Falling Out of Rhythm

There was a version of me that lived by structure.

I went to the gym not because I felt like it, but because it was time.
I ate clean, slept on time, and woke up early.
My days had a shape. My nights had an end.
Life felt controlled—not perfect, but steady.

Discipline wasn’t something I questioned back then.
It was just… how things were.

And I moved to a flat in Mumbai. Got to know how people around you affect your habits.

And then, quietly, that version started fading.

Not in a dramatic way.
There was no breaking point, no single bad decision.
Just a slow drift.

One skipped workout that didn’t feel important.
One late night that turned into a habit.
Food that was meant to be “just for today.”
Sleep that came whenever it wanted.

Nothing collapsed.
But everything loosened.

Today, my routine looks nothing like it used to.
Junk food replaces planned meals.
Sleep has no fixed entry or exit.
Mornings don’t begin—they happen.
Days blur into each other, and structure feels heavier than it once did.

And with that comes guilt.
Not loud guilt. The quiet kind.
The kind that sits in the background while you scroll, snack, delay.
The kind that says, you know better, but doesn’t tell you how to begin again.

For a long time, I thought this meant I had become lazy.
Undisciplined. Weak.

But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was simpler—and harder to admit.

I was tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix.
Mentally stretched. Emotionally loaded.
Trying to carry work, expectations, ambition, and uncertainty—without ever putting anything down.

Discipline didn’t disappear.
It was overpowered.

I didn’t fall out of routine because I didn’t care.
I fell out of routine because I cared about too many things at once and gave none of them rest.

This phase taught me something important:
discipline without self-awareness doesn’t last.
And routines don’t break because we’re careless—they break because something inside us needs attention.

I’m not writing this from a place of recovery.
I don’t have a perfect routine again.
I’m not waking up at 5 a.m. or eating perfectly or training consistently.

I’m writing from the middle.

From the space where you know who you were,
you see where you are,
and you’re trying not to hate yourself for the distance between the two.

Maybe growth isn’t always about adding habits.
Maybe sometimes it’s about understanding why they left.

I’m not trying to return to the old version of me.
I’m trying to rebuild—gently—from where I stand now.

And maybe that, too, is discipline.
Just quieter.
Just slower.
Just honest.