The pursuit of success, like chasing a dream, can often feel like a dance between joy and Sorrow. As we move closer to our goals, the excitement of the journey is intertwined with an unspoken pressure, a quiet fear that we might lose the very thing we’ve worked so hard to gain. With every step forward, there’s a weight that grows, a longing to reach higher, yet a fear of falling short. The thrill of success begins to feel like a heavy rhythm, causing our hearts to race, our minds to swirl, and our energy to fade as we try to balance the desires of ambition with the tenderness of our own soul. The relentless pursuit for more can leave us breathless, causing us to lose ourselves in the chase, wondering if we can still find peace in the pursuit, or if the cost of our dreams is too high to bear. Competitive exams are often seen as the ultimate measure of academic and professional success.

These assessments, designed to evaluate knowledge, skills, and aptitude in specific fields, can make or break careers, particularly in the academic and professional spheres. The journey to cracking such exams is a daunting one—a marathon that demands not only intellectual acumen but also mental resilience, unwavering dedication, and strategic discipline. Throughout my personal journey of preparing for different competitive exams, I have learned that this path is far more than a mere intellectual battle. It is a test of endurance, patience, and the ability to stand firm when the pressure feels unbearable. I’ve lived through the long nights spent poring over study materials for the JKSSB exams, the stress and anxiety surrounding the JKPSC exams, and the mental strain of conducting complex research that too in Science stream.
The academic and research workload was intense. My daily routine was a gruelling yet structured one. From 10 AM to 5 PM, I worked tirelessly in the Research lab, managing complex tasks such as writing Manuscripts, preparing Progress reports, Monitoring Report for the project funding agency and at the same time conducting experiments for my PhD programme. The demands of research were high, and balancing it with preparation for competitive exams was no easy feat. But I knew I had to push myself to the limit if I wanted to groom. After finishing my work at the lab, I headed straight to the Central library from 5 PM to 11 PM.
The library became my sanctuary—quiet, focused, and free from distractions. It was here that I made real progress, absorbing the lessons, solving problems, and refining my understanding of the subjects I was tackling. But that wasn’t the end of my day. I knew that the early hours of the morning often brought the greatest clarity. So, I used to rise at 5 AM and head back to the library, studying until 9 AM, before heading to the lab again. It was exhausting, yet deeply rewarding. I pushed myself because I knew that in order to succeed; I had to make sacrifices, including my time and energy. During these intense periods of study, I often found myself reaching for hot tea to fuel me through the long hours. Fast food became a regular part of my diet—whether it was a quick sandwich or a cup of Coffee.
Although it wasn’t the healthiest choice, the demands of the situation left me with little time for anything else. It is often said that success is built on the foundation of mental resilience. And yet, it is too easy to overlook the importance of mental health while we focus on achieving our goals. Mental health issues like stress, anxiety, and depression can slowly erode not only our productivity but also our physical well-being. The stigma around mental health often prevents individuals from seeking the help they need. However, by normalizing mental health conversations and creating supportive environments, we can help ensure that more individuals reach their potential without sacrificing their well-being in the process.
The one unwavering source of support throughout this entire journey has been my father, who has been both a colleague and a dear friend. Though he doesn't have a formal academic background, his wealth of practical knowledge gained from years of experience in local business has been incredibly valuable. He applied this wisdom generously to guide and mentor me throughout my preparation phase, offering insights that went far beyond traditional academics. His approach, grounded in real-world experience, has shaped my perspective and strengthened my resolve, making all the difference in my life. He was not just a colleague; he was my anchor during the roughest phases of this journey. There were times when failure felt inevitable, when results came back with disappointment, and when the weight of exams and research felt unbearable. But in those moments, my Father stood by me, reminding me that failure was not the end but merely a step in the process.
He taught me that resilience is not just about bouncing back, but about having the courage to keep going, no matter how hard it seems. The sting of failure could have paralyzed me, but instead, I found myself doing what I had always done: studying the same night, without stress, without fear. I realized that this journey was not about one test or one outcome, but about my ability to keep going—no matter the setbacks. My father would gently ask me about the result of the exam I had taken, and each time, I would answer with a quiet smile, "The result hasn't been declared yet." In my heart, I knew the truth—I had failed. But he, with that unspoken wisdom only a parent can have, already knew. Still, he never said a word.
It was as if he was letting me keep my secret, offering me the time and space to come to terms with it in my own way. His silence was not of disappointment, but a quiet understanding, as if he was waiting for me to find my own way through the moment. Although I lived in the Campus vicinity, immersed in my preparation for these exams and for my doctoral degree, that seemed to hold the key to my future, I rarely found the courage to return home. When I did, my visits were brief, almost like fleeting shadows passing through the house I once called mine. It wasn’t that I didn’t miss the warmth of home or the comfort of familiar faces—it was because of the questions. "Have you been selected yet?" they’d ask, their voices filled with gentle hope and unspoken expectation.
The weight of those words was always more than I could bear. Success was always portrayed as just around the corner, and yet, I wasn’t sure I was ready to embrace it. I wasn’t ready to answer because I wasn’t even ready to ask myself that question. Every day, I faced the blur of textbooks and late-night studies, but in the quiet corners of my mind, doubts lingered. What if I’m not good enough? What if I’m not meant for this? The future seemed like an elusive dream, while everyone around me seemed to have it all figured out. They saw the effort, the long hours I put in, but they couldn’t see the quiet fears I harbored. So, I stayed away. I convinced myself it was temporary, just until the exams were over, until the results came. But the truth was, I wasn’t avoiding their questions—I was avoiding myself. I wasn’t ready to stand in front of them and say, "I’m still waiting." Waiting for that answer that would give me purpose, that would define me.
There was a time when I used to study even on the most important festivals, on the grandest gatherings, like wedding ceremonies, as if I was afraid to let the day be different from any other. The celebrations, with their bursts of joy and the warmth of togetherness, seemed like distant worlds, too bright and alive for me to fully enter. I couldn’t quite understand why, but something deep within me made it difficult to connect with the magic of these special days. Instead of joining in the laughter and the love, I sought refuge in the quiet corners of my world—my textbooks and notes. While the air around me was thick with festivity, with families reuniting, exchanging gifts, and sharing meals, I buried myself in assignments, almost as if I could convince myself that today was just like any other.
The sounds of celebrations felt like a faint melody from another world, one I wasn’t ready to step into. It wasn’t that I didn’t cherish the festivals, or the love woven into the gatherings; on the contrary, I longed for them. But there was something in me—some unspoken fear, some untold hesitation—that held me back from embracing the joy fully. It was like I couldn’t open my heart to the warmth of the moment, as if to celebrate would mean breaking away from the life I had built in solitude. But in truth, I wasn’t unhappy. I simply wasn’t ready to allow myself to experience the fullness of what others seemed to feel so naturally. The sweetness of a festival, the glow of a wedding, the feeling of being part of something larger than myself—it all seemed just beyond reach.
In the final days of my preparation, when the weight of the work felt unbearable and every passing hour seemed to blur into the next, I found unexpected sources of strength in my labmates—especially Miss Soha and Mr. Aarif. Though they, too, were caught up in their own preparations, their quiet encouragements became a steady light in the midst of my struggles. They could see beyond the books, beyond the late-night study sessions, and beyond the surface of what I was trying to accomplish. Despite their own challenges, they took time to notice the quiet, unspoken pain that lingered behind my focused expressions and determined movements. I think they understood that the pressure I was carrying was not just academic or competitive nature —it was something deeper, something that stretched far beyond the confines of any textbook or self-made study material. And yet, in their own way, they gave me a kind of comfort that I hadn’t even known I needed. It wasn’t just the words they spoke, but the way they stood by me—always offering a kind word, a shared laugh, or a small gesture of solidarity. After all the long nights, the self-doubt that whispered in every quiet moment, and the weight of my dreams pressing down on me, success arrived—not in the way I had imagined, but in a quiet, overwhelming surge of clarity.
It wasn’t the victory that felt most powerful, but the transformation that happened along the way. Every setback, every moment of feeling like I wasn’t enough, had secretly been shaping me into someone capable of standing tall in the face of adversity. My father’s wisdom, my labmates’ quiet encouragement, and the relentless faith I found within myself—these became the true foundation of my journey. It wasn’t just about crossing the finish line; it was about learning to dance through the struggles, to find beauty in the pain, and to trust that every step, no matter how hard, was leading me toward something greater. Now, standing here with the weight of it all behind me, I realize that the real success isn’t in the achievements—it’s in the strength, the love, and the resilience that carried me through when everything else seemed to fall apart.

Email:------------------shahrameez45@gmail.com