By Musaib Bilal
I think society owes me an apology for making me believe that being alone was a depressingly bad thing. I was born and remained an only child—no siblings, no in-home cousins. My parents had a son before me who, unfortunately, passed away just a few months after arriving on this blue (indeed blue) planet.
Growing up, I didn’t have many resources, so I had to make do with what I had—including learning to enjoy my own company. It took me years to be okay with solitude, but I eventually embraced it. In school, I was a different kind of kid. My academic journey started in an unusual way. I missed half of my nursery year due to illness, struggled with grades in lower kindergarten, and then started performing well. But another setback came—a surgery that forced me to miss more school. Still, I managed to ace upper kindergarten.
When I came second in first grade, I felt happy—for about two minutes. That changed when I got home and saw my father’s disappointment. He told me I had become overconfident. What I heard instead was: “Be less confident.” From that moment, the only goal of my life was to come first in class.
Naturally, there was a price to pay. In striving to please my parents and be the “good kid,” I didn’t have friends coming over, nor did I visit anyone’s house. I rarely saw parks, alleys, or streets. I was always home before sundown. My father had a tough job, and though he took me to the park once a week, work often called him away. I’d be left in the custody of Moomin—someone much older than me, whom I barely even remember now. Eventually, I stopped going to the park altogether. My primary source of socializing became going to the market with my mom, where we’d visit Batamaloo Sahab to buy fresh fruits, vegetables, and occasionally a loaf of bread or cheese. I adapted quickly—because what other choice did I have?
For reasons not relevant here, the house I spent my first five years in was chaotic and tense. Three families lived there, and though we were segregated, my father had a history of childhood trauma in that house. Eventually, we moved. The new place felt liberating—there were no boundaries. I could shout, I could hit the walls (literally).
I grew up watching Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Lee, and Jackie Chan in movies like Rambo, Commando, Fist of Fury, The Medallion, and more. Naturally, I became drawn to action, tension, martial arts, and fighting. I imagined fight scenes, turning my bedroom into a battleground of thread-lasers I stole from my mother’s cabinets.
My maasi, as sweet as ever, bought me a Power Rangers kit—it had a gun that could transform into two mini-guns. I was flexible too. At the same time, something else was happening: I had a cousin, just two years older, who was passionate about dance. Since my mom spent two years at my Nana’s house after giving birth, I was directly influenced by my cousin and got into dance myself. It gave me expression and freedom. I quickly learned to mimic her and even made up dance moves. As long as I moved in a way that felt true to the beat and melody, it was enough.
But soon, schoolwork increased. At age seven, my tutor made me join a Darsgah—a place to study the Quran. It was one of the most difficult turns of my life. I despised it. I felt oppressed. I had planned to go home and watch Tom & Jerry—but no. I’ve always hated unplanned things, and this was forced upon me. Make no mistake—I had memorized all the Kalimas and some Surahs before I was six. But I simply wasn’t mentally prepared for it.
With little time for anything other than being the “good kid,” I never played much.
The Awakening
Fast forward to 2022. I was preparing for JEE. I was intellectual. People wanted to get to know me, but they’d ask:
“But what else do you do?”
“What do you mean? I went to school, came home, went to tuition, came home again, and then went to the Darsgah. What else would I do?”
I’d watch their excitement fade. It was strange. What else was I supposed to do?
I could have mentioned sports, but I was never good at them. In 2012, when I was 8.7 years old, I played cricket once. Older kids mocked me because I couldn’t “stop” the ball. Every time I batted, we had to cross the street to retrieve it. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t a problem—I just didn’t fit their definition of “good.” But in my mind, I was flawed. I couldn’t play cricket. Worse, I believed it was too late to even try.
In Kashmir, cricket is ingrained in a boy’s identity. But I didn’t have that. During games period, while others were thrilled to play, I hid—hoping to be the bench player no one noticed.
Insight: The loud, confident players who knew how to play rarely scored. I wonder what that means.
Back to childhood—I mastered enjoying my own company. Teachers would ask, “Are you a single child?” with pity in their eyes.
“Yeah.”
“That must be awful—you must feel so alone.”
I’d shrug it off playfully.
I had my ups and downs academically. I rose again.
By sixth grade, insecurities pushed me further into solitude. Not having manly hobbies meant I wasn’t included.
What about martial arts?
Unfortunately—or fortunately (for him)—my cousin Iqbal became a national-level rugby player. He’d come home covered in blood. My maasi and mom were traumatized. So was I. Later, he attempted UFC but had to withdraw after a brutal match. The verdict was final: no martial arts, ever.
Knowledge Became My Refuge
In eighth grade, I joined Axiom Coaching Center. Javaid Sir became my mentor, and I fell in love with learning. Until then, my goal had been to come first. Now, I craved knowledge. I felt invincible.
Then came eleventh grade. My mental health collapsed. Depression. Anxiety. Overwhelming workload. Everything spiraled downward. By twelfth grade, I entered denial. I studied obsessively—perfectionism took over.
Online classes isolated me further. People reached out, but I avoided them. Meanwhile, I found solace in an online fan community for Jass Manak. I made friends, some of whom remain close. One, however, ghosted us all. That abandonment reopened wounds I didn’t know I had.
JEE prep wasn’t easy. I discovered I had ADHD. We moved again. I was lonely. Isolated. Living in a house that didn’t feel like home. My 90th percentile felt like failure. I had no validation. No pat on the back. I lost purpose. I felt hopeless.
Then, Selena Gomez released My Mind & Me. Alongside prayers, it saved my life. It took months of struggle—arguments, breakdowns, even suicidal ideation—but I crawled out.
I started writing. Two books. More drafts. More ideas. I rediscovered music. I read. I prayed. Ramadan came. I passed an exam.
The College Realization
Then, college. Gym. Classes. Library. Studying. Healthcare. Writing.
One day, a gym acquaintance approached me:
“Brother, why are you always alone? You should make friends, explore, live.”
For the first time, I realized—I wasn’t just alone. I was lonely.
But I also learned: solitude isn’t loneliness. I’m still working on the balance.
I had been in talks with a girl who had a crush on me. We were set to meet outside the college library, but she ditched me multiple times. It wasn’t a great feeling. I came back home.
Over time, I started to realize just how lonely I actually was. Everyone sat in circles with their friends—some played catch, some gossiped, some teased each other, some bought lunch for each other in the canteen. Meanwhile, I ate my boring sandwich while reading How to Manage Life with ADHD.
One day, while walking behind the chemistry department, I felt empty. I took out my phone in a failed attempt to call someone. But who would I call? The ones who were fascinated by me always gave me an ick. And the ones I wanted to be friends with were way too cool. I wasn’t cool by any stretch.
I was sad.
I entered the physics lab and saw a welcoming face. For once, I made an effort to act nice. That familiar face is my friend Danish now. Danish has a lifelong best friend, Aabid, who’s also my friend.
I had found my tribe.
Two days later, college shut down.
Overcoming the Cycle
We didn’t get to know each other much except through social media. But I felt welcomed. Naturally, all the love I had never been able to give someone—I poured into our friendship. But in hindsight, I did it too much. I became obsessive. That triggered a cascade of different things.
Our path has been rocky—there have been ups and downs, moments of closeness, and moments of distance. I’ve struggled with balancing attachment and independence, with understanding when to hold on and when to let go. There were times I overextended myself, times I felt like I was too much, and times when I withdrew completely out of fear of being too overwhelming. But every experience, every challenge, has shaped me into the person I am today.
People like me—those who grew up in solitude, who never fully learned the rhythm of friendships, who were forced to navigate the world alone—often find themselves in this push-and-pull. We long for deep connections, yet we fear them. We crave companionship, yet we struggle with the mechanics of maintaining it. And sometimes, we oscillate between wanting to be seen and wanting to disappear.
But thanks to therapy, I know that now. I understand myself better.
It’s only recently that my mentor and therapist told me that being alone can also mean enjoying solitude—the way I once did with Power Rangers, dance, karate—and not being lonely. I now have an entire toolbox that helps me form genuine connections with myself and others.
While I practice the art of being alone and having fun with solitude, I still struggle with getting completely obsessed with my friends. It’s an everyday effort. I understand that it’s a long path.
But social media and pop culture make people like me feel like we are missing out if we don’t have friends. That being alone is depressing. That it’s unlikely. People like me are seen as outcasts and aliens, further adding to the shame we’ve always felt.
Although I would like to mention—there’s a thin line between avoidance (loneliness) and solitude. I try to walk it carefully.
And despite everything—the struggles, the setbacks, the uncertainty—I know one thing for sure: I am still here. Still growing. Still learning. And still finding my place in the world, one step at a time.
- The author is a Columnist
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