Over the past few days, I have read numerous articles reflecting on 2025: what people achieved, what they lost, how many books they read, and how they touched the lives around them. I found myself lingering on them, thinking, reflecting. But today, I want to pause on something closer to home: my first day of this new year, January 1, 2026.
I am sitting in the library, one of my favorite places in the city, letting the quiet around me settle as I think about how my day has gone.
I am not one of those people who can always find the silver lining. I encourage positivity in my patients, offer advice to friends, and try to calm the emotions of my family, but inside, I often feel the opposite. I grew up in a home where joy was fleeting, almost foreign. I complain easily, feel disappointment and sadness deeply and too frequently, and even when I achieve something, I don’t feel the same happiness as people my age.
However, today, I am trying to notice small pieces of my day and to allow myself brief moments of peace. Perhaps my mind is simply exhausted from judging and overanalyzing everything I have done for 32 years. Growing up in uncertainty has made me constantly alert, always scanning for danger, anger, harsh sounds, or discomfort around me. Relaxing my shoulders has never come naturally.
Today, I am trying. I am trying to let my shoulders relax, even if only for a few minutes after an hour or two.
The weight of professional grief
Working with cancer patients has taught me perspective. Facing the highest mortality rate of my career this year, I have come to the realization that my personal problems are small compared with the suffering I witness. I worked in clinical oncology for six years, but this past year I had to work in hematology, where almost every week I had to say goodbye to a patient. Their names, faces, and sighs linger with me, etched into memory. I carried this burden alone, the only doctor available amid short staffing.
This morning, I left home early, prompted by the familiar noise of my parents arguing. After 32 years, it still affects me, but today, it pushed me out the door, into a cold, rainy morning. I spent almost half an hour trying to find a taxi and paid nearly triple the fare I expected, but stepping into the rain felt like a small gift. A rainy day during winter, in its quiet chill, always comforts me.
Breakfast was a simple cup of chaaye and desi anda (a boiled egg). I savored it and thought of those who cannot afford even this small comfort during harsh weather.
The taxi driver who brought me here was frail, likely in his 80s, yet he drove with skill and care, navigating the city effortlessly. Complimenting him at the end of the ride brought a small, genuine smile to his face.
The sanctuary of solitude
The library, my sanctuary, welcomed me. Warmth, clean restrooms, a prayer space, a water dispenser, a small walking area, a café; it is a place of quiet and calm, free for anyone who needs it. Here, I read, revised notes, and gathered my thoughts.
Today, I did not have to absorb anyone else’s pain. No friends’ rants, no patient crises, no role as an unpaid therapist. I simply enjoyed my favorite biscuits, French fries, and coffee, and allowed myself to enjoy them fully.
As I watch the rain outside, I feel the miracle of being alive. Many did not make it through last year. Many will never have the chance to step outside to feel the rain. Life itself is a miracle, and each day is a new chance to feel, to reflect, to witness, and make new connections.
To everyone reading this, I wish that each day of your life brings a small moment that reminds you that being alive is itself something remarkable, and despite everything, life is still beautiful.
Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.
