healing
How to heal fully and properly.
Endless Silence, Endless Hope
In a dusty, forgotten village where the sun no longer kissed the rooftops with joy, and the winds whispered memories of lost time there lived a boy named Faaiz. The village had no claim to fame. It was not on maps. No travelers stopped by. It was a place where stories died before they were ever told. But Faaiz? He was different. He had no riches, no smartphones, and no fancy sneakers just a pair of worn-out slippers, a notebook full of dreams, and a heart that refused to give up. Faaiz would wake up every morning to the sound of broken silence. No car horns. No buzzing notifications. Only the occasional rooster crowing from a nearby hut, the soft moan of the wind brushing against the clay walls, and the creaking of his old wooden door. To the outside world, this village meant nothing. Forgotten, perhaps even by God. But to Faaiz, every corner had meaning. He noticed everything: the way sunlight painted golden stripes across the muddy floor, the way leaves trembled like they too had secrets, and the earthy perfume that rose from the ground after a lazy drizzle. He had one purpose: To find the reason behind sadness, and turn it into a story someone could smile about. Every evening, Faaiz would climb a small hill that overlooked the edge of his world. He would carry only two things: a pencil so short it needed to be held like a secret, and a notebook whose pages were crinkled with hope. There, with nothing but the sky above and silence all around, he wrote. He didn’t write in the polished language of textbooks or bestselling novels. He wrote in the voice of someone who had known pain, who had stared hunger in the eyes, and still chose to dream. His words were raw, sometimes messy, but always honest. One day, a traveler came through the village. A rare thing. He looked exhausted. Confused. As if he had forgotten who he was. Faaiz found him sitting by the well and offered him water and a place to rest an old wooden stool beneath a neem tree. The traveler looked at the boy and asked, Why are you always smiling? Faaiz chuckled and said, Because if I don’t smile, this village might forget what a smile looks like. The traveler looked at his worn-out clothes, his dust-covered feet, and the frayed notebook in his hand. But what do you even have? he asked. Faaiz looked up at the wide sky and replied, I have peace. I have meaning. I have the courage to dream when the world sleeps on me. Isn’t that enough? The traveler didn’t have a reply. But before leaving, he quietly slipped one of Faaiz’s handwritten pages into his bag. Weeks passed. Then like a miracle one of Faaiz’s stories was printed in a national newspaper. Not edited. Not rewritten. Just as it was: raw, vulnerable, and pure. People across cities read it. And for the first time in a long while, they felt something real. Something human. Suddenly, the forgotten village became a place of curiosity not for tourism or Instagram photos but for soul-searching. People came looking not for hotels, but for the hill, the boy, the silence. Faaiz never changed. He still wore the same slippers, used the same short pencil, and wrote in the same notebook. He never called himself a writer. But his stories called people back to themselves. And at the end of every story, Faaiz would write: I want to bring a smile to your face and tell you the truth of life, because somewhere someone needs it more than applause. So if you're reading this now sitting in a big city, or scrolling on your screen far from that dusty village know this: It’s not your place, or possessions, or popularity that define you. It’s the truth you carry quietly in your heart. It’s the courage to share it even when no one is listening. And if this story stirred even a drop of emotion sadness, hope, or a quiet smile then share it. Not for likes. Not for comments. But because someone else, somewhere, might be waiting for the same light you just felt
By Ashraf about a year ago in Motivation
You Water Your Plants, But What Are You Feeding Your Child?”
A few days ago, I came across a powerful image on Facebook that really made me pause. At the top, there’s a hand offering a bottle of water to a plants below, there’s another hand a can of soft drink to a child.
By Unwritten emotionsabout a year ago in Motivation
The Janitor Who Reprogrammed the AI
Every night, when the halls of Orion Robotics emptied and the last of the engineers shut down their terminals, a soft hum echoed through the dimly lit corridors. That hum belonged to the whir of cleaning bots and the quiet footsteps of Leo, the night janitor.
By MIGrowthabout a year ago in Motivation
Iron lady
Why me? It’s a question we all ask when life breaks us in ways we didn’t see coming. When the world beneath us shatters. When pain becomes too heavy to carry. When nothing makes sense anymore. That question haunted a young woman named Muniba Mazari—not once, but countless times—after life took an unexpected, tragic turn.
By Alex Farnandoabout a year ago in Motivation
Is Kindness A Mistake
I went to pick up something from someone a few years ago and heard a female cursing a child. He couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. I picked up what I came for, but I couldn’t leave. The mother in me wouldn't allow me to leave this child without encouraging him. My heart breaks for how she was treating him. The things she was telling this child shouldn’t be said to anyone. I thought she was cruel.
By Annelise Lords about a year ago in Motivation
What I Found Were Bigger Than I Expected
I left home with a dream. A dream that I had shaped carefully over years of quiet thinking, soft prayers, and hopeful ambition. I believed the world outside my small town would be filled with opportunity, intelligence, connection — a place where people cared, where truth had a voice, and where fairness would thrive if you worked hard enough.
By Keramatullah Wardakabout a year ago in Motivation
The Girl Who Saved the Bees and the World
In the quiet town of Elmridge, nestled between golden sunflower fields and the whispering woods, lived a 12-year-old girl named Mira. She was a curious soul with a wild mop of curly hair, wide hazel eyes, and a fascination for the tiniest creatures... especially bees.
By MIGrowthabout a year ago in Motivation
My Purpose
You’re here, reading this, because somewhere along the way, the road to becoming your best self started to feel like a maze. The goals you set blur into the distance. The habits you swore would stick now feel like chores. What’s the point brother? Maybe you’re not cut out for this. Let me tell you something urgent, raw, and true: This isn’t a sign that you’re failing. It’s proof you’re human.
By Joseph Malateabout a year ago in Motivation
How I Became a Leader?
When I was a teenager, I used to graze the flock with my grandfather in the vast, quiet meadows of our village. Those mornings were cold, and the hills were silent—except for the soft bleating of sheep and the old wisdom my grandfather would share. At the time, I thought we were just shepherding animals. But now I realize, I was being trained for something much bigger.
By Keramatullah Wardakabout a year ago in Motivation
