving, but she had never learned how to live. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, psychological. It was a deep, all-encompassing fatigue that no amount of sleep could fix. She realized that somewhere along the way, she had stopped thriving and had simply become a machine, programmed to function, not to feel.

The emotional toll came in waves—on nights when the weight of every decision, every life saved or lost, hit her all at once. It was in the quiet moments when she longed for the simplest connection—a word of encouragement, a touch of reassurance—but had built walls too high for anyone to climb. She had become so self-sufficient that she had forgotten how to ask for help, how to lean on others, how to break free of the cage she had built for herself.It wasn’t just the work that was taking a toll—it was the realization that the system she had spent years working within was designed to break her. The system that made every woman in her position feel like an outsider, like she had to prove herself twice as hard just to be seen as competent. The system that never gave room for anything less than perfection.

Somewhere along the way, she had come to understand that strength, as she had known it, was not a badge to wear forever. It wasn’t sustainable. It was a façade, one she had been carefully crafting for years, but now it felt hollow. She had reached a point where the fortress she had built was no longer keeping the world out—it was keeping her in.

And so, she began to dismantle it, slowly, painfully, brick by brick. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something she had ever allowed herself to do before. But the real cost was not in admitting her vulnerability—it was in denying herself the chance to heal. The journey ahead wasn’t about becoming stronger, but learning to be whole, to allow herself to be more than just a capable surgeon. To be someone who could fall without fear and rise again.

Because even the strongest hands need rest. And even the best surgeons are human.