Teenage years
The Last Scroll: How One TikTok Changed My Life
I was one scroll away from deleting TikTok forever. It was a rainy Thursday. My phone battery was at 2%, and honestly, so was I. My job at the call center had just let me go—downsizing, they said. I hadn't told my parents yet. I was tired of hearing “it’ll get better” when every day felt like walking deeper into fog. I had dreams once—to be a writer, to tell stories, to create—but dreams don’t pay bills. At least, that’s what life had taught me. So there I was, lying on my creaky bed, phone in hand, rain tapping on the window like it was mocking me. My finger kept scrolling, like a habit. Food videos. Dance challenges. People living their best lives while I couldn’t even get out of bed. And then, something stopped me. It was a video of a girl, maybe 19 or 20, sitting on a bench in the rain. No makeup. No filters. She looked right at the camera and said, "If you’re watching this, maybe you’re thinking about giving up. But this is your sign not to. Please… just give it one more day." Then she smiled. Soft. Sad. Real. And that was it. No fancy effects. No background music. Just her words. My thumb froze in place. My chest tightened. For the first time in weeks, I felt something—like someone had seen me through the screen. Like I wasn’t as invisible as I thought. That night, I didn’t delete TikTok. I made a video. It wasn’t anything special. Just me, on the rooftop, my face half-lit by streetlights. I said, "I’m 25, unemployed, and I used to be someone who believed in stories. Maybe I still do. If you’re out there, and you feel lost too, maybe we can find the way back—together." I didn’t expect anyone to watch it. But by morning, it had 45,000 views. By noon, it hit 300k. I sat stunned, still on my bed, watching the comments roll in. The comments were flooded with messages: “I feel this.” “You put my heart into words.” “I’m crying. Thank you.” “Do more. Please.” “You have no idea how badly I needed this.” I read each one like a lifeline. I started sharing more. Not just about sadness, but about little things too—my favorite books, my awkward coffee dates, how I started writing again. Slowly, a community formed. People who weren’t perfect. People like me. We laughed in the comments. We cried too. People began to DM me their stories, their scars, their survival. It felt like healing—slow, quiet, but real. I wasn’t famous. Still not. But I was seen. Heard. Valued. And that changed everything. One comment hit me the hardest: "You saved me. I was about to give up last night. But then your video popped up." I stared at that comment for a long time. That’s when I realized—words do matter. Stories can save. Mine almost didn’t get told. But one stranger, with one video, gave me one more day. And that one day turned into my second chance. Today, I run a small storytelling page. I help others share their journeys. I write about mental health, resilience, quiet courage. I teach a free online workshop twice a month called “Your Voice Matters.” Not for money—just for connection. I still have hard days. I still get lost sometimes. But I no longer feel alone. Sometimes, we wait for big signs—miracles, fireworks, applause. But maybe hope doesn’t come loud. Maybe it arrives quietly, as a TikTok at 2% battery, just when you need it most. Sometimes the thing that saves you isn't a grand moment, but a simple sentence whispered across the screen by someone who doesn't even know your name. And sometimes, it’s not the world that changes. Sometimes, it’s you. If you’re reading this now, let this be your sign: Don’t give up yet. One more day. One more scroll. One more story. You never know what tomorrow holds. But today—you’re still here. And that means everything. Want to share your voice? What was your moment of change? Drop it in the comments. You never know who you might save.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Confessions
The Well's Whisper
The Well's Whisper The silence shattered the moment frantic screams pierced the humid Texas air. It was October 14, 1987 — a day that dawned like any other, filled with the lazy hum of summer’s lingering warmth and the innocent laughter of an 18-month-old child. Jessica McClure, a tiny whirlwind of curiosity, played joyfully in her aunt’s backyard in Midland, Texas, when the unthinkable occurred. One moment she was there — a bright spark of life — and the next, it was as if the earth had swallowed her whole. She had vanished into an abandoned, eight-inch wide, 22-foot deep well — a dark, narrow maw in the unsuspecting ground.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Confessions
The Love I Never Confessed: A True Story of Silent Feelings
Sometimes in life, we grow up around people without ever realizing how special they are. It’s as if they’re always there, a part of the background, until one moment brings everything into focus. That’s exactly what happened to me. She is my relative, living in another city. We only saw each other during family weddings or big gatherings. Since childhood, I saw her as just another cousin — someone kind and sweet, but nothing more. As years passed, we both grew up and got busy with our lives. I would see her now and then, but there was never a moment when I thought of her as anything beyond family. Then one day, everything changed. At a family function last year, I saw her again after a long time. She wasn’t dressed in anything fancy. She wore a simple outfit, but her presence was different. While other girls were busy taking selfies and laughing loudly, she was calm and thoughtful, quietly helping elders and making sure everyone felt included. I found myself watching her from a distance, noticing every small gesture. Her kindness, her soft laughter, the way she gently spoke — it all felt new to me, like I was meeting her for the first time. That day, something shifted inside me. I started to realize that this wasn’t just a simple childhood bond anymore. There was a strange warmth in my heart that I had never felt before. After that day, whenever we met, I felt nervous and excited. Just seeing her smile would brighten my entire day. Even a small “hello” from her felt like a special gift. One evening, while we were sitting together during a small family gathering, I decided to tease her — something I had often done as a kid. Laughing, I said: > “You know, that other girl over there is really beautiful… I think I might actually like her!” The change in her face was instant. She fell completely silent, and her eyes, which always carried warmth, suddenly looked hurt. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she stood up and walked away without looking back. In that moment, I understood something I had been too blind to see: she had feelings for me too. Her sudden anger and the quiet pain in her eyes said everything. After that day, whenever we saw each other, there was a new kind of silence between us. She avoided my eyes, and when our gazes met by accident, she quickly looked away. Every night, I thought about her. Should I tell her what I felt? Should I confess that I had fallen for her, that she was the only one who mattered to me now? But every time, fear stopped me. The fear of losing her. The fear that if she said no, even the small bond we shared would break forever. The fear that everything might become awkward and distant. Instead, I kept my feelings hidden, holding on to small moments and small smiles. Even her anger that day felt full of love to me — proof that she cared, even if she couldn’t say it aloud. Maybe she was waiting for me to step forward, to say what was on my heart. Maybe she was silently hoping I would be brave enough to confess. But I remained quiet, stuck between my love for her and my fear of losing her forever. Now, as I write these words, I still don’t know what to do. I think about her every morning when I wake up and every night before I sleep. In every prayer, I wish for some sign or strength to finally speak my heart. But for now, I watch from afar, cherishing her presence in my life even if she doesn’t know how deeply I feel. --- ❤️ Now, I ask you If you were in my place, what would you do? Should I tell her and risk everything? Or should I keep this love hidden and protect what little we have left? Your advice means the world to me… Should I confess? Or keep loving her silently?
By Ubaid Ur Rehmanabout a year ago in Confessions
The Stranger Who Shared My Blood
I never imagined that a saliva test could make me question everything about my identity. Like many people during lockdown, I got bored and bought one of those at-home DNA kits. It sat on my shelf for weeks until I finally spit into the tube and mailed it off, expecting nothing more than confirmation of what I'd always been told: half Swedish, half French, and a proud mix of both.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Confessions
One Click, and My Past Was a Lie
I had never thought much about where I came from. I mean, I knew my roots—at least I thought I did. We were Irish on my mother’s side, Italian on my father’s. My grandfather fought in World War II. My grandmother made the best lasagna. It was the kind of identity you wear like a warm coat—comfortable, familiar, and passed down through generations.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Confessions
The Hunger Games Trilogy: A Heart-Pounding Journey Through Courage, Love, and Revolution
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in a world where watching children fight to the death is considered entertainment? Where the rich get richer while the poor struggle for their next meal? Where standing up for what's right could cost you everything you hold dear? Welcome to the world that Suzanne Collins created – a world that feels both impossibly distant and uncomfortably familiar.
By Soibifaaabout a year ago in Confessions
The Night I Apologized to a Stranger Who Was Me
"The floor is your friend," the therapist had once said, and I laughed in her office like I understood. But two years later, at 2:36 a.m., knees pressed into cracked hotel tile, I finally got it. I'd been traveling for work—nothing glamorous, just regional sales, the kind that makes your soul thinner with each trip. A different city every week. A different room. A different version of myself left behind in wrinkled shirts and half-eaten breakfast trays. This night, somewhere in Lahore, the mirror caught me off guard. I hadn’t looked at myself properly in weeks—months, maybe. Just glances. Functional grooming. Surface-level survival. But something about the humidity, the flickering bulb above the sink, and the silence of a room too clean made me pause. I looked into that rectangle of glass and saw someone I didn’t recognize. My eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. My lips—dry, cracked, unfamiliar. I reached out and touched the mirror like a screen, waiting for it to ripple. It didn’t. That man… he looked like someone I left behind years ago. A version of me that laughed easily, asked questions, kept journals. Before I learned to trade dreams for discipline. Before I became a name on a spreadsheet, a calendar entry, a LinkedIn title. And then it hit me, slow and heavy: I hadn’t spoken to myself in years. Not the way you talk in the mind while brushing your teeth. I mean spoken. Cared. Checked in. Asked, “How are you really doing?” The silence had grown so thick between us—me and me—that we had become strangers living in the same skin. Anxiety isn’t always panic and shallow breath. Sometimes it’s forgetting your favorite color. Sometimes it’s scrolling Instagram for an hour and not remembering one post. Sometimes it’s needing to pee but not having the energy to stand. It’s not always loud. Sometimes, it’s the soft hum of disconnection that you don’t even notice until it drowns out everything else. I sat on the bathroom floor and whispered, “I’m sorry.” The tiles were cold. The air smelled of cheap detergent and burnt coffee from the vending machine down the hall. My chest hurt, not from illness—but from recognition. This wasn't a breakdown. It was a reunion. I thought about all the small betrayals: Skipping lunch and calling it efficiency. Canceling friend calls with the excuse, “Too tired.” Ignoring that book I once promised I’d write. Telling myself, “This is just a phase,” while erasing joy in the name of responsibility. The mirror didn’t blink. It waited. I wanted to write a letter to that version of myself. I wanted to say: "You didn’t deserve to be ignored. You were trying your best. I see you now." And as poetic as it might sound, I actually said it out loud. To the glass. Like a madman. Like someone slowly learning to be whole again. Like someone who had mistaken productivity for purpose—and was finally questioning it. The next morning, nothing looked different. The towels were still thin. My suitcase still held shirts I didn’t like. The eggs at breakfast were still rubbery. But something inside me had shifted. Not healed. Not fixed. Just… noticed. And that, I’m learning, is the first step. That night didn’t fix my life. But it reintroduced me to someone I had forgotten mattered: me. The me before titles, before deadlines, before pretending I had everything together. We’re told to love ourselves, but rarely taught how. Maybe it starts with recognition. With a late-night apology in a lonely hotel room. With a mirror that doesn't lie. So I’ll ask you—have you ever forgotten who you were—and found yourself again in the silence? If this story touched something inside you, feel free to tip or share. Maybe someone else needs a mirror too.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Confessions
The Last Cup of Coffee. AI-Generated.
Mara always ordered the same thing: black coffee, splash of oat milk, extra cinnamon sprinkled on top. She’d sip it slowly by the window of the tiny café on Elm Street, pretending to read a book while watching the world spin by outside.
By hasnain khanabout a year ago in Confessions
Trump’s African Summit: A Modern Display of Colonial Power
Trump’s African Summit: A Modern Display of Colonial Power On July 9, 2025, the White House became the stage for a troubling diplomatic theatre, as United States President Donald Trump hosted a mini-summit with the leaders of Gabon, Guinea-Bissau, Liberia, Mauritania, and Senegal. What was billed as a friendly summit about economic cooperation quickly revealed itself as a spectacle of domination and submission, raising critical questions about modern-day power dynamics between Africa and the West. Diplomacy Disguised as Control Trump opened the summit with a brief speech, claiming the five visiting presidents were “representing the entire African continent.” This gross oversimplification ignored both the vast cultural, economic, and political diversity of Africa and the reality that these five nations play a relatively minor role in U.S.-Africa trade. Trump’s primary focus was not on partnership but on Africa’s riches: gold, oil, and rare minerals. His praise for these nations centered not on their people, culture, or innovation, but on the wealth buried beneath their soil. The meeting’s timing only sharpened the contradictions in Trump’s message. On the same day, his administration escalated its global trade war, imposing new tariffs on eight countries, including African nations Libya and Algeria. The contradiction was glaring: while the U.S. president spoke of “strengthening ties with Africa,” he was simultaneously penalizing African economies elsewhere. Critics argue that this is the true face of Trump’s Africa policy—where “partnership” means compliance and where rewards are conditional upon submission. A Scripted Performance of Deference The summit quickly turned into a carefully choreographed performance. Trump, playing the role of master of ceremonies, invited—though effectively instructed—his guests to speak to the media. Each African leader played their part, offering Trump glowing praise in a manner that seemed rehearsed and reluctant. Mauritania’s President Mohamed Ould Ghazouani, who had served as the African Union (AU) Chair in 2024, led this display of flattery. In a particularly surreal moment, he declared Trump a global peacemaker, bizarrely crediting him with stopping a war between Iran and Israel. This narrative ignored the U.S.'s ongoing military support for Israel’s devastating assault on Gaza—an act that the African Union itself had condemned. Ghazouani’s silence on Palestine, in exchange for possible economic favor, was a painful reminder of the compromises leaders sometimes make on the global stage. Senegal’s President Bassirou Diomaye Faye, once a symbol of anti-imperialist politics and youthful reform, was particularly disappointing. Having campaigned on breaking away from neocolonial structures, Faye instead requested that Trump build a golf course in Senegal—an ask that symbolized not independence, but submission to foreign leisure interests. Trump’s response was to compliment Faye on his youthful appearance, brushing aside the request like a schoolteacher humoring a child. Gabon’s President Brice Oligui Nguema tried to discuss “win-win partnerships,” only to be met with lukewarm interest. Liberia’s President Joseph Boakai impressed Trump, but not for his policy ideas. Instead, Trump marveled at his English fluency, asking in astonishment, “Where did you learn to speak so beautifully? Where? In Liberia?” The question betrayed not only ignorance of Liberia’s founding by freed American slaves in 1822 but also a racist surprise that an African leader could be articulate in English. Colonial Attitudes in the Modern Era Trump’s remarks and attitudes throughout the summit echoed a long history of colonial condescension. His surprise at Boakai’s language skills mirrored the colonial-era belief that Africans who adopted Western customs or languages were anomalies, curiosities to be admired for their proximity to whiteness rather than their own merits. Similarly, at a previous White House event, Trump reduced an Angolan journalist, Hariana Veras, to her looks, publicly calling her “beautiful” during a peace ceremony between the DRC and Rwanda—another deeply inappropriate and objectifying comment that continued the legacy of sexualizing and diminishing Black women. The summit was not an isolated incident but part of a broader pattern in Trump’s dealings with Africa: transactional, dismissive, and rooted in old imperial power dynamics. His foreign policy has repeatedly shown little regard for Africa’s agency, focusing instead on what the continent can offer in terms of natural resources and political compliance. Contrast with Biden’s Approach The contrast with President Joe Biden’s U.S.-Africa Leaders Summit in 2022 could not be starker. Biden welcomed over 40 African heads of state and representatives from the African Union, civil society, and the private sector. His summit emphasized peer-to-peer dialogue, respect for African development agendas like the AU’s Agenda 2063, and sought genuine partnership rather than subordination. Where Biden sought engagement, Trump sought obedience. The Real Cost of Compliance Perhaps the most painful aspect of the July 9 summit was the lost opportunity. In a moment when African leaders could have asserted their nations' sovereignty, challenged Trump’s condescending tone, and defended Africa’s dignity, they instead bowed—metaphorically and literally. Their compliance secured a fragile reward: Trump promised that their nations would not face new tariffs “because they are friends of mine now.” It was a transactional victory purchased at the cost of dignity. For the African leaders present, the choice was stark: protect their economies from Trump’s wrath or risk challenging a president who thrives on punitive diplomacy. But their silence and flattery only emboldened Trump’s imperial performance. A Reminder of Unfinished Decolonization The summit’s optics were impossible to ignore: a powerful Western leader extracting loyalty and resources from compliant African heads of state. It was a modern-day colonial tableau, reminiscent of 19th-century encounters where African kings were forced to bow before European emperors. Despite decades of political independence, economic and diplomatic relations between Africa and the West often remain shaped by uneven power dynamics. President Faye’s capitulation was especially disheartening. He had risen to power as a voice for African dignity, promising to reclaim sovereignty and reject neocolonialism. Yet, in Washington, he followed the script, failing to challenge Trump’s narrative and thus betraying the ideals that brought him to power. The Illusion of Partnership In the end, Trump didn’t build bridges; he built a stage. He didn’t engage with equals; he orchestrated a performance where he alone was the master. The African leaders, by participating in this spectacle without protest, helped perpetuate the very systems of control and exploitation they once promised to dismantle. If Africa is to break free from these cycles of dominance, its leaders must resist such public humiliations and redefine engagement on their own terms. Genuine partnership cannot be built on flattery and fear; it must rest on mutual respect, shared interests, and the courage to speak truth to power. Until that happens, summits like Trump’s will remain not forums for cooperation but stages of colonial theatre—where the master still holds the script, and Africa plays a supporting role.
By Ikram Ullahabout a year ago in Confessions
I Cheated Once—and It Still Haunts Me. AI-Generated.
I’m going to tell you something I’ve never said out loud. Years ago, I cheated on my partner. Just once. It happened so quickly, so stupidly, that for a long time I convinced myself it didn’t matter. But it does. It always did.
By Aliabout a year ago in Confessions
