When transformation becomes a trophy.

There was a time, not too long ago, when I prided myself on how much I had “grown.” I spoke less, I listened more. I avoided gossip. I could name my emotions, trace my patterns, and even drop a few Sanskrit words in conversation. People said I was evolving. I believed them.

But one morning, over a quiet cup of tea, I caught a thought whispering at the back of my mind:
“Am I becoming wise, or just better at appearing wise?”

That question landed with a quiet thud—like a book falling from a high shelf, undisturbed for too long.

It’s strange how even the most sacred work of the soul can become a stage. How healing becomes a badge, how silence becomes a performance, how humility itself becomes an achievement to be polished and presented. We meditate, reflect, and let go—not always because we truly want to—but because it adds to the image we want to project: composed, conscious, in control.

And therein lies the vanity of inner work.

In today’s world, spirituality often comes with its own brand kit—incense, soft lighting, carefully curated emotions, and the casual mention of retreats or shadow work. Somewhere in this pursuit of “becoming,” we begin to curate our inner lives the way we curate social media feeds—highlighting what appears evolved, editing out what feels messy.

But real inner work is messy. It is not aesthetic. It rarely gives you closure on cue. And it certainly doesn’t make you superior.

True growth is silent. It doesn’t always result in words or wisdom. Sometimes, it just looks like pausing before reacting. Or choosing kindness when no one is watching. Or sitting with your own contradictions, without needing to fix or flaunt them.

Ego, ironically, doesn’t leave the room when we start meditating—it just changes costumes.

There’s no shame in wanting to grow. But there’s great clarity in asking why.
Are we trying to heal—or trying to appear healed?
Are we learning to surrender—or just learning the right words to sound spiritual?

The deepest shifts I’ve felt were not the ones I shared in conversations. They were the ones that made me quiet. Soft. Less certain.

They didn’t feel like success. They felt like being stripped bare. And somehow, in that bareness, I felt real.

So here’s what I remind myself now:
Inner work is not a trophy to display.
It’s a lifelong excavation journey of the unnecessary. A slow unclenching. A return.

Not to who we want the world to see.
But to who we were before the world told us who to be.

And in that quiet return, there is no vanity. Only peace.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

If something lingered in your heart while reading this letter, I’d love to hear from you.