When Kabir was a child, his parents would warn him about the dark cave. "Never go inside," they said. "It’s dangerous, it’s full of unknown horrors." Being the good boy that he was, he obeyed. He stayed outside, believing that they were keeping him safe. But now, as a young adult, he stood at its entrance, realizing the real danger had never been inside the cave—it had always been in the hands that kept him from entering.
Kabir had always been the good boy. The obedient son. The one who listened, nodded, and molded himself into whatever his parents needed him to be. From a young age, he learned that love came at a price—his silence, his sacrifices, his submission.
His parents were his world, but they never truly saw him. They only saw what he could provide: validation, obedience, endless loyalty. They spoke in burdens, in tales of their struggles, in debts that Kabir never incurred but was made to repay. They praised him when he agreed, when he served, when he erased himself. But the moment he dared to ask for anything—be it space, an opinion, or a dream of his own—he became selfish, ungrateful, undeserving.
"We have done everything for you," they would say, their voices heavy with guilt-tripping sorrow. "And this is how you repay us?"
The weight of their words settled deep inside him, like shackles bound to his very existence. He believed them. He believed he owed them his life. He believed that any act of self-assertion was betrayal. The love he longed for, the unconditional kind, was always just out of reach, always tied to whether or not he played his role right.
But now, Kabir stood at the edge of something new. Adulthood had given him a mind of his own, a voice, a hunger to explore the world beyond the cage they had built. And yet—something stopped him. Something made his feet heavy, his breath shallow, his heart clenched in invisible fear.
What if they were right?
What if the world was as dark and dangerous as they warned? What if he was nothing without them? What if stepping away made him cruel, heartless?
And yet, another voice, quieter but persistent, whispered inside him: Why am I afraid?
If love is unconditional, why does it feel so fragile? If they truly cared, why does it feel like my freedom is a threat to them? Why do I feel guilty for simply existing as myself?
He looked deeper. The fear wasn’t of the world—it was of losing them. Of being abandoned. Of realizing that the love he had spent his whole life chasing was not the kind that would ever set him free.
And then, the truth hit him: I was not born to be their servant.
But how does one unlearn a lifetime of conditioning? How does one break free from toxic love, from trauma bonds that feel like home? Kabir knew it would not be easy, but he also knew he could not stay. He had to take charge of his life.
So he asked himself:
What am I truly afraid of? Is it the unknown, or is it the loss of what never truly existed?
What would I do if I knew I was loved unconditionally, no matter what?
Who am I outside of their expectations?
Can I be okay if they never understand me, never approve of me?
Am I ready to meet the stranger I have never known—myself?
The silence, the taunts, the disappointment—they had been his reality for so long. But they were not his truth. He did not have to seek their approval anymore. He did not need permission to walk into the dark cave and see what was inside.
He did not need to forgive. He did not need to forget. He only needed to choose: Will I keep living for them, or will I start living for me?
The answer was clear.
And so, he took a step forward. Out of guilt. Out of obligation. Out of the invisible cord that had bound him for too long.
For the first time in his life, Kabir was free.
And he owed it to himself.
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