Not My Cup of Self-Help

I don’t read self-help books. Well, I don’t read anything other than fiction. Not even biographies or autobiographies. I haven’t read the famous 'Wings of Fire', 'The Story of My Experiments with Truth', or 'Playing It My Way'. But I did read Anne Frank’s 'The Diary of a Young Girl' when I was in my teens. Though I don’t remember it clearly now, I loved reading her diary! Now, you can probably guess my reading choices.

In the past few years, I’ve even bought some self-help books that were highly recommended, but I haven’t opened a single one till now. And to be honest, I’m planning to give them away to someone who’s a true self-help enthusiast.

Why don’t I read them? As a kid or teenager, my reason would’ve been that they lack lead characters, emotions, sky descriptions, or mood changes. I still feel that way, but now I also have a valid reason: they make me depressed. I don’t even know how to read them! I can’t enthusiastically devour them, nor can I read them while snuggling into my cozy corner of the couch, or on the bus, or while waiting for someone. It feels so complicated.

And the next time I meet a self-help reader, I genuinely want to ask them —what do you like about Robin Sharma, Ankur Warikoo, or Gaur Gopal Das? Do you actually follow their advice?? Or do you just buy the book, read it when you have the zest for it, and then leave everything behind? Because every time I’ve tried reading one, I end up spiraling into an overthinking session with a hundred questions lingering in my mind.

"What's the right pace in life?"
"What is someone meaning when they say dynamic personality?"
"What’s that mythical safe phase where you're settled?"
"When do you even know you are stagnant?"
"What do I lose if I do not follow the stupid-strict rules of life?"

By the time I’m halfway through chapter two, I’ve already lost faith in my by-heart-affirmations and started doubting my wardrobe choices. These books don’t motivate me, they terrify me! These questions don’t make me better; they ruin my peace. After a few days, my mind usually throws a much better question at me:
"When do I get to snuggle up again or just sit by the window and daydream?"

And that's my favorite one, because I actually have an answer for it: whenever I want to. My life goes on. If something feels off in my life, I don't look for a book; I look for people —my parents, or the few souls I consider "advice-worthy." I don’t want to read 284 pages of listicles to learn how to live. I'd rather listen, observe, and experience. Whenever it comes to big decisions, I follow my instinct, which might be my weakness, but it’s my way.

I have a few famous and hyped self-help books sitting on my shelf, but they just don’t feel like me. And as I write this, I feel an even stronger urge to replace them with stories that make my heart smile, tales full of metaphors, sunsets, and imaginary people with real emotions.

I love metaphors. I love my life a little more every time I see the world through one. Imagination is power. Truly! You might be judging me as a hopeless dreamer or nodding along as a kindred spirit. (I know most of my readers belong to the latter!!) To me, life would be boring without metaphors and imagination. My mantra remains simple and constant: Don’t overthink, go with the flow. And if you’re a big fan of self-help books, I challenge you to try changing my perspective someday!

Last week, I skipped writing for the Window, but my imagination hasn’t dried up. Perspectives change, but the essence of seeing life in your own way never fades. Sometimes I feel like I’m constantly fighting a silent war within myself; between the person who wants to grow and the one who wants to stay comfortably the same. One part of me craves discipline, routine, and purpose, while the other part just wants peace, a cozy blanket, and a cup of coffee. It’s confusing, this constant tug between becoming and just being. I want to improve, but I don’t want to lose the unhurried version of me who finds joy in small things and quiet moments. Maybe self-growth doesn’t always mean racing ahead, maybe it’s about pausing long enough to understand which direction feels right. I know I'll find my balance someday, somewhere between a dream and a nap. And if not, I’ll still be here, half growing, half dozing, fully trying. Maybe that’s enough for now. After all, even flowers don’t bloom on schedule, why should I?!