The Prison Without Bars

Twenty-six years.

That's how long Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov spent in prison for a crime he never committed.

Before you continue reading this blog, I have one small request.

Please read Leo Tolstoy's short story, God Sees the Truth, But Waits.

It's a short read.

I'll wait.

...

Finished?

Good.

When I first read the story, I thought it was about injustice.

An innocent man.

A false accusation.

A broken justice system.

Twenty-six years stolen from a man who did nothing wrong.

Like everyone else, I felt sorry for Aksionov.

Then I closed the book.

But one thing refused to leave my mind.

It wasn't the prison.

It wasn't the verdict.

It wasn't even the man who betrayed him—Makar Semyonich.

It was the number.

Twenty-six years.

Twenty-six years is enough time to watch a son or daughter become an adult.

Enough time to forget the sound of your younger self.

Enough time to become someone you never intended to be.

That's when a question quietly entered my mind.

What if Aksionov never really left the story?

Not as one man.

But as millions of us.

No, I'm not comparing our lives to Aksionov's suffering.

Nothing can compare to the injustice he endured.

But I do believe every generation has its own prison.

Aksionov's prison had walls.

Ours rarely does.

Most of us believe we're free.

We wake up.

We go wherever we want.

We earn.

We spend.

We make plans.

We celebrate promotions.

We post smiling photographs.

Freedom seems obvious.

Until we ask one uncomfortable question.

Did we truly choose this life?

Or did we simply inherit it?

Before we're old enough to understand life, someone has already planned it for us.

Study well.

Get into a good college.

Find a respectable job.

Earn well.

Get married.

Buy a house.

Have children

Keep climbing.

Retire.

None of these are wrong.

Many people genuinely dream of this life.

But dreams become prisons the moment they stop being ours.

Somewhere between expectations and responsibilities, choices slowly become obligations.

Then obligations become habits.

And one day we wake up realizing we're no longer choosing.

We're simply continuing.

The strange thing about invisible prisons is that nobody forces us inside.

We walk in ourselves.

Sometimes because we're afraid.

Sometimes because everyone around us tells us,

''This is what a successful life looks like."

And after hearing it long enough...

we stop questioning whether it's true.

Some wanted to become musicians.

Some dreamt of writing novels.

Some wanted to teach.

Some wanted to travel the world.

Some wanted to build a small café by the sea.

Some wanted to pursue research.

Some simply wanted a quieter life.

Instead, they chose what made sense.

Not because they lacked talent.

Not because they lacked ambition.

But because certainty felt safer than uncertainty.

Money felt safer than dreams.

Approval felt safer than authenticity.

Security felt safer than purpose.

Slowly...

another prison was built.

Not with stone.

Not with iron.

But with expectations.

Sometimes the prison isn't built by society.

Sometimes it's built by love.

A father gives up his dream because his children deserve better.

A mother buries her ambitions because someone has to hold the family together.

A son or daughter postpones their happiness because their parents depend on them.

These sacrifices are not failures.

They deserve respect.

This isn't a blog asking people to abandon responsibility.

Responsibility gives life meaning.

But responsibility should never demand the complete disappearance of the person carrying it.

Somewhere while taking care of everyone else...

many of us quietly stop taking care of ourselves.

Then comes fear.

Perhaps the strongest prison ever built.

Fear of failing.

Fear of disappointing our parents.

Fear of earning less.

Fear of hearing relatives ask,

"Why would you leave such a good job?"

Fear of beginning again.

Fear of being judged.

Fear convinces us to stay where we are.

Not because we're happy.

Because we're comfortable.

And comfort has a dangerous habit of disguising itself as contentment.

The saddest prisons aren't the ones that lock you inside.

They're the ones that convince you you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

It took Aksionov twenty-six years to discover the real thief, Makar Semyonich.

By then, those years could never be returned.

I wonder how many people spend their twenties saying,

"I'll do it later."

How many spend their thirties saying,

"Maybe after this promotion."

How many reach their forties only to realize that the life they postponed...

became the only life they ever lived.

Not because someone imprisoned them.

But because fear quietly became the guard standing at the door.

Maybe that's why Tolstoy's story still feels timeless.

Every generation has its own prison.

Aksionov's prison was built with stone.

Ours is built with borrowed dreams.

The difference?

People felt sorry for Aksionov.

People congratulate us.

They admire our salary.

They celebrate our promotions.

They compliment the house we've built.

The car we drive.

The title on our business card.

Very few stop to ask the question that matters most.

"Are you happy?"

But this is where our story becomes different from Aksionov's.

He never held the key to his prison.

His freedom depended on another man's confession.

On a justice system that had already failed him.

On time that never returned what it had taken.

We are more fortunate than he ever was.

Our prisons may be invisible...

but they were never locked.

Some of us stay because of fear.

Some because of responsibility.

Some because we believe it's too late to begin again.

Some because we've mistaken comfort for freedom.

And some...

because we've forgotten that the door was never closed.

Maybe the key isn't quitting your job.

Maybe it isn't becoming rich.

Maybe it isn't running away from responsibility.

Maybe the key is something much simpler.

Having the courage to define success for yourself.

Having the courage to disappoint expectations.

Having the courage to begin again.

Having the courage to protect a small part of yourself that still remembers what it once dreamed of becoming.

Perhaps that's the only difference between Aksionov and us.

He spent twenty-six years waiting for someone else to open his prison door.

We don't have to wait.

Because unlike Aksionov...

the key has never belonged to society.

It never belonged to our parents.

It never belonged to our employer.

It never belonged to fear.

It has always been in our hands.

The only question is...

How many years will pass before we realize we're holding it?

Hopefully, not twenty-six.

“A Life in Draft Mode”

Some of us just can’t commit—to careers, hobbies, or even which course to finish on Coursera. Our browsers are graveyards of half-completed course tabs and “maybe later” tutorials. We fall in love with ideas too easily: storytelling one day, science the next. Our minds wander through the worlds of design, healing, nature, and art like tourists on a never-ending trip.

Last week, it was poster designing. This week? Starting a business sounds thrilling. And please, don’t ask us what we want to do with our lives—we’re still trying to decide what to have for dinner.

There’s a whole group of people like this—people who are endlessly curious. People who light up when they learn something new, who get excited by ideas, who don’t want to be stuck in one role forever.

And yet, when it’s time to choose, we freeze.
Because how do you pick just one thing when so many things feel exciting, meaningful, and worth doing?

No matter what we choose, it feels like we’re leaving something else behind.

We grow up hearing things like “Find your passion” or “Stick to one goal”—as if the only right path is a straight one. As if not knowing is a weakness. As if changing your mind is failure.

But what if not choosing just one thing doesn’t mean you’re lost—what if it means you're still exploring?

Here’s the truth: feeling uncertain isn’t a flaw. It’s a sign that you care. That you want to make the right choice. That you’re aware of how many possibilities exist—and that you’re open to growth.

It’s also a reminder that you don’t need to have it all figured out.
Life isn’t a blueprint—it’s a draft. Something we’re constantly editing, rewriting, and learning from as we go.

Many of us have felt guilty for not having a dream job or a five-year plan. We’ve tried to squeeze ourselves into roles that didn’t quite fit. We’ve wondered if we’re wasting time because we haven’t "settled."

But if your mind is alive with ideas, your heart drawn in different directions, and your soul still searching—that’s not a problem. That’s part of your magic.

Being unsettled doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re evolving.

Maybe you won’t have just one calling. Maybe your life will come in seasons—each one different, each one with something to teach you. Maybe you’ll never “arrive” in the traditional sense.
Instead, you’ll build a life that’s flexible, creative, and entirely your own.

And maybe, that’s the point.

So here’s to the ones who haven’t chosen yet. The ones still figuring it out. The ones with too many dreams and not enough lifetimes. You’re not broken. You’re simply made of many things—and that’s a beautiful way to be.

In a world that tells us to pick one path, one label, one definition of success—it’s easy to feel out of place when your heart belongs to many. But not finding satisfaction in a single thing doesn’t mean you’re lost. It might just mean you’re meant to explore.

Some people find joy in depth. Others thrive in breadth. Having multiple passions—and a hunger for more—isn’t a flaw. It’s the mark of a curious, evolving mind.

Fulfillment doesn’t always come from stillness. Sometimes, it comes from movement. From variety. From the freedom to reinvent yourself again and again.

You don’t have to fit into one mold. You’re allowed to be a work in progress—
a mosaic of experiences, a story that’s still being written.

And maybe, just maybe, the search itself is the satisfaction.

"Navigating New Routes of Life"

Chaos, if it had a physical form, would be this city. About 100 kilometers away from her peaceful hometown, it stood as a stark contrast to everything she knew. Her new career demanded constant travel, and navigating this urban jungle proved to be quite an experience.

In the initial days, exhaustion was her constant companion. Accustomed to the serene rhythm of her small city and the familiar comfort of her Activa rides to university, the sheer pandemonium here felt overwhelming. She missed the gentle hum of her scooter, the familiar routes from campus to home. The crowded buses and trains were a mind-boggling assault on her senses. Learning the routes was a challenge, a series of wrong turns leading to expensive auto rides and a persistent sense of being utterly lost. Yet, with each wrong turn, she discovered a mini-adventure, a hidden corner of the city she wouldn’t have otherwise seen.

Traveling alone forced her to be more observant and independent. She began to appreciate the small moments, the fleeting beauty of the everyday. She became a silent observer, piecing together fragments of lives unfolding around her. Each person on the bus, on the train, had a story.

One day, she witnessed a poignant scene: an elderly woman, clearly disoriented, boarded the bus, unsure of her destination. She learned that the woman was mentally unstable, abandoned by her children. In that moment, a stranger stepped forward, offering help and guidance. It was a stark reminder that good humans do exist, even amidst the chaos. That moment, she felt a sharp pang of longing for her parents, her little sister, and her best friends.

Especially her best friend from school. They used to travel together, a familiar routine of picking her up and dropping her off after university. She missed those beautiful, simple days. Suddenly, she was thrust into a world where she had to navigate everything alone. Even the smallest tasks felt daunting. But these past few days had taught her so much. She had adapted, and surprisingly, she had started to appreciate the same chaotic city that once overwhelmed her. She found a strange comfort in the rhythm of the trains and buses.

And even when traveling alone, she was discovering that connection was always possible. She had formed bonds with a few colleagues, finding solace in shared experiences. Looking back, she never thought she’d say this, but she began to enjoy the solo travel she initially dreaded. The chaos that once intimidated her now felt like a vibrant energy, and she was excited to see what this city had in store.