Ihtisham Ulhaq
Bio
“I turn life’s struggles into stories and choices into lessons—writing to inspire, motivate, and remind you that every decision shapes destiny.”
Stories (63)
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How we can make our body healthy
Introduction Health is the foundation of a happy and successful life. A healthy body not only allows us to work productively but also gives us the energy to enjoy every moment with family, friends, and ourselves. In today’s busy world, many people ignore their health, leading to diseases like obesity, diabetes, and heart problems. The good news is, by following simple steps, we can build a strong and healthy body.
By Ihtisham Ulhaqabout 6 hours ago in Lifehack
“The Man Who Never Missed a Day”
When I was 17, I met a man who delivered newspapers in the rain. Not in a casual, half-hearted way—but fully committed, every single morning. He would leave his house before sunrise, his coat soaked, shoes falling apart, and the wind cutting through him like a knife. Yet, despite the cold and wet, he smiled at everyone on his route. To a teenager like me, it was both confusing and inspiring. I remember the first time I saw him struggle with a bundle of papers that seemed almost too heavy for him. He slipped on the wet pavement, muttered something under his breath, and kept walking. When he reached the next house, he knocked on the door, handed over the paper, and smiled as the door closed. That smile was strange to me—it wasn’t pride or satisfaction, it was… calm. Almost peaceful. Curious, I approached him one morning. “Why don’t you take a day off when it’s so hard?” I asked, shivering in my hoodie as the rain soaked me through. He laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that didn’t sound annoyed, only knowing. “Son, nobody cares about today,” he said, shaking his head. “What matters is tomorrow. You build your life the same way: one small effort, every day, even when nobody notices.” At the time, I didn’t understand. My life felt urgent, like it had to explode with success immediately. I was chasing big ideas, jumping from project to project, leaving most half-finished. I thought motivation was everything—without the spark of inspiration, nothing mattered. The idea of showing up every single day, even when tired, even when bored, even when invisible, felt almost insane. I watched him for weeks. Rain or shine, he was there. I started noticing small details I hadn’t seen before—the careful folding of the papers, the way he adjusted his wet coat to protect the bundle, the extra minute he took to smile at a child running out to grab the paper. Every morning, the same ritual. Every morning, the same effort. And yet, nobody cheered. Nobody noticed. Years passed. I went to college, chasing my own “big dreams,” my own versions of instant success. I started businesses, abandoned them; learned new skills, stopped halfway; made promises to myself I couldn’t keep. I told myself I was working toward greatness, but mostly, I was chasing the idea of success, not the work itself. Motivation was my fuel, and when it ran out, I stopped moving. Meanwhile, the memory of that man stayed with me. The quiet diligence, the smile in the pouring rain. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had already taught me the most important lesson: consistency matters more than talent, and persistence matters more than inspiration. Years later, I found myself struggling. A career path crumbled beneath me, a relationship ended badly, and my confidence had hit rock bottom. I remembered the man with the newspapers. I thought about how small, invisible efforts can be the hardest to trust—because results are not immediate, and recognition is not guaranteed. Yet, he had shown me that those small efforts accumulate, slowly but inevitably, into a life that cannot be ignored. I started experimenting with this principle myself. Every morning, I wrote 500 words for my stories—even when tired, even when uninspired. I practiced my skills quietly, without posting or sharing. I did the work not for applause, but because it mattered to the person I wanted to become. Some days, it felt like nothing was happening. Some days, I wanted to give up. But then I remembered the man with the newspapers, and I kept showing up. It didn’t take long before I started noticing changes. The words I wrote flowed better, ideas connected in ways they never had before. People began noticing my work. Small victories became more frequent, and my confidence started to rebuild. What had seemed like meaningless, invisible effort had quietly transformed my life. That man never became famous. He never went viral. He had no thousands of followers, no awards, no recognition. But every paper he delivered, every smile he shared, every step he took in the rain—it all mattered. Each day of consistent effort built a life he owned completely, a life he could be proud of. I realized then that success is not a moment. It is not a sudden flash of recognition or a single lucky opportunity. Success is the sum of the quiet, consistent decisions we make when no one is watching. It’s the choice to wake up when it’s easier to sleep. It’s the decision to work when it’s easier to scroll on your phone. It’s the effort we put in when the world doesn’t applaud. And the truth is simple: showing up every day is more powerful than talent, motivation, or luck. Talent fades. Motivation fluctuates. But showing up—every single day, rain or shine—creates results you cannot imagine. Just like the man in the rain, your efforts may not be recognized immediately. People may overlook them, circumstances may feel unfair, progress may seem invisible. But over time, the cumulative effect of your daily effort will speak for itself. One day, the world will notice. One day, your consistency will transform your life. So, start today. Don’t wait for motivation. Don’t wait for inspiration. Show up. Every day. One small effort. One action. One step at a time. Let your grind be louder than your excuses. Because the man who never missed a day wasn’t special. He was ordinary. But through persistence, he became unstoppable. And so can you.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq21 days ago in Motivation
“The Day I Thought I Couldn’t Go On — But Tomorrow Changed Everything”
I never imagined that a single day could feel like the heaviest weight in the world. It wasn’t the kind of day that sneaks up on you; it’s the kind that hits you like a storm you weren’t prepared for. From the moment I opened my eyes, something inside me knew that this day would be different. I didn’t know yet how different, or how much it would change me forever. The morning began quietly, deceptively calm. I went through the motions—brushing my teeth, making a cup of tea, scrolling through my phone—but my heart felt heavier than usual. Small failures from the past week clung to me like shadows. A failed exam, an argument with a friend, a project that didn’t turn out the way I hoped—it all piled on top of me, brick by brick. By the time I left the house, the weight of disappointment already made my chest ache. Then the real storm hit. I tried to hold it together, tried to keep walking forward, but everything seemed to fall apart at once. A message from someone I trusted made me feel betrayed. A mistake I thought I had fixed resurfaced, and I realized the consequences were bigger than I could handle. Even the sky seemed to mock me, dark clouds rolling in, drizzling rain that soaked me through as if nature itself knew my sorrow. I found a quiet park bench, alone except for the occasional passerby with their umbrellas and hurried steps. I sank down, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I let myself feel the weight of the world for the first time that day. Tears blurred my vision, not because I wanted to cry, but because my heart had no other way to release the pressure building inside. I kept asking myself, Why me? Why does everything feel so impossible right now? Hours passed like this—silent, painful, endless. I tried to remind myself that bad days happen to everyone, that life is a series of ups and downs—but the words felt hollow. My mind raced with “what ifs” and “if onlys,” and every solution seemed just out of reach. I felt like a failure, like the world had moved on without me. I thought about giving up—not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet, subtle way that your heart stops trying to hope for better. And yet, in the middle of that stormy day, something shifted. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t magical. It was subtle—a thought, a memory, a small whisper in the corner of my mind that reminded me of who I was. I remembered the times I had struggled before, the nights I thought I couldn’t get through, and somehow, I had. I remembered the people who had believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. And I remembered one simple truth: pain doesn’t come to destroy you; it comes to teach you. I sat there for a long time, letting the rain soak through my coat, letting the tears fall freely, letting myself simply exist in the moment. And slowly, the anger, the fear, and the despair began to loosen their grip. I realized that this day—terrible, exhausting, heartbreaking—wasn’t the end of my story. It was a pause. A chapter that would shape me into someone stronger, wiser, more compassionate than I had been yesterday. By the time the sun began to peek through the clouds, painting the sky with soft hues of gold and pink, I felt a quiet shift in my chest. It wasn’t a dramatic change; it wasn’t like someone waved a magic wand. It was a tiny flicker of hope—a reminder that tomorrow existed, and tomorrow was a chance to start again. I walked home slowly, each step lighter than the one before. I realized that I didn’t need to have all the answers right now. I didn’t need to fix everything at once. All I needed was to keep moving forward, even if it was just one small step at a time. That night, I wrote in my journal—a habit I hadn’t kept up in months. I wrote about the pain I had felt, the mistakes I had made, the people who had disappointed me, and the fears that had kept me awake at night. But I also wrote about the small victories: the fact that I had survived this day, the fact that I had faced my pain instead of running from it, the fact that I was still here, still breathing, still willing to try again. And as I wrote, I realized something profound: every hardship, every failure, every heartache had shaped me into who I am. They had given me strength I didn’t know I had. They had taught me lessons that no easy day ever could. The next morning, I woke up before sunrise. The world was quiet, bathed in soft golden light. I stepped outside and felt the cool morning air on my face. For the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled—not because everything was perfect, but because I was alive. Because I had the chance to try again. Because I had the power to turn this day into the beginning of something new. I realized that life isn’t about avoiding bad days; it’s about learning how to survive them, how to grow through them, how to use them as stepping stones to something greater. Every setback, every heartbreak, every failure is part of the journey, not the destination. And so, I made a promise to myself: I would not let this day—or any day—define me. I would not let my mistakes or disappointments steal my hope. I would rest when I needed to, I would cry when I needed to, but I would never stop moving forward. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if the path ahead will be easy. But I do know that I am stronger than I thought, braver than I imagined, and capable of more than I can see right now. And that is enough. That day—the day I thought I couldn’t go on—didn’t destroy me. It didn’t break me. It reshaped me, reminded me of my resilience, and showed me the quiet, unshakeable power of hope. Sometimes, the darkest days teach us the most important lessons. Sometimes, the storm is exactly what we need to see the sunlight. And sometimes, tomorrow really does change everything. So if you are reading this, and today feels unbearable, remember this: your story isn’t over. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to feel pain. You are allowed to be human. But don’t forget that pain is temporary, that storms pass, and that better days are waiting. You are stronger than you know, braver than you think, and the world still has beautiful things in store for you. Let today end. Let it go. Take a deep breath. And when tomorrow comes, step forward into it with hope in your heart, even if it’s just one small step. Because that step is everything—it is proof that you can keep going, that you can keep believing, and that you can keep writing your story, one day at a time. Your story is not over yet. And sometimes, the day you think you can’t go on is the day that changes everything.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq23 days ago in Motivation
I Never Chose the Easy Path; I Always Chose Hardship
From the earliest memories I can recall, life presented me with two roads. One was smooth, inviting, and well-trodden—a path that promised comfort, approval, and ease. The other was rough, rocky, and uncertain—a path of struggle, obstacles, and lessons that demanded effort, patience, and resilience. I never chose the smooth road. I never took shortcuts. Not because I was fearless, but because something deep inside refused to let me live a life that wasn’t earned. The easy path whispered promises of fleeting satisfaction, fleeting success, and fleeting recognition. It was tempting. Many around me chose it, and I often wondered if I was foolish for ignoring it. But I learned early that true growth is rarely convenient. The easiest choice often leads to emptiness, to regret, to a quiet knowing that you could have been more than you allowed yourself to be. Hardship became my teacher long before success ever noticed me. The lessons it offered were harsh, uncompromising, and often lonely. There were days when choosing the hard path felt like choosing isolation. While others were celebrated for small accomplishments, supported by friends and family, I walked in silence, with doubt as my companion. Progress was invisible to the world. Failures were frequent and relentless. Many nights, I returned home tired, my heart heavy, my mind questioning why I even bothered. Yet even in that silence, I was being shaped. I was learning the value of persistence, of dedication, and of refusing to give up on myself. The hard path forced honesty. It refused to allow excuses. It stripped away illusions and pretenses. I was left face-to-face with my limits, my fears, and my own humanity. On this path, I discovered strengths I never knew I had: patience I had never cultivated, resilience I had doubted, and self-respect that grew every time I stood up instead of walking away. These were not lessons that could be taught in comfort. They were only learned in struggle, in challenge, and in the quiet persistence of refusing to quit when no one was watching. I remember one time vividly. I had a goal that seemed impossible—one that required me to sacrifice comfort, leisure, and social approval. The easy path was right there: a way to avoid the challenge, to be “okay,” to follow what others had done before me. Many advised me to take it. “It’s safer,” they said. “It’s simpler,” they said. But I could feel, deep inside, that taking the easy way would leave me empty. I chose the hard path. The journey was grueling. Every step felt like pushing against gravity. But with each challenge, I gained more than I ever would have on the easy road. I gained endurance, confidence, and an understanding that real achievement is never handed—it is earned. Strength, I realized, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It grows quietly, in the moments no one sees—the early mornings, the long nights, the repeated failures, the times you push forward when giving up would be understandable. Resilience is not simply surviving; it is deliberately choosing to continue, to stand again, to pursue the path that tests you the most. It is knowing that walking away is easier but will never lead to the person you are capable of becoming. I have walked many hard roads in life. Each one was different, yet the lessons were the same: comfort cannot teach endurance, shortcuts cannot teach discipline, and fleeting success cannot teach respect. Every struggle, no matter how small, adds to your character. Every failure is a mirror that shows you who you really are. And every choice to face hardship instead of fleeing builds a foundation that lasts long after temporary victories fade. There were times when I felt truly alone. People around me often misunderstood my choices. Friends, family, colleagues—they all questioned why I refused the easy way, why I worked harder, why I pushed myself beyond what seemed necessary. They didn’t see the growth happening quietly inside me. They didn’t see the small victories, the lessons learned, the resilience being forged. But eventually, the results spoke for themselves—not in a loud announcement, but in the quiet confidence and self-respect that I had built from the inside out. Life, I have learned, rewards those who endure hardship. Not always immediately. Not always visibly. But it rewards those who persist, who face struggle head-on, and who refuse to settle for anything less than becoming their fullest selves. Success that comes without effort is temporary; strength and self-respect are eternal. Hardship tests us, but it also teaches us. It shows us the depth of our own courage, the strength of our will, and the power of refusing to surrender. The lessons of the hard path are subtle, often invisible, and always lasting. I learned that failing is not shameful; failing is a necessary step toward mastery. I learned that enduring pain, even when no one notices, builds a type of strength that comfort never can. I learned that the more difficult the path, the deeper the reward—not measured in wealth or fame, but in character, wisdom, and self-respect. Every choice to embrace struggle instead of avoiding it shaped me. Every sacrifice, every extra hour, every moment of doubt faced instead of ignored, added to the foundation of the person I am today. My life was not easy. It was messy, unpredictable, and often overwhelming. But it was authentic. It was mine. And through hardship, I became resilient. I became someone who can face challenges without fear because I have faced them before. I became someone who respects themselves because I have honored my own effort. I became someone capable of growth because I refused to choose comfort over character. I often reflect on the people around me who chose the easy path. Many of them achieved quick victories, immediate recognition, and temporary peace. But over time, I noticed something important: the victories were shallow, the peace fleeting, and the growth minimal. They lacked the depth of resilience, the quiet power of self-respect, and the profound satisfaction that comes from knowing you endured, you learned, and you became someone stronger. Choosing hardship is not glamorous. It is not celebrated in real-time. It is often lonely, exhausting, and demanding. But it is transformative. It shapes your mind, your heart, and your spirit in ways comfort never can. It teaches discipline, patience, humility, and courage. It makes failure meaningful, effort valuable, and success earned. The hard path is where true people are made—people who understand that life’s challenges are not punishments, but opportunities. Opportunities to become better, stronger, wiser, and more capable. I never chose the easy path. I always chose the harder road, the one that tested me, the one that demanded effort, and the one that required me to face myself honestly. I walked through fear, doubt, exhaustion, and setbacks. I fell, and I got up. I failed, and I tried again. I cried, I questioned, I endured. And through it all, I became someone I could respect, someone who knew the value of persistence, someone who understood that hardship is not the enemy—it is the greatest teacher. Today, I measure success differently. I do not measure it by comfort, convenience, or ease. I measure it by growth, resilience, and the depth of self-respect I have cultivated. I measure it by how I faced challenges I could not ignore, how I embraced struggles that seemed unbearable, and how I refused to take shortcuts at the cost of my own becoming. I never chose the easy path. I chose the one that made me resilient. I chose the one that taught me self-respect. I chose the one that allowed me to become the person I am today. And if I had the choice again, I would choose the hard path every single time. Because the road of struggle is not only a journey—it is the making of a human being.writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq25 days ago in Motivation
“The Power Beneath a Mother’s Feet: The True Path to Success”
In a small village nestled between rolling hills and winding rivers, there lived a young boy named Ayaan. He was ambitious, curious, and had dreams that reached far beyond the boundaries of his little village. Every evening, Ayaan would sit under the old banyan tree near his home and gaze at the stars, imagining a life full of achievements and recognition.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq28 days ago in Motivation
“One Day, I Realized Nobody Was Coming to Save Me—So I Saved Myself”
For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq29 days ago in Motivation
The last candle burning
The village of Elnor had always been a place of light. Nestled in a quiet valley, the townsfolk celebrated life with festivals, lanterns, and laughter that echoed from the stone-paved streets. But one winter night, the skies turned gray, the winds howled with bitterness, and a heavy darkness fell upon the land. It was not the ordinary darkness of night, but a strange, living shadow that swallowed the stars, dimmed the moon, and smothered every lamp it touched.
By Ihtisham Ulhaqabout a month ago in Fiction
. "Positive Thoughts, Positive Life"
Introduction Every human being is shaped by the quality of his thoughts. Our actions, habits, and ultimately our destiny are deeply influenced by what we constantly feed into our minds. The saying “You are what you think” is not just a philosophical idea—it is a truth backed by psychology, science, and even spirituality. When a person fills his mind with positive, constructive, and uplifting thoughts, he attracts a better life. On the other hand, negative, fearful, or destructive thoughts create stress, failure, and unhappiness.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq2 months ago in Psyche
The journey beyond fear
Fear is one of the most powerful forces in human life. It has the ability to paralyze dreams, stop progress, and keep people trapped inside invisible cages. Yet, if we look closely, fear is not just an enemy—it is also a teacher. It challenges us, pushes us, and shows us where our limits are. The real question is not whether fear exists, but whether we are willing to walk beyond it. And this is where the idea of “Journey Beyond the Fear” begins.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq3 months ago in Motivation
