What's My Story?

Someone asked me recently, “What’s your story?” and that got me thinking. What is my story? Is it a culmination of many cycles around the sun, each one leaving behind a layer of wisdom (or, at the very least, a new wrinkle)? Is it a synopsis of all the work I have done across my career, the boardrooms I have navigated, the coffee-fueled late nights, and the wins and losses that have shaped me?

Or is my story something less tangible? A summation of the books I have devoured, the songs that have become the soundtrack to my life, or the movies that have left me in stunned silence long after the credits rolled? Is it reflective of the places I have visited, the people I have met, or the experiences that have unexpectedly knocked on my door—sometimes politely, sometimes barging in uninvited?

Is my story personal, meant to be held close like a cherished secret? Or is it meant to be shared with the world, like a melody waiting to find its chorus? If I did share it, would the reader understand why my eyes moisten every time I hear the national anthem, the quiet pride swelling in my chest as the first notes fill the air? Would they grasp the sheer, unfiltered joy I feel watching a sunrise after an arduous trek, the exhaustion dissolving in the golden light of a new day? Would they feel the goosebumps prickle on their skin, standing at the edge of an ocean as waves crash relentlessly, whispering the ancient secrets of time?

Would they laugh at my nerdy thrill of picking up a new Matthew Reilly novel, knowing I’m about to embark on a rollercoaster ride of explosions, conspiracies, and the kind of action sequences that should come with a seatbelt? Would they understand the peace that wraps around me like a warm hug when I close my eyes to meditate, the rare moment where the world stands still, if only for a breath? Would they sense the raw ache of nostalgia in the scent of an old book, the way it transports me back to childhood afternoons spent lost in stories, believing that magic was just a page away?

Would they see my fascination with history, the way I lose myself in the corridors of ancient forts, tracing my fingers over the weathered walls that have witnessed centuries of whispered secrets? Would they feel the reverence in my heart when I stand beneath the grand domes of old temples, the air thick with devotion and the scent of sandalwood? Would they understand how my soul stirs at the sight of an ancient stone archway or the delicate patterns of a handwoven saree, each thread carrying stories of artisans who poured their skill and soul into their craft?

And in the quiet moments, would they see how I reflect on the essence of Tatvamasi—'Thou art that'? The ancient wisdom that reminds me I am not separate from the world around me. That the waves, the sunrises, the scent of old books, and the resonant echoes of temple bells are not just experiences but extensions of who I am. My story is not just mine; it is woven into the fabric of everything and everyone. I am the seeker and the sought, the creator and the created, the moment and the eternity.

Perhaps my story is an ongoing draft—one where I still don’t have the perfect opening line, and where the plot twists continue to surprise even me. It is filled with moments of triumph and heartbreak, laughter that echoes in the night, and silences that have taught me more than words ever could. It is the story of love—love that has shattered me, love that has built me, love that lingers like an unfinished sentence, waiting for its next chapter.

My story is not just mine—it’s woven with the stories of those who have walked beside me, those who have challenged me, and those who have left an indelible mark, even if only in passing. It is the story of falling, failing, getting back up, and doing it all over again, sometimes with the same enthusiasm as a toddler learning to walk, sometimes with the reluctance of a cat being forced into a bath. It is the shiver down my spine at the crescendo of my favorite song, the quiet sigh at the sight of a resplendent sunset, the way a single moment can hold an eternity of meaning.

So, what’s my story? It’s a work in progress, a grand adventure, a symphony of chaos and calm. And if you’re reading this, maybe, just maybe, our stories have now intertwined—if only for a moment.

And that? That’s the beauty of it all.