I am sure we all have heard about ‘the moment’ when everything fell apart. The breaking point. The rock bottom story. The staggering, profound realization on one fine day when you say, “Life cannot be this – this bad, this low, this… this…“

But that’s not how it happened for me.

There was no dramatic Tuesday at 2.47 pm where everything fell apart. No single crisis that made me realize I needed to change.

Instead, joy leaked out so slowly I didn’t notice until it was already gone.

I used to be the person who found magic in the smallest things. A surprise rainbow during my commute. An unexpected butterfly in the backyard. The way rays of sun spread from clouds. These tiny moments were enough to put a big smile on my face, to carry me through whatever the day brought.

But somewhere along the way—I can’t tell exactly when—things started losing their color. Losing their meaning.

The rainbows were still there. I just stopped seeing them.

My energy dimmed. And all I wanted to do was escape.

So I chased things. When work became predictable and my daughters grew more independent, I tried to fill that space with creative projects. I taught myself Adobe Illustrator. Launched a digital stamps business. Built a presence in the greeting cards space. More paper crafting tools. New techniques to master. I drowned myself in doing, in learning, in more.

At first, it felt good. Creative. Purposeful.

But slowly—there’s that word again—it all became just one more thing to do.

Got on Social Media for the creative business and at first loved it! A creative outlet. A community – amazing, like minded humans who also wanted to create! It was so much fun.

But then I started feeling like an outsider. An imposter. Everyone else seemed to have it figured out. I was just… performing.

Life threw some curveballs around this time – with my health and also of my loved ones.

I thought I needed more discipline, better planning, smarter tools. If I could just do/fix/make/create – this one more thing – things would be better.

I tried the usual things. Self-help courses. Planners. Productivity systems. Each one promised to be the answer – to get things done.

Each one became another task on an already overwhelming list.

But slowly realized a lot of things – the biggest one being that ‘I cannot do / fix / make / create everything’.

My body was telling me something was wrong too, but I kept pushing. Because that’s what I do, right? I push through. I keep going. I handle it. I am strong.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

I found myself talking to my Kanhaji and literally crying with just my dialog with him.

The universe started nudging me then—again and again—to look inward. To journal. To stop filling the void with more and start examining what was actually in there. Call it divine intervention or miracles of modern technology – but ‘journaling’ kept surfacing in front of me from anything like an Instagram Post to a casual conversation among friends.

I started scribbling. Random thoughts at first. Nothing profound. Just… noticing patterns. Because that’s how I think.

Somewhere in there I started asking myself ‘what did I want my today to feel like’? Writing down what I wanted. Intentions for the day. Not grand goals—just what matters today?

And at the end of the day, I’d reflect. What happened? What felt good? What didn’t? What do I want to carry into tomorrow?

That’s where the rhythm was born.

Morning intentions feeding into evening reflections. Daily insights building into weekly patterns. Not restrictions. Not one more rigid system to fail at. Just… rhythm. Small but more or less consistent. Structure that moves with life instead of against it. Lot of grace for falling off the wagon every now and then.

The retrospection piece? I borrowed that from my work in IT with Agile teams. We’d do sprint retrospectives—what worked, what didn’t, what do we adjust? It was so powerful for work. Why wasn’t I doing it for my life?

This is how Six & Three came to be. Not from a dramatic breaking point, but from a thousand small moments of noticing. Of choosing. Of building something that felt like breathing instead of drowning.

One intention at a time. One reflection at a time. One conscious choice at a time. Because joy doesn’t come back all at once. It seeps back in slowly, the same way it left.

If you’re reading this and thinking “I used to find joy in small things too”—you’re not alone.

If you’re running on empty but still showing up for everyone else—I see you.

If you’re tired of systems that feel like one more thing on your list—me too.

This is where we start. Not with perfection. Not with having it all together.

Just with noticing. With rhythm. With choosing what matters today.

The color comes back. I promise.

It’s already starting to, for me.

What about you? When did you last notice joy fading? Or feeling empty inside despite posting drool-worthy updates of all the ‘right’ moments on social media? Maybe you’re in that space right now. I’d love to hear—hit reply or leave a comment. You’re not alone in this.

Or maybe you have already conquered it. Tell me what worked, how you did it. I’d like to learn.

Hugs!
~Varada