KAMRAN AHMAD
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Creative digital designer, lifelong learning & storyteller. Sharing inspiring stories on mindset, business, & personal growth. Let's build a future that matters_ one idea at a time.
Stories (195)
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The Night a Song Brought Me Back to Myself
I didn’t watch the special for the spectacle. I watched because I needed to hear the song again. Not the version from the movie trailer or the TikTok clip. The one that lived in my bones—the one I’d hummed under my breath during chemo, during layoffs, during the long winter after my divorce. The song that said: It’s okay to be different. It’s okay to fall. It’s okay to rise anyway.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in The Swamp
The Quiet That Follows the Applause
I didn’t cry at the end of Better Call Saul. I cried three days later, while washing dishes. The water was hot, the sponge worn thin, and suddenly—without warning—I saw Kim Wexler’s hands again. Not in the courtroom. Not in the finale. But in that tiny Albuquerque office, adjusting the blinds just so, trying to control one small thing in a world spinning out of her grasp.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Beat
The Day the Stadium Felt Like Church
I wasn’t born into fandom. I was adopted into it. At ten years old, I didn’t understand offside rules or midfield rotations. I only knew that every Sunday, my grandfather would take my hand, walk me three blocks to the edge of the stadium, and sit with me on a cracked concrete step—just outside the gates, where the roar of the crowd bled into the street like a hymn.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in The Swamp
Why We Watch the Fall
I’ve never worn gloves. But I’ve stood in my own ring. It was a rainy Tuesday in March. I sat across from a hiring panel, my résumé trembling in my hand, reciting answers I’d rehearsed for weeks. I’d been unemployed for eight months. My savings were gone. That job wasn’t just a paycheck—it was my lifeline. When they said, “We’ll be in touch,” I knew. The silence that followed wasn’t neutral. It was final.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Journal
The Boy Who Didn’t Look Away
I was seventeen the first time I saw someone truly lose—and not just lose, but lose in front of everyone. It was a school assembly. A poetry contest. My friend Mateo had spent weeks writing a piece about his mother’s hands—how they cracked from cleaning other people’s houses, how they still braided his little sister’s hair every morning before dawn. He stood at the mic, voice trembling at first, then rising like a song. For three minutes, the gym was silent. Then he finished. And no one clapped.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Journal
The Boy in the Rain
I didn’t go for the game. I went for my nephew. He’s twelve, wears a faded jersey two sizes too big, and talks about football like it’s scripture. “It’s not just running and tackling, Uncle,” he’d said, eyes wide. “It’s about heart. About who shows up when no one’s watching.”
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Geeks
The Night Football Felt Like Church
I’d never been to Lambeau Field. I wasn’t a diehard fan. I didn’t own a jersey. I couldn’t name the starting quarterback. But when my brother called in late November—voice hoarse from crying—he didn’t ask for advice. He just said, “Come with me to the game. I can’t go alone.”
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Journal
The Year I Watched the Light Fall
I didn’t plan to watch the countdown that year. 2025 had worn me thin—layoffs, loss, the kind of loneliness that makes even your own voice feel like a stranger. By December, I’d stopped believing in fresh starts. New Year’s Eve felt like a cruel joke: a world celebrating while I was just trying to survive the night.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Journal
The Night I Learned to Hope Again
I never believed in New Year’s Eve. For years, I called it a corporate fantasy—a glittery distraction sold to people who needed to believe time could be reset like a clock. I rolled my eyes at the countdowns, the fireworks, the forced resolutions. Hope, I thought, wasn’t something you found on a screen. It was something you earned in silence, alone.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Journal
The Boy Who Watched the Giant
I went to the game for my nephew. He’s ten, wears his hair in a messy bun, and talks about basketball like it’s poetry written in motion. “You gotta see him, Uncle,” he’d said the night before, bouncing on his toes. “He’s like a superhero who plays basketball.”
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in The Chain
The Night the World Held Its Breath
I don’t remember most New Year’s Eves. But I remember the one in 2020. The world was silent. Streets were empty. And yet, at 11:59 p.m., I sat alone on my couch, eyes fixed on a glowing sphere in a city I’d never visited, tears streaming as strangers on screen counted down to a year none of us were sure we’d survive.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Unbalanced
The Day the Roses Taught Me to Slow Down
I didn’t understand the Rose Parade as a child. To me, it was just pretty flowers on strange machines, marching bands in matching uniforms, and my grandfather’s insistence that we watch it every single January 1st, no matter what.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Unbalanced
