advice

Dating, married, single, divorced, and more. Advice on the relationships you have in life. Dear, Humans..

The Freedom Formula: How Office Hours Made My Freelance Business Grow. AI-Generated.
I used to think that being “always available” was the secret to success. If I replied instantly to messages, clients would trust me more. If I said yes to every project, I’d look committed. For a while, it worked—until I realized I was running out of energy faster than I was earning.
By Leigh Cala-orabout a year ago in Humans
27 Lessons I’ve Learned by 27
Hi everyone, my name is Musulyn, and today’s my 27th birthday! I’m so excited and deeply grateful — not just to be alive, but to be healthy, housed, surrounded by good friends, family, and kind neighbours. That’s a blessing I never take for granted.
By Musulyn M (MUSE)about a year ago in Humans
Insecure in a Relationship? Here’s How to Break the Cycle
Insecurity can silently erode even the strongest of relationships. It sneaks in through doubt, fear, and comparison, leaving behind emotional chaos and distance. If you constantly find yourself questioning your partner’s love, fearing rejection, or needing reassurance, you’re not alone. The truth is, relationship insecurity is more common than we think—and it can be overcome with awareness, effort, and emotional healing.
By Bloom Boldlyabout a year ago in Humans
The Silent Grief of Medical Trauma: What No One Told Me After Surgery
I never imagined I’d lose an ovary in my 20s. I remember staring at the hospital ceiling scared of anestesia, telling them “ no please just call my mom and dad, I dont want to do this anymore” then the anestiologist telling me “okay, just tell me where was your favorite place you’ve ever been?” before I could answer I was knocked out from the anestesia. After my surgery, I woke up numb, trying to process what had just happened to my body. Everyone around me said, “You’ll be fine.” But fine wasn’t what I felt — I felt broken, confused, and alone.
By Of Moon and Mind 🌙💭about a year ago in Humans
The Closed Door of Bakshi Sahib
Bakshi Sahib’s Closed Door Bakshi Sahib’s door was almost always shut. The only time his window opened was when he had to toss out fruit peels—or to scold the neighborhood children. His sharp voice would echo through the narrow street: “Can’t you sit quietly in your own homes? You’ve turned the whole street into a circus! Were you born just to break windows? Get lost—all of you! I don’t want to see a single one of you out here again!” The children would scatter, hiding behind doors and walls until his angry face disappeared from the window. Then, moments later, they’d be back—laughing, running, and playing as though nothing had happened. Bakshi Sahib never liked children. In fact, he never allowed even his own sons to play outside. If they ever dared step out, he’d drag them back by the arm. And afterward, his wife would have to endure a long lecture. To him, no one in the neighborhood was worth his respect. He believed himself above them all—too dignified to mingle with ordinary people. As the years passed, his sons grew up and left home, one by one. They had to. There was no room in that suffocating house for dreams—or laughter. But even then, Bakshi Sahib blamed his wife. “If you had raised them properly,” he would say bitterly, “they wouldn’t have left their father’s house!” His poor wife never argued. She would silently listen, and when he went out, she would quietly pray to God—for peace, for forgiveness, for her children. She missed her sons terribly. Sometimes she would sit alone, remembering the days when they were small, their laughter echoing through the house. She could still see them—Bilal, Daniyal, and Nahal—sitting cross-legged around her one evening, their eyes full of dreams. “Ammi,” Bilal had said, his face glowing with ambition, “one day I’ll earn enough money to buy a palace for you and Abba!” “And I’ll buy a huge garden,” said Daniyal, his eyes lighting up. “It’ll have every kind of fruit tree, bright flowers, swings, and fountains!” The youngest, little Nahal, clapped his hands. “And I’ll buy an airplane! Then I’ll take Ammi on a trip around the world!” Their mother had smiled, her heart full of love. “And my wish,” she said softly, “is that my three sons always stay with me—like the light of my eyes.” Nahal giggled, “Then we’ll all live in Bilal’s palace, play in Daniyal’s garden, and travel in my airplane!” They all burst out laughing, the sound filling the house with warmth. Now, years later, those memories made her both laugh and cry. Meanwhile, Bakshi Sahib remained the same—proud, harsh, and full of himself. One afternoon, he sat among a few acquaintances, boasting as usual. “You know,” he began, puffing his chest, “that city officer—he might hold a high post now, but he’s nothing more than a baker’s son!” His friends looked uneasy. “Bakshi Bhai, be careful what you say,” one whispered. “Walls have ears, you know.” But Bakshi Sahib smirked. “Ha! Why should I care? Truth is truth! His father used to polish shoes in the streets. People should never forget their true place!” That “truth,” however, reached the wrong ears. Within days, a few government men arrived at Bakshi Sahib’s door. They took him away for questioning on orders of that very officer—Nawaz Khan. What happened next became the talk of the town. After several days in custody, Bakshi Sahib returned home—a different man. His arrogance was gone, his loud tongue silenced. The man who once roared like a lion now spoke in whispers. For the first time in his life, his wife knew peace. There were no more insults, no more shouting. It seemed that reality had finally humbled him. As they say, when a mountain rises before the camel, it finally learns its true height. When his sons heard of their father’s change, they came back home. Time had softened their resentment; they wanted to rebuild what was lost. Together, with their father’s advice and blessing, they bought a large, beautiful house surrounded by a lush green garden. Their mother, overjoyed, searched for three kind-hearted, graceful brides—each one like a princess in her eyes. Soon, her sons were married, and laughter once again filled their lives. The new house echoed with joy, the fragrance of fresh flowers, and the voices of grandchildren playing in the garden—the same sound Bakshi Sahib once hated so much. Now, when he looked out of the window, he didn’t shout anymore. He smiled. Sometimes, he would sit quietly under a tree in the garden, watching his sons and their families together—the life he once thought he didn’t need. And in those quiet moments, he finally understood what true wealth was: Not palaces, nor gardens, nor airplanes— But love, forgiveness, and family. --- Moral: Arrogance isolates a man, but humility brings him back home.
By Khan about a year ago in Humans
The Boy and the Ape
The Boy and the Ape By Mukhtar Ahmed (Translated and Adapted) In the quiet little village of Wazirabad lived a fifteen-year-old boy named Saeed — healthy, handsome, and full of quiet determination. Life, however, had not been kind to him. When Saeed was only ten, his mother died of meningitis. A year and a half later, tragedy struck again — his father fell into a well and lost his life. Now, Saeed was completely alone in the world. About twenty-eight miles away was a small town called Shehzad Nagar, where Saeed’s aunt lived. He could have gone to live with her, but Saeed was too proud to become a burden on anyone. Instead, he decided to earn his living through his own hard work. In the village, there lived a man named Raheem who owned hundreds of chickens. He sold their eggs in the nearby markets and spent his days lazily smoking his hookah, while the birds clucked behind their bamboo coops. Raheem’s business was doing well, but as his income grew, so did his laziness. Soon, he began looking for a helper. Around the same time, Saeed’s father passed away. Seeing the orphaned boy’s situation, Raheem offered him a job. “Look, Saeed,” Raheem said. “You have no one to rely on now. Work for me, and I’ll pay you fairly. Hard work is the only way to survive.” Saeed agreed at once. From that day, he began working at Raheem’s poultry farm. The boy worked tirelessly — feeding the chickens, cleaning the coops, and collecting eggs. Every evening, he would carry a basket full of eggs through the village streets, calling out to sell them. The villagers admired his honesty and courage. Even Raheem was pleased; his chickens were healthier than ever, and his profits were rising. But fate had its own plans. One night, a heavy storm swept over Wazirabad. The villagers rejoiced, for rain meant rich crops — but Raheem was terrified. He knew that after such rain, a deadly poultry disease often followed. In panic, he dug out an old black chest and pulled from it a tattered herbal book. He scribbled down a few medicinal names and sent Saeed running through the rain to the local apothecary to fetch them. All night, Raheem brewed herbal mixtures to protect his birds. Saeed stayed to help. But the rain turned into a violent storm — thunder roared, winds howled, and by morning, disaster had struck. When they reached the poultry farm, the scene froze their hearts — the coops were silent. All the chickens lay dead. Rainwater had flooded the enclosures, and the poor creatures had frozen to death. Raheem sat down in despair, his hands clutching his head. Saeed, too, lost his job that day. He searched for new work everywhere but found none. Finally, he decided to become a shepherd. The villagers trusted him, especially after their last shepherd — a deceitful man — was caught stealing milk from their goats and punished publicly. Saeed promised honesty and care. Each morning, he would collect the goats and sheep from every home, carry his simple meal, and lead them toward the green fields near the forest. For every animal, he earned two rupees a month — enough to dream of saving money and buying a small piece of land one day. One bright afternoon, Saeed sat on a rock, watching his animals graze peacefully. Two goats began to butt heads angrily. Saeed quickly ran to separate them. One obeyed, stepping aside quietly. But the other — a proud, stubborn buck — stepped back and charged at Saeed, hitting him hard in the back. Anger flared in Saeed’s eyes. He caught the goat by the ear and slapped it lightly. The goat bleated in protest, and Saeed let it go, still frowning. Then suddenly — a strange sound echoed through the forest. A low crash, followed by desperate cries. Saeed froze, listening. Someone—or something—was in pain. He ran toward the forest. There, in a small clearing, he saw a giant ape pinned beneath the trunk of an uprooted tree. The animal’s chest rose and fell heavily, and its cries filled the air. Its eyes met Saeed’s — pleading, desperate. Saeed hesitated. The ape was huge, powerful enough to tear him apart if freed. But pity overcame fear. Just as he was about to move closer, the same angry goat came charging from behind and struck Saeed again — this time so hard that he tumbled forward and landed right on the ape’s chest! His elbow slipped straight into the creature’s mouth. For a brief second, time stopped. But the ape did not bite. It simply groaned in pain. Saeed rolled off, panting. Realizing the animal meant no harm, Saeed decided to help. He crouched beside the fallen tree, dug his hands beneath the roots, and pushed with all his strength. The trunk rolled aside. The ape gasped and sat up weakly. Its chest was bruised, but it looked at Saeed with gratitude — deep, human-like gratitude. Slowly, the great creature raised its long arm and placed its hand on Saeed’s shoulder, as if to say, Thank you. Saeed smiled gently. “You’re free now, my friend,” he whispered, and walked away. The next morning, when Saeed returned with his herd, he stopped in surprise. The ape was there again — sitting calmly on a rock, watching him. For a moment, fear gripped Saeed’s heart. The creature rose, swinging its long arms, and began walking toward him. Saeed could not move. He stood frozen, expecting the worst. But when the ape reached him, it stretched out its hand. In it lay a red and white apple. Saeed blinked in disbelief, then took it. The ape grinned — its teeth flashing like sunlight through the trees. From that day on, they became friends. Every morning, as Saeed tended his sheep and goats, the ape would appear from the forest to meet him. Together they wandered beneath the tall trees, two unlikely companions bound by kindness — a boy who had lost everything, and a beast who had found a friend.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Humans
Substance Use and Mental Health: The Unspoken Battle We All Need to Face
We live in a culture that glamorizes “a drink to unwind” after work and laughs off “needing something to take the edge off.” But beneath the jokes lies a quieter story — one where substance abuse becomes a substitute for self-care.
By Leigh Cala-orabout a year ago in Humans
How Women Use Men’s Protective Instinct to Control Them
It starts with a glance. A flicker of vulnerability. A carefully placed sigh. And something ancient ignites in your chest — the protective instinct in men. You feel it before you think. A primal pull to step in, fix things, guard her, shield her. It feels right. It feels good. It feels noble.
By Randolphe Tanoguemabout a year ago in Humans
If I was embarrassed, would you want to see it?
Creative writing has always been really funny to me because I never knew how to start a piece. How does one start this flow of consciousness just from pen to page to thoughts? Let’s begin! I mean, seriously, I can’t be the only one who finds writing and throwing up similar. Between feeling choked up with all these words that you want to say yet having no way to say them in a cohesive manner, let alone be able to tell a story good enough to read. Then you must go through the additional effort of editing and publishing all that word vomit and having other people look at it. It’s quite a crude feeling indeed. With that said, I’ve really taken this challenge to heart with wanting to write every single day. The permission has seemed to also manifest into writing multiple times a day. What’s really nice about setting the parameters of being allowed to write anything as long as it meets the word limits of vocal has really inspired me to just allow myself to let go and just put down thoughts to paper. It’s also posed the question: why is it so embarrassing to put ourselves out there? Creativity has always been a big part of my life (my most notable accomplishment being an art award from school, where the prize was about $50 worth of art supplies back in the 2000s) and it’s always bled into other areas of my life. Yet I still hate to show my work! It’s such a similar sentiment to vomiting and then asking you to please come over and look at it because I’ve cleaned it up a bit— truly a horrendous exchange— yet I believe that’s what makes art, art. It’s not easy to put yourself out there, let alone when you have complicated emotions like grief, love, lust, ambition— all these powerful sentiments other people can relate to, but that you’re just not sure they can relate to you quite exactly like you do. It’s in that singularity, that peculiarity that I believe is what makes a difference in how we view ourselves as artists alike. A signature print that we leave as we spend time on this earth— you know a Dali from a Van Gogh from a Tim Burton and even when there’s work that’s similar you still know that the essence is different. It’s a replica. That’s incredibly intimate; art is incredibly intimate in its singularity.
By Maria Sanchezabout a year ago in Humans
The False Dilemma
The Mirage of Choice Every day, whether in politics, philosophy, or faith, people are pressured into false choices. You either believe this, or you must believe that. You either accept this statement entirely, or you reject truth altogether. These are not honest discussions. They are traps.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcastabout a year ago in Humans
Planting Truth In Hostile Soil
The Calling To Plant There has never been an age where truth was loved by the crowd. From the prophets of Israel to the apostles of Christ, those who spoke truth have always done so against the wind. Yet each generation faces its own form of resistance. Ours is not built on swords or prisons, but on sarcasm and pride. It mocks what it cannot refute and ridicules what it cannot understand.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcastabout a year ago in Humans
AI And Apologetics
The Tools of the Age Every generation faces the same question in a different form: how should faith engage with new tools of power? In one era it was the printing press. In another, the radio or television. Today, it is artificial intelligence.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcastabout a year ago in Humans