Little by little
May 2025
We live in a world where every action ripples outward. Where everything we do, whether intentional or not, brings a series of reactions. There’s no escaping the consequences of our choices; the only real path is to face them as honestly as we can, hoping to grow with each step, not for anyone else, but for ourselves.
To be human is to make mistakes. We walk down paths with no guarantee of where they’ll lead. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes, we’re left disappointed or hurt. But growth isn’t measured by never falling, it’s measured by what we do with our missteps, by learning, adapting, and slowly becoming more of who we want to be.
This piece is the result of years spent trying to understand myself *1 : a journey through old wounds and tangled memories, many of which will take a lifetime to untangle. It also comes after countless conversations with my psychologist, each one an attempt to ground myself in the present when the past feels too heavy to bear. So much of who we are is shaped by situations we never chose, especially in childhood, experiences that rewire our nervous systems and shape how we love, cope, and connect.
For me, growing up meant learning that love was conditional and often inconsistent. I didn’t choose it, but I had to adapt: becoming agreeable, easy to please, hesitant to ask for too much, always quietly yearning for stability. When you grow up in uncertainty, you become acutely sensitive to the emotional temperature of every room. You notice shifts in energy, subtle changes in expression, and the unspoken needs of others before a word is said. I know what it’s like to want connection, but also feel smothered by it. That paradox can feel like protection, but really, it’s what kept me distant from the closeness I quietly needed.
With time, this heightened emotional awareness turns into a kind of superpower. Sometimes, it’s a blessing: you understand people deeply, offer support others might miss, and connect in ways that feel rare. But often, it’s a curse. Because feeling so much leaves you exposed, sometimes even to your own intuition, which can be startling in its accuracy and intensity.
Science backs this up*2 : Psychological research finds that people with anxious attachment often rooted in inconsistent or unpredictable caregiving, develop a heightened sensitivity to other’s emotions. This hypervigilance is a survival mechanism: when love feels uncertain, tuning in to every shift becomes a way to avoid rejection or loss. Studies have shown that anxiously attached people often score higher on measures of affective empathy and emotional reactivity. This means they tend to resonate deeply with other’s feelings, but it also comes at a cost: overwhelm, poor boundaries, and a habit of putting other’s needs before their own. Empathy, for us, is both gift and burden, a legacy of having to read the emotional weather just to feel safe.
Over the years, though, I’ve moved toward a more secure attachment. A decade ago, I was far more anxious than I am now, and I’m proud of that progress. The change didn’t happen overnight. It began by recognising my patterns, understanding both my own motives and those of others, and most importantly, learning to sit with discomfort, determined to grow for my own sake, not just to win approval.
It’s so easy to lash out, to project our fears and insecurities onto others instead of owning them. In my experience, it never brought me the peace I was searching for. The real work is pausing, asking ourselves why someone might act the way they do, and choosing compassion over blame.
I’ve never been someone who looks for flaws in others just to make sense of my discomfort. Instead, I’ve learned to ask, what part of me is being stirred up right now? What’s getting touched beneath the surface? Recently, I told my psychologist that I was feeling overwhelmed at my new job, like I was drowning before I even learned to swim. I expected strategies or stress management tips. Instead, they said something that stopped me cold: “It’s not the job, not really. It’s that a younger, unhealed part of you is being triggered by something that feels too big, too unsafe, just like it used to”. And it clicked. The job is hard, yes, but the panic? That wasn’t about the job. That was my past calling from inside the house. That moment reminded me that sometimes, our strongest emotional reactions aren’t about the present at all. They’re noises from the past.
***
When we ground ourselves, instead of building walls, we leave space for genuine connection and understanding. Communication brings clarity. It’s important to remember: never burn the bridges that might one day lead you home, and never force anyone to stay. People show us, in time, if they want to be in our lives.
Imagine someone brings home a bag full of grapes-crisp, sweet, the kind you secretly crave. It’s your favourite, a small gift that could make an ordinary day sing. But you live in a crowded house, and as you walk into the kitchen, you see the bag left alone on the counter. Scenario A: Someone you care about has brought the grapes, set them down, and slipped away. Now you’re left hovering, uncertain. Were they meant for you? Your intuition is whispering, yes, this was left just for you, but a familiar, anxious voice wonders, what if it wasn’t? Should you reach out, or just leave it alone?
Then there’s Scenario B: The same bag of grapes, but this time, a small note is tucked beside it saying “These are for you. I know how much you love them”. Suddenly, there’s no room for second-guessing, no anxious calculations. The joy is simple, the meaning is clear.
I’ve learned the hard way that a few extra words, like a simple note or gesture, can mean everything. I used to guess what people meant and get it wrong more often than not. These days, I try to say the thing clearly, even if my voice shakes. A few extra words from someone I loved once turned a confusing day into one I still remember clearly. That’s what clarity gave me, peace where there was noise. In these tangled dynamics, sometimes all it takes is a few extra words to transform uncertainty into trust, and fear into joy.
Our attachment styles never fully disappear. Sometimes, stepping back is a form of care. Not a rejection, but a reset. Life will always trigger our unhealed parts, pulling us back toward old insecurities. But self-awareness gives us a way back to ourselves. So that when we’re triggered, we don’t let it dictate our actions or spill our pain onto others. Our attachment style is never an excuse to project our wounds; it’s our responsibility to heal and grow.
When someone opens up to you, even just a little, cherish it. Because it may have taken all their strength to be that vulnerable. But vulnerability goes both ways: it’s also our job to speak up, to share what matters, and not leave others guessing. Guesswork breeds misunderstanding. I’ve spent years hoping someone would just know what I was feeling without me having to say it. Spoiler: they didn’t. Turns out, even people who love you need you to speak.
I used to think silence would keep the peace, but it mostly just made people guess wrong about what I needed. Saying something clearly, especially when it’s hard, turned out to be a better way to care. Start small if you must, but as you find the right people, you’ll learn what it is to feel truly heard. When we feel safe enough to speak clearly, understanding tends to follow.
My career is research, but at heart it’s also a search for understanding of myself and others. Still, you don’t have to be a psychologist or detective to communicate clearly. Emotions aren’t puzzles to decode; messages should be simple. It takes courage to speak plainly, especially when you’ve spent a lifetime adapting. Even a small effort to be understood, when it feels right, can go a long way. Asking for clarification isn’t too much, it’s not an attack. Sometimes, our bodies and minds react from old wounds, but seeking clarity is how we grow.
It’s completely understandable that even the smallest act of communication can sometimes feel impossibly heavy, so much so that it makes you want to shut down. I’ve struggled with this more times than I care to admit. But over the years, by taking things step by step, it doesn’t feel quite as overwhelming anymore.
Little by little, I’ve learned how to express my feelings clearly and openly, without leaving room for confusion or misunderstanding. I try not to create situations where someone else has to guess what I meant or read between the lines. Now, when I communicate, there’s zero hidden meaning. Just honesty and a willingness to be understood.
Every day now, I try to move forward letting go of old fears and working not to be held hostage by my past or my insecurities. Recognising our faults doesn’t make us weak. When someone struggles, try to see where they’re coming from, rather than taking it as a personal attack.
I am a man with many imperfections, but my intent is simple: to keep learning and growing, not to prove a point, but to live more honestly, and to love a little better each day. No matter our attachment style or how long we’ve lived with it, change is possible. Sometimes all it takes is a willingness to try, little by little.
Afterword: I’m Still Learning
A common myth, almost a silent law, whispers that if we get too close, something will break. We freeze at the threshold, letting fear guard the door, and never discover the beauty that waits on the other side. But what if we risked it? What if we allowed the beauty and the beast to live side by side? knowing that sometimes, it is the beast within us, the ache and the trembling, that coaxes the dead rose to bloom red again? Vulnerability isn’t danger; emotion is not a trap. They are the colour behind the thorns, the beauty that only emerges when we dare to turn the rose red.
I love my independence, every hard-won piece of it. Much of my life has been a lesson in self-sufficiency, in standing tall without waiting for someone else to steady me. I treasure this strength. Yet even the strongest roots crave the sunlight of closeness. There is a quiet ache in many of us: the longing to draw near, and the fear that intimacy means losing ourselves. But real closeness is not a theft; it is a partnership. We do not lose our independence by letting someone in. We protect it, together, and build a new kind of freedom. One where we celebrate our own small victories and also share laughter, time, and meaning. I have come to call it “independently depend”. We stand on our own, but presence matters. We need someone beside us. Not to complete us, but to witness the journey and share the load.
I know, intimately, what it means to crave safety. To grow up dreaming of love that would not disappear at the first crack in the foundation. To long, always, for the chance to show what safe love could feel like. Gentle. Warm. Steadfast. Not everyone gets that chance. Not everyone knows how to receive it when it finally arrives. Even now, I sometimes feel overwhelmed by connection. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’m broken. Just cautious.
What I’m still figuring out: sometimes, someone quietly matters, in a way that lingers. If we notice that, maybe just once, we can see what happens if we don’t let fear make all the decisions. It doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t happen without effort. But step by uncertain step, little by little, we begin to let our reservations slip aside. Healing comes not in one grand gesture, but in the quiet, consistent effort to show up, to try, to trust. That’s when the rose turns red. That’s when everything begins.
These are the reminders I come back to when things feel unclear:
If we hope to be understood, we can choose clarity ~ little by little.
If we need something, it’s okay to let it be known, even in small ways.
If we need attention or space, a quiet word or gesture is enough.
If we wish to be seen, simply showing up, even imperfectly, is a start.
When we feel hurt, perhaps we can try to share it, when the time feels right.
If confusion finds us, reaching for understanding can help ~ even gently.
When we make mistakes, acknowledging them softly is a way forward.
If we care, sometimes the smallest act is more than enough.
When we feel afraid, it’s all right to name it, or just let it be seen.
If gratitude stirs in us, even a simple word can say much.
When we need support, reaching out—however quietly ~ is an act of courage.
If we long to connect, listening can be as powerful as speaking.
Clarity | Care | Consistency – offered gently, not demanded.
Growth doesn’t happen all at once, and neither does understanding. But a little more clarity, a little more care, and a little more consistency, offered gently, can quietly change everything.
by Avik Nandy
*1 The stories shared here don’t adhere to any specific timeframe; rather, they have unfolded across various chapters of my life, each resonating with the authenticity of my personal experiences.
*2 These facts are based on scientific research, surveys, and desktop studies conducted by mental health professionals, coaches, and experts in the field, offering a comprehensive understanding of the complexities of narcissistic behavior in various contexts.
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