Half Your Life Goes in Education — The Other Half Searching for Everything You Lost to It

Introduction: The Longest Detour in Human History

If you were born in India, you probably started formal education at age 3 or 4. For the next 18–25 years, your life was designed, structured, evaluated, and judged by institutions whose promises always lay in the future.

Education told you: “Suffer now, succeed later.”

But the later never came.

You emerged into adulthood with a certificate — but no idea how to live, love, heal, think, or even breathe fully. So begins the second half of your life: searching — not for success, but for the pieces of yourself that education quietly erased.

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1. Curiosity: Replaced by Curriculum

You asked, “Why is the moon following me?” and “What if fish could fly?”

But instead of exploring those questions, you were handed worksheets.

School trained you to stop wondering and start memorizing.

Every “why” was replaced with “because that’s in the textbook.”

Now, in adulthood, you buy books about the stars, biology, history, and psychology. Not for marks — but for meaning. You travel, listen to podcasts, take online courses — hoping to recover that child who once asked questions freely.

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2. Health: Traded for Grades

Education trained your brain, but punished your body.

Long hours sitting on benches. Heavy schoolbags. Skipped breakfasts. Late-night cramming.

From primary school to engineering college — your body was used, abused, and ignored.

Now, you live in an adult body full of hidden injuries — acidity, hormonal imbalances, low stamina. You consult dieticians, try yoga, buy supplements — not to become fit, but to feel human again. Because your health was the first offering at the altar of “merit”.

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3. Relationships: Starved in Silence

Told to “focus on studies,” you slowly distanced yourself from real friendships, cousins, neighbors — even your own parents.

Peer competition ruined trust. Comparison killed camaraderie.

Phones replaced play.

Now, you find yourself scrolling dating apps, searching for friends on Instagram, trying to reconnect with old classmates you ghosted. You miss the intimacy you never built.

Because you were too busy becoming “somebody”.

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4. Joy of Learning: Sucked Out

You didn’t hate chemistry. You hated the way it was taught.

Rote learning, formulaic essays, rank obsession — school turned learning into punishment.

Every natural joy — music, sports, history — became a syllabus item to be endured.

Now you pay to learn guitar. You attend art therapy workshops. You read about World War II for pleasure.

Because the joy of learning wasn’t lost — it was stolen. And now you want it back.

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5. Self-Worth: Measured in Marks

From Class 1, you were taught that your worth lies in grades.

A 95% child was “brilliant”. A 70% child was “average”. A failed child was “a burden”.

You absorbed this — so deeply that even now, your inner voice sounds like a judgemental teacher.

You don’t try new things. You don’t speak up in meetings. Because you still fear being “wrong”.

You spend your adult life seeking validation — through salary, social media, designations — anything that makes you feel like you're finally “enough”.

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6. Time: Swallowed Without Mercy

You gave your entire childhood to classes, tuitions, exams, and “career preparation”.

But you never learned how to breathe slowly, enjoy boredom, or just be.

Now, you run productivity apps, maintain planners, take time management workshops — not to optimize life, but to make up for time you never got to live.

And ironically, the more you chase efficiency, the more life slips away.

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7. Freedom: Disciplined Into Obedience

In school, you needed permission to stand, speak, pee, or think.

You were told what to wear, what to believe, what to fear.

Disobedience meant punishment. Questioning meant rebellion.

You were trained to follow.

Now, even as an adult, you fear quitting your job, saying no to your parents, or choosing your own path.

Because your freedom muscle was never allowed to grow — only your compliance muscle was.

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8. Confidence: Replaced with Fear of Mistakes

One wrong answer? Laughter.

One bad exam? Humiliation.

One failed year? Shame.

You learned early that safety lies in staying silent.

Now, you don’t speak unless you’re sure. You hesitate to start. You say sorry too much.

You call it humility — but it’s just habitual fear.

Confidence wasn't broken in a day. It was dismantled over years — and rebuilding it takes a lifetime.

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9. Real Skills: Ignored by Irrelevance

You learned about chlorophyll, algebra, and Mughal kings.

But never learned how to cook, file taxes, resolve conflict, grow food, or listen.

You memorized theories but never practiced life.

Because education confused knowing with living.

Now you watch YouTube tutorials for adult basics — wiring, budgeting, parenting. You realize the biggest skill you need now is unlearning.

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10. Sense of Self: Replaced by Career Identity

You were told to be an engineer, a doctor, an IAS officer.

Not to be yourself.

So you chased titles — but not truth.

You forgot what made you laugh, cry, breathe deeply.

Now, in midlife, you ask: “Who am I without my job?” “What do I want?” “What even makes me happy?”

And no textbook can answer that.

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11. Connection to Nature: Cut Off by Concrete

You spent childhood indoors — fluorescent lights, cement floors, city traffic.

Nature was a drawing on a project sheet.

You didn’t climb trees, plant seeds, feel soil. You grew up under fans, not skies.

Now, you take weekend treks. You romanticize village life. You crave sunsets.

Because the body still remembers what the mind was trained to forget: you belong to the earth, not to Excel sheets.

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12. Language of the Heart: Replaced by Resume English

You were punished for speaking your mother tongue. Taught to write emails, not poetry. Trained in "neutral accents" and "presentations".

You learned how to speak for others — but forgot how to speak to yourself.

Now, you struggle to express emotion. You overthink. You say “I’m fine” when you’re drowning.

Your English improved — but your emotional vocabulary collapsed.

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13. Courage to Rebel: Beaten into Submission

You wanted to speak up. Challenge things. Ask “Why?”

But were told: “Don’t be difficult.” “This is how it is.” “Just adjust.”

So you became an expert at compromise.

Now, when you see injustice — in family, office, politics — you clench your jaw and stay silent.

Because your courage muscle atrophied.

And you wonder what might’ve been, if someone had said: “Question everything.”

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14. Silence & Inner Peace: Drowned in Noise

Bells ringing. Classes switching. Homework deadlines. Peer gossip. Parental pressure. Fear of the future.

Not once in 20 years were you taught how to sit still with yourself.

Now you chase peace — through meditation apps, music, vacations, therapy.

But silence feels like guilt. Because noise was your normal.

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15. Playfulness: Labeled Immaturity

You loved drawing, singing, dancing, making silly noises.

But were told: “Grow up.” “Be serious.” “No time for nonsense.”

So you folded your wings.

Now you search for laughter in comedy shows. You envy children playing freely.

You try to be light — but your body forgot how.

Because play was never a luxury. It was your oxygen — and you were starved.

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16. True Friends: Lost to the Race

School taught you to compete, not connect.

Class ranks came before birthday invitations.

Success came before sincerity.

Now, you scroll old photos and wonder where those people went.

You try hard to build adult friendships — but most stay transactional.

Because friendship takes time — and your time was given to exams.

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17. Slowness: Shamed as Laziness

Every slow breath, slow step, slow lunch was punished as “wasting time”.

You were trained to hurry — to multi-task, overwork, race.

Now, you want to slow down. But you feel restless, guilty, unproductive.

You can’t sleep without a screen. You can’t walk without a goal.

Because education never let you pause. Only perform.

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18. Truth: Filtered, Edited, Manipulated

You were given censored textbooks, politically safe narratives, biased syllabi.

You were told half-truths and celebrated ignorance as tradition.

Now, you search for documentaries, alternate news, ancient texts — anything that feels honest.

Because your hunger for truth wasn’t born yesterday — it was denied since childhood.

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19. Purpose: Promised Later, Never Delivered

You were told: “Do this now, you’ll be happy later.”

Later kept shifting. 10th. 12th. Degree. Job. Promotion. Marriage.

But happiness never arrived.

Now you ask, “What’s my purpose?”

You take spiritual courses, career breaks, coaching sessions.

Because you realize — purpose isn’t given. It’s discovered. But you never had time to search.

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20. Trust in Yourself: Systematically Broken

You knew what you loved. What felt right.

But every decision was made “for your own good.”

You weren’t allowed to listen to your gut. So you stopped trusting it.

Now, you second-guess every choice. You over-research, over-worry, over-consult.

And deep inside, you crave one thing: to trust yourself without asking for permission.

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Conclusion: What If Education Was the Problem All Along?

Everyone talks about healing childhood trauma.

But few realize — the biggest trauma wasn’t poverty or abuse.

It was schooling itself.

Not because teachers were evil. But because the system was never designed to raise humans — only workers.

Now, you walk around with a resume — but no rest. A designation — but no direction.

You call it adulthood. But it’s just a long recovery from a childhood you never got to live.

You were promised the world.

You got a job.

And spent the rest of your life looking for everything education didn’t teach you how to find.

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THE LONG RECOVERY

A Socratic Dialogue in Three Parts

Characters:

Madhukar – A quiet healer, rural teacher, and former academic. Veterinarian turned pharmacologist turned wildlife researcher turned independent health researcher. Holds BVSc, MVSc, and completed doctoral coursework at JNU Delhi.

Dr. Pranav – Cardiologist, top-rank medical graduate

Divya – Corporate lawyer, gold medallist

Ravi – Senior software engineer, IITian

Shalini – Assistant professor, literature PhD

Neeraj – IAS officer, posted in a metropolitan city

Lalitha – Independent journalist, former topper, disillusioned

Adhya – Madhukar's 14-year-old daughter, unschooled, observant

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PART ONE: The Gathering of the Tired

(A clay-tiled verandah in Madhukar's house. The sun has dipped behind the mango trees. All six guests arrive over two days. Now seated on mats. Steam rises from steel tumblers of ragi porridge. No phones in sight.)

Madhukar: You’ve all arrived with heavy bags. But you’re carrying something heavier.

Divya: (smiling faintly) We came to escape noise. But I think we brought our own noise here.

Neeraj: I haven’t sat still like this in decades. It’s strange how quiet exposes you.

Madhukar: Then let’s begin with that exposure. What did your great education give you, and what did it take?

Pranav: It gave me precision. Reputation. But also a body that shakes without pills. I haven’t slept deeply in years.

Ravi: I can write code for 12 hours. But can’t hold a conversation with my son for 10 minutes.

Shalini: I teach literature. But I forgot the last time I read poetry without grading it.

Lalitha: Journalism gave me a voice. But I no longer trust my own words. Everything feels rehearsed.

Divya: I earn well. I can argue in four languages. But I don’t know how to cry without feeling ashamed.

Neeraj: We learned how to govern districts. But I can’t govern my emotions. I wait for orders even in my personal life.

Madhukar: What were you promised?

Ravi: Success, peace, admiration.

Shalini: Purpose.

Divya: Freedom.

Pranav: Respect. Impact.

Madhukar: And what did you receive?

Lalitha: Exhaustion.

Neeraj: Fear of slowing down.

Divya: A decorated cage.

Adhya: (quietly) Like big birds who forgot how to fly?

(They all look at her. Silence thickens.)

Madhukar: Let’s list what you miss. Not success. But simple things. What do you miss being able to do?

Ravi: Playing without a scoreboard.

Shalini: Reading without a deadline.

Pranav: Eating slowly.

Divya: Laughing for no reason.

Neeraj: Sitting without multitasking.

Lalitha: Trusting someone fully.

Madhukar: Then this is not a healing camp. It’s a return. To the original self you left behind for a certificate.

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PART TWO: The Long Recovery

(Day 3 onwards. They stay. Phones off. Meals slow. Walking barefoot. No hierarchy. Slowly, layers peel.)

Madhukar: Let us try to reclaim what was lost. But without force. Let it come slowly, like rain on dry land.

Day 1: Curiosity Adhya leads them into the woods.

Adhya: Why do termites build mounds facing east?

Shalini: I... I don’t know.

Adhya: Let’s find out. Not on Google. With our eyes.

(They kneel, observe. Some draw. Curiosity returns, shyly.)

Day 2: Health Madhukar shares how tribal communities use castor leaves to relieve swelling, and how squatting heals digestion. He introduces practices like chewing slowly, floor sitting, oil pulling.

Pranav: My body has forgotten simplicity. I’ve pushed it through protocols, never listened to it.

Madhukar: It remembers. But like a hurt child — it waits to trust again.

Day 3: Relationships

Neeraj: I called my brother today. For no reason. First time in 4 years.

Lalitha: I braided my mother’s hair last night on video call. She cried.

Madhukar: Bonds aren’t found. They’re restored.

(That night, Ravi confesses to Madhukar over firelight.)

Ravi: My wife left me three years ago. I told everyone I was fine. But I still check her Instagram.

Madhukar: It’s not pain that traps you. It’s the denial of it.

Day 4: Joy of Learning

Ravi and Divya try pottery. Their first pots collapse.

Divya: I laughed so hard I had tears.

Ravi: I failed without punishment. That’s new.

Day 5: Self-Worth

Shalini shares her poems. They are raw. Unedited.

Shalini: This is the first time I’m not performing.

Madhukar: That means you’ve started living.

Day 6: Time & Slowness

No clocks. No schedule.

Neeraj: Time isn’t passing. It’s deepening.

Day 7–14:

Freedom — They choose when to eat, bathe, speak. They feel their own rhythm.

Confidence — They teach Adhya what they know. She listens without judgement.

Real Skills — They cook, farm, compost, repair, barter.

Sense of Self — They write letters to their younger selves.

Nature — They walk at dawn. Sleep under the stars. Bathe in river.

Language of the Heart — They begin to say “I’m afraid,” “I miss you,” “I’m grateful.”

Rebellion — They question what success even means.

Silence — Entire afternoons go by without speech. But no one feels alone.

Play — They climb trees. Try mimicry. Sing off-key.

Friendship — They hold each other’s secrets like treasures.

Truth — They stop pretending. Especially to themselves.

Purpose — They plant 20 neem trees. Not for anyone. Just because.

Trust in Self — They stop asking Madhukar for answers. They begin asking themselves.

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PART THREE: After the Return

(Weeks later. They prepare to leave. The verandah is quieter. The air feels lighter.)

Pranav: I thought healing meant fixing. It doesn’t. It means unmasking. I’m still scared of returning to the hospital. But now I won’t lie to myself about it.

Divya: I used to think emotions made me weak. Now I see they kept me alive. But in courtrooms, I’ll still have to hide. That scares me.

Ravi: My son told me, “Appa, you smile more now.” That’s all I needed. But I wonder if this version of me will survive the glass towers.

Neeraj: I no longer fear slow days. I fear going back to people who worship speed. But maybe I’ll carry stillness into my office.

Lalitha: I don’t want to expose the world anymore. I want to invite people to feel again. That’s riskier. But more true.

Shalini: I am not a subject expert. I am a woman who feels, writes, listens. That’s enough. Maybe that’s what I’ll teach now.

Madhukar: Then go. Not as healed. But as honest. And when the world shouts again, return to silence. It always welcomes you back.

Adhya: (smiling) Will you visit again?

Ravi: We may never leave.

(Laughter. No one cries. Because nothing ended. They just began.)

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The Education That Took Everything

you started young, obedient, sharpened pencils lined like bayonets, water bottle, napkin, ID card swinging like a leash.

you entered the system proud, like a calf stepping into the slaughterhouse with its head held high.

they said you’d learn to think. what you learned was to kneel.

what you lost? start the list.

curiosity died in the waiting room, when your questions were called "disruptions."

health was traded for rankings, sugar-laced breaks between stress— by fifteen you needed therapy, by twenty-five, pills.

your relationships? sacrificed for semesters, internships, whatsapp replies typed in guilt. you forgot birthdays. you stopped showing up.

you loved learning once — remember? until it was reduced to marks, counters of approval, thick PDF notes you never read twice.

confidence rotted slowly — you memorized answers, but forgot your voice.

self-worth became result-based, and you carried shame like second skin.

you were free, then you were not. schedules dictated by bells, choices confined to syllabi, your own dreams — outsourced.

you were skilled once — could fix a cycle, stitch a wound, now you make powerpoints and panic.

you knew who you were — before the bio-data replaced your biography.

you loved trees, but now you only see them from the office cab.

you could speak truth — but now, every sentence is filtered, calculated, coated.

you could cry, laugh, scream. now you emote with emojis.

you could rebel once — now you protest in tweets.

you learned silence — not the peaceful kind, but the suffocating type, the kind that comes from fear, not peace.

you stopped playing. stopped making friends you didn’t need to use. stopped trusting. stopped resting.

you stopped. but didn’t realize it. because the certificates kept coming.

and they kept calling it success.

until the crash. until you sat one day, heart racing, mouth dry, holding a job, a house, a car, but not yourself.

you stared at a mirror, not recognizing the reflection, not because it changed, but because it was never you.

you were someone’s idea, a product brochure, a trophy child, a national average.

but never you.

then — silence. then — loss. then — the unbearable weight of everything they taught you to forget.

that’s when you began again. learning not from lectures, but from long walks. from the way the sun fell on leaves. from the smell of buttermilk in summer.

you remembered to squat. to sit. to breathe. to chew. to listen.

you failed at pottery, and laughed like a child. you cried, not because you were weak, but because you were alive.

you apologized. to your body, your mother, your forgotten self.

you sat without multitasking. you didn’t need permission. you grew herbs. you stitched. you sang off-key.

you planted trees — not to offset carbon, but because you finally knew what roots meant.

you stopped asking for answers. you learned to ask better questions.

you weren’t healed. but you were no longer dead.

the school stole twenty things. you stole them back, not through revolt, but through remembering.

and now, when they ask what you do — you smile. you say: “i live.”