DEV Community: Shreyansh Jain

My Ego Ran Faster Than My Legs Did

Shreyansh Jain — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 06:12:15 +0000

I remember this one run, clear as day. It was a Tuesday evening, a slight drizzle, and I was trying to beat my personal best on a two-mile loop near my house. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, and that familiar side stitch started to pinch just below my ribs. I pushed harder. "Just a little further," I told myself, grimacing. By the time I stumbled back to my door, completely winded and vaguely nauseous, I felt more defeated than accomplished.

For years, that was my running philosophy. Every single run had to be a personal challenge, a race against myself. If I wasn't gasping for air and feeling utterly drained at the end, I figured I hadn't really "worked out." I mean, what was the point otherwise, right? I saw those super speedy runners gliding along and thought, "That's how it's done. You gotta push." And honestly, my ego played a big part. I wanted to see faster times on my watch, always.

This led to a predictable cycle. I'd have a few intensely hard runs, feel completely wiped out for days, maybe get a twinge in my knee, and then just stop. For a week. Or two. Then the guilt would kick in, and I'd go out and do it all over again, hard and fast, only to crash and burn once more. It was exhausting, literally and figuratively.

Then something shifted. I was reading a running forum, just scrolling through, and someone mentioned "easy runs." I scoffed. Easy? What's easy going to do? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized my current approach wasn't exactly getting me anywhere. I was always tired, never consistent, and frankly, I didn't actually enjoy running that much. It felt like a chore.

So, I decided to try it. Just one run, where I actively tried not to push. It felt so weird. My legs wanted to go faster, my brain kept screaming, "You're being lazy!" I felt like I was just shuffling along, barely breaking a sweat. It was uncomfortable in a totally different way. I worried people watching would think I wasn't even trying.

But then, a funny thing happened. The next day, I didn't feel like I'd been hit by a truck. My legs felt pretty good, actually. So I went out again, and did another "easy" run. And another. Soon, I was running more days a week than I ever had before. I wasn't constantly dreading my next run. My body wasn't protesting quite so loudly.

It clicked. Running easy wasn't about being lazy. It was about building a base, enjoying the movement, and letting my body actually recover. It sounds obvious now, but it was a revelation. I remember digging deeper into why this "easy" pace was so effective, and I found a really helpful breakdown of the research and benefits on the topic, which explained a lot. It was called something like 'Why Most of Your Running Should Be Easy: The Case for Recovery Runs' and it really put things into perspective for me. You can check it out here: https://url.shrynshjn.com/L2FTGRT

Now, most of my runs are exactly that: easy. I still have days where I push, sure, but those are the exception, not the rule. I actually look forward to my runs now. I notice things on my route, listen to podcasts, sometimes just enjoy the quiet. My times aren't shattering any records, but I'm consistent, I'm rarely injured, and most importantly, I like running. Who knew that slowing down was the fastest way to get where I wanted to be?

The Week I Swore My Scale Was Broken (It Wasn't)

Shreyansh Jain — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 04:54:32 +0000

Another morning, another stare-down with the bathroom scale. You know the drill. You wake up, do your thing, then tentatively step on that little plastic rectangle, holding your breath a bit. This particular morning, I was feeling pretty good, actually. I'd been good, you know? Like, really good.

For a solid two weeks, I'd been eating my veggies, mostly skipping the office donut tray (a Herculean feat, trust me), and even dragging myself to the gym a few times a week. I felt lighter, moved easier, and my jeans, bless their cotton hearts, felt a little less like they were trying to strangle my thighs. I was sure, absolutely positive, that this was the morning I'd see a nice, satisfying dip in that number.

But the scale? Oh, that little digital villain. It just sat there. The same number. To the tenth of a pound. The exact. Same. Number. It was like it was actively mocking me, humming a little tune that went, "You're still here, huh? Didn't get the memo?"

I stepped off. Stepped on again. Tilted my head. Shifted my weight. Did a little jig. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was stuck. Frozen in time, or perhaps just stubbornly refusing to acknowledge my valiant efforts. I even moved it to a different part of the bathroom tile, just in case my usual spot had some sort of gravitational anomaly that was secretly adding five pounds. Nope. Still the same.

Frustration bubbled up fast. Was I doing something wrong? Was all this effort, all this saying "no thank you" to pizza night, all this sweating on a treadmill, just... for nothing? The little voice in my head, the mean one, started getting really loud around then. "See? You always fail. What's the point? Just eat the cake. You deserve it after all this disappointment."

I won't lie, I almost caved that day. Seriously considered ordering a gigantic pizza and watching bad reality TV. But for some reason, maybe just stubbornness, I didn't. I stuck to my plan, grumbling about it all day, sure, but I stuck to it. And the next morning? Same number. The day after? You guessed it. The exact. Same. Number.

It went on like that for another few days. I just kind of gave up on the scale. Stepped on it out of habit, but without any expectation, figuring it was just broken anyway. Then, one random Tuesday, completely out of the blue, after zero changes on my part, after I'd basically given up on the scale entirely and was just focusing on how my clothes fit, I stepped on it. And boom. A number I hadn't seen in months. A real drop. Not just a little wiggle, but a proper, "what just happened?" kind of drop.

It was wild. Made me realize how much I was letting that single number dictate my mood and my belief in myself. It also made me curious. Why did it just sit there, pretending to be broken, then suddenly dive? Later, I stumbled across a pretty interesting breakdown of how the body holds onto water weight and what's sometimes called the "whoosh effect." You can read more about it here: https://url.shrynshjn.com/r5sjNyH

Anyway, my main takeaway from that whole frustrating saga wasn't a magic trick or a new diet. It was just... keep going. Trust your body, trust the process, even when the data (or lack thereof) is frustrating. The scale is a tool, not your judge and jury. And sometimes, it just needs a minute (or a week, or two) to catch up.

The Time I Tried to Meditate and Just Got More Stressed

Shreyansh Jain — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 08:41:20 +0000

My phone's meditation app, with its soothing voice and even more soothing background chimes, felt less like a guide and more like a gentle interrogator. There I was, cross-legged on my squeaky office chair, trying desperately to focus on my breath. But all I could hear was the frantic hum of my own thoughts, like a hundred tiny hamsters running on wheels inside my head. And the deadline for that client project. And the dishes in the sink. And that weird sound the fridge was making.

“Just notice your thoughts, and let them pass like clouds,” the voice advised. Clouds? My thoughts were more like a Category 5 hurricane, tearing through my mental landscape. I’d try to gently usher one thought away, and three more would barge in, demanding attention. Is this supposed to be relaxing? Because I was clenching my jaw so hard my teeth hurt, and my shoulders were practically touching my ears.

Everyone, absolutely everyone, online and in real life, was saying meditation was the answer to stress. And boy, was I stressed. My life felt like a perpetual balancing act on a unicycle made of jello. So, I downloaded the app, committed to ten minutes a day, and braced myself for inner peace. What I got instead was ten minutes of internal wrestling, followed by a wave of self-recrimination. “You can’t even sit still for ten minutes,” my inner critic sneered. “You’re doing it wrong. You’re failing at relaxing.” Which, naturally, made me even more stressed.

After a week of these torturous ten-minute bouts, I quit. I decided I just wasn't the meditation type. My brain was too loud, too busy, too… me. I felt like I had tried to run a marathon without training, stumbled at the first step, and declared myself a permanent couch potato. It was disheartening, to say the least, to fail at the one thing everyone promised would make me feel better.

It took a while, and a lot of continued stress, before I started to think about it differently. Maybe the goal wasn't to stop thinking, or to eliminate stress with a magic switch. Maybe the struggle wasn't a sign of failure, but just… part of it. I slowly realized that my problem wasn't the meditation itself, but my expectations. I wanted a quick fix, a pill for peace, a guaranteed calm delivered in ten minutes or less.

I even came across an interesting article that broke down what research actually says about meditation and stress, and it clarified a lot of my misconceptions. It was a good reality check, helping me understand that it is not necessarily a magic bullet for all types of stress. You can find it here: https://url.shrynshjn.com/yPBsmnN

These days, I still don't meditate every day. And when I do, my brain is usually still a busy place. But I've stopped seeing my racing thoughts as enemies to be vanquished. Instead, I just notice them, sometimes with a little sigh, sometimes with a wry smile. It's less about fixing myself and more about just being with what is, even if 'what is' is a chaotic mess. It's not perfect, but it feels a lot less stressful than trying to force my brain into submission.

I thought 'just breathe' was useless, then a bug pushed me to my limit

Shreyansh Jain — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 08:39:24 +0000

It was 2 AM, and the staging environment was red. Not a friendly, 'everything's fine' kind of red, but a screaming, 'your deployment just broke everything' kind of red. My heart was doing a frantic little jig in my chest, and my shoulders, well, they were practically fused to my ears. You know the feeling, that cold dread spreading through your stomach, the way your thoughts start racing a million miles an hour, all screaming different versions of 'you messed up big time'.

I'd heard the advice a thousand times, usually delivered by well-meaning friends or overly cheerful wellness articles: "Just breathe." And every single time, I'd mentally roll my eyes so hard they almost got stuck. "Just breathe?" I'd scoff internally. Lady, I'm breathing! It's just very fast, and very shallow, and doing absolutely nothing to stop this impending doom. It felt like telling someone to "just walk it off" after they'd just broken their leg. Useless. Patronizing, even.

But that night, staring at lines of code that refused to compile, sweating through my t-shirt in a cold apartment, something snapped. Or rather, something didn't snap, which was the whole point. I was about two seconds away from just slamming my laptop shut and pretending none of it ever happened. In a moment of sheer, unadulterated desperation, I remembered something vague about slow breathing. No fancy techniques, no counting, just… trying to breathe slower.

So I tried it. I pulled my hands away from the keyboard, leaned back, and just focused on my breath. One slow inhale, one slow exhale. It felt awkward. It felt silly. My brain was still yelling at me about the red staging environment. But I kept going. Maybe five breaths. Maybe ten. It wasn't a magic trick. The bug didn't magically fix itself. The red lines didn't turn green. But something else happened.

The frantic edge, that sharp, panicky feeling, it softened. Just a little. It was like turning the volume down on the internal screaming from a ten to, maybe, an eight. I could still hear the screaming, but it wasn't quite as deafening. Enough to think for a second. Enough to take my hands off my ears, so to speak.

That tiny, almost imperceptible shift, it stuck with me. It wasn't about being perfectly calm, it was about creating a tiny bit of space between the panic and my reaction. I started trying it sometimes. Before a big meeting. When I felt overwhelmed by my to-do list. When I couldn't sleep. Most times, it felt like I was just doing it because I 'should', not because it was helping. But every now and then, I'd get that little bit of space again.

It made me curious, honestly. Why did something so simple, so seemingly ineffective, actually make a tiny difference? I ended up stumbling across a really good article that broke down the science behind it, how it ties into things like your vagus nerve and heart rate variability. If you're curious about the mechanics, it's a super clear explanation and it really helped me understand what was going on under the hood: https://url.shrynshjn.com/PrCgze5

I'm still not a Zen master. My shoulders still creep up towards my ears when I'm stressed, and I still get that familiar rush of panic. But now, I have this small, quiet tool. It's not about making everything perfect, or even making the stress go away. It's just about giving myself a moment, a tiny pause, to stop the brain-melting before it really takes hold. And sometimes, that's enough.

My Midnight Snack Problem: Or, How I Accidentally Broke My Fast (Again)

Shreyansh Jain — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 02:17:37 +0000

The kitchen light was off, but the refrigerator glowed a familiar, comforting hum. It was almost 11 PM. My fasting window, according to the app on my phone, was supposed to start at 7 PM. That meant I had officially been 'fasting' for approximately four hours. Which, for the record, is not a fast. That's just dinner with a slightly early bedtime for my stomach.

I stood there, peering in at a half-eaten container of leftover pasta. It had been a long day. A really, truly long day. And my brain, bless its hungry little heart, had decided that pasta was the answer to all my existential woes. It happens, right?

I’d first dipped my toes into the whole "healthy eating" pool a few years back with calorie counting. My God, the spreadsheets. The endless logging. Every almond, every splash of milk in my coffee, meticulously typed in. It felt like a part-time job, and frankly, I'm already pretty bad at my actual part-time jobs (like remembering to water the plants). I'd last about a month, feel like a math major in training, and then give up, usually with a grand farewell feast that undid all my hard work.

Then I heard about intermittent fasting. The idea sounded revolutionary. "Just don't eat for a certain window!" people cheered. "No tracking! No counting! Just not eating!" My brain, ever the optimist, immediately thought, "Aha! The cheat code to life!" I pictured myself effortlessly gliding through mornings, feeling energized and lean, sipping black coffee like some kind of wellness guru.

The reality, naturally, was less glamorous. My first few weeks were a comedy of errors. I'd set my window, usually from noon to 8 PM. Great in theory. But then 9 AM would roll around, and my stomach, apparently unaware of the new dietary rules, would start staging a full-on protest. A rumbling, gurgling, "FEED ME NOW" kind of protest. I'd try to distract myself with work, or a particularly compelling YouTube video about cat training, but eventually, the siren song of toast would win.

The late-night struggles were even worse. My partner and I usually unwind on the couch after our son goes to bed. Often, that involves a shared bag of chips, or maybe some ice cream. It’s our little ritual, our quiet moment. And more often than not, I'd completely forget my 8 PM cutoff. One chip would lead to another, then another, until I’d look at the clock and sigh. "Oops," I'd mumble, crumbs dusting my shirt. "Guess I'm starting my fast again at 11:30 PM." Which, again, is not a fast. That's just a slightly delayed dinner.

It felt like I was constantly failing. Like I was doing intermittent fasting, but... badly. Was I even getting any benefits if my 'fasting' window was more like a 'slightly delayed eating' window? The whole point was to simplify things, but I just felt more confused and, honestly, a little guilty about constantly messing up. I started to wonder if I was just moving the goalposts, playing a different game with the same losing score.

I eventually stumbled across an article that really broke down the science behind intermittent fasting and calorie counting, which helped clear up some of my swirling thoughts about what was actually going on. You can check it out here: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/intermittent-fasting-vs-calorie-counting. It was helpful to see what the research actually suggests, especially when my personal experience felt so messy.

These days, I'm trying to be kinder to myself. I still try to be mindful of when I eat, but I've let go of the rigid "fasting window" concept. If I'm genuinely hungry at 9 AM, I eat. If my partner offers me a chip at 9 PM, I might have one (or five, let's be real). It's less about strict rules and more about just listening to my body, which, as it turns out, is a much better guide than any app or rigid schedule ever was. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.

That One Day I Didn't Eat and Felt Like a Cartoon Character

Shreyansh Jain — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 02:11:34 +0000

It started innocently enough. I'd been hearing bits and pieces about fasting, mostly from that one super-fit friend who always seems to be doing something extreme, but in a good way. I'm not that person. My idea of pushing boundaries is trying a new flavor of chips. But the idea, just the idea, kind of lodged itself in my brain. What would it be like, really, to just… not eat for a whole day?

So one Tuesday, after a perfectly normal breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I declared it. “Today,” I told my reflection, “is the day of the 24-hour fast.” My reflection, naturally, looked unimpressed. The first few hours were easy peasy. I even felt a little smug, sipping my water and feeling superior to everyone munching on their mid-morning snacks. “Look at them, needing food,” I thought, channeling my inner ascetic monk, which lasted about as long as it took for my stomach to rumble loud enough to be heard across the office.

Around eleven o'clock, the hunger started. It wasn't just a gentle reminder, it was a full-blown opera happening in my gut. Every coworker who walked by with a sandwich or a bagel became a villain in my increasingly dramatic internal monologue. "Just one bite," a little voice whispered, sounding suspiciously like a pizza commercial. "Nobody would know. It's just a little experiment! You can restart tomorrow!" I had to actively distract myself, diving into spreadsheets with the intensity of a surgeon, just to keep my mind off the imaginary smell of warm bread.

Lunchtime was pure torture. Everyone went to the cafeteria, and I, the noble faster, stayed at my desk, sipping lukewarm tea and scrolling through photos of delicious food on my phone, which in hindsight was probably not the smartest move. My brain felt fuzzy, like I was trying to think through cotton wool. And my mood? Let's just say my patience for slow loading websites was at an all-time low. I swear I saw a cartoon steam coming out of my ears at one point. It felt less like a spiritual journey and more like a test of pure, stubborn idiocy.

By late afternoon, I was definitely feeling it. My energy was gone. I was dragging, almost literally. Every step felt like a monumental effort. I started questioning my life choices. Why was I doing this? What was the point? Was I secretly trying to prove something to my super-fit friend? Or just punishing myself for that extra slice of cake last weekend? (Probably both, honestly.)

But then, something shifted as evening approached. The intense, gnawing hunger kind of… dulled. It was still there, a low thrum, but it wasn't screaming anymore. A strange clarity settled in, almost like my brain, no longer distracted by digestive duties, could focus a little better. I wasn't buzzing with energy, but I also wasn't obsessed with food anymore. It was a weird, unexpected quiet.

When the clock finally ticked past my 24-hour mark, I cautiously broke the fast with a small, healthy meal. And you know what? It wasn't the feast I'd been dreaming of all day. It was just… food. The biggest takeaway wasn't some magical weight loss or sudden enlightenment (though I did feel pretty proud of myself for sticking with it). It was more about realizing how much of my day revolves around eating, and how much of that hunger is mental, not physical. It was tough, definitely, and I probably won't make it a weekly habit, but I also learned that my body is a lot more resilient than I gave it credit for.

Later, I actually stumbled on a really good, no-nonsense breakdown of what's actually going on inside your body when you do a 24-hour fast. It explained a lot of what I was feeling and why. If you're curious about the science behind it, you might find it interesting: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/24-hour-fasting-benefits. It turns out my gut resetting and growth hormone rising weren't just my imagination (well, maybe the cartoon steam was). It was a wild ride, that day.

I Thought I Was a Multitasker, Turns Out I Was Just Making a Mess

Shreyansh Jain — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 06:21:41 +0000

My desk looked like a digital warzone. Three monitors, each with a different application clamoring for attention. On the left, a Slack channel was blowing up about a critical bug. In the middle, my IDE glowed, half-written code staring back at me. On the right, I had a YouTube tutorial playing in the background, ostensibly for 'passive learning' while I worked. Oh, and my phone was buzzing with personal texts. I was trying to fix a bug, reply to Slack, absorb some new JavaScript framework, and quickly answer my mom about dinner plans. It was... a lot.

For a long time, I actually thought this was my superpower. I genuinely believed I was one of those rare people who could juggle five things at once and somehow come out ahead. I’d be in a meeting, drafting an email in my head, while also glancing at a PR review. I’d start coding a new feature, then remember a tiny bug fix I could squeeze in, then switch to that, then remember I needed to respond to a comment on a ticket. It felt busy. It felt productive. My calendar was packed, my Slack notifications were a constant stream, and my brain felt like a hyperactive pinball machine.

But here’s the thing, and maybe you’ve felt this too: feeling busy and actually doing things are two very different animals. I was making more mistakes. Simple typos in emails, logical errors in my code that I’d have caught normally, forgetting important details from conversations that happened five minutes ago. My mental state was perpetually frayed. I’d finish a workday feeling utterly exhausted, like I’d run a marathon, but when I looked back, the actual, tangible output felt... puny. I was spending more time context switching, basically moving my brain from one thing to another, than I was actually focusing on any single task.

One particularly bad day, I shipped a change that completely broke a minor part of our user authentication. It wasn't a showstopper, thankfully, but it was embarrassing. And totally avoidable. I’d been trying to get a quick fix out the door while simultaneously brainstorming a new feature with a colleague over voice chat and, I kid you not, trying to decide what to make for dinner by scrolling through recipes on my phone. The bug was tiny, just a missed else statement, but it was a direct result of my brain being everywhere and nowhere all at once. My 'superpower' had just created extra work and a bit of a headache for the team.

That was a bit of a turning point for me. I started to notice how much extra energy it took to constantly pivot. How much more tired I felt. I didn’t suddenly become a zen master of focus, far from it. My brain still wants to hop around like a caffeinated frog. But I started consciously trying to do one thing at a time. Just one. Close all the tabs, silence the notifications, pick a task, and try to stick with it for a dedicated chunk of time.

It felt weirdly slow at first, almost like I was moving through treacle. Like I was underperforming because I wasn't doing three things simultaneously. But then, things started to click. My code quality improved. I was catching mistakes before they shipped. My emails were clearer. And, surprisingly, I felt less drained at the end of the day, even though I was actually getting more meaningful work done.

I even stumbled onto an article that really laid out what was happening behind the scenes, explaining why all this bouncing around was so costly. It wasn't just me being bad at managing my time, there was actual science to it. If you're curious about the deeper dive, you can find it here: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/single-tasking-vs-multitasking

It’s still a work in progress, this whole 'single-tasking' thing. My phone still buzzes, and Slack still pings. But now, when I feel that familiar urge to switch, to open another tab, to try and squeeze in 'just one more thing,' I pause. I remind myself that sometimes, the most efficient way to get things done is to just do the one thing, properly, and then move on. It’s less flashy, sure, but it's a whole lot less messy.

My Journaling Habit Was Actually Making Things Worse

Shreyansh Jain — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 06:17:40 +0000

I remember staring at my notebook, pen poised, feeling a familiar mix of dread and obligation. It was 11 PM, my kitchen table was covered in crumbs from a sad dinner, and my brain was still buzzing with all the indignities of the day. "Just write it out," I'd told myself for months. "Get it all on paper. It'll make you feel better." Only, it usually didn't.

I'd started journaling a while back, after seeing countless articles (and a few enthusiastic friends) touting its mental health benefits. I bought a fancy, expensive notebook, a nice pen, and settled in to spill my guts every evening. My aim was clarity, you know, to untangle the mess in my head. I thought I was being super proactive about my emotional well-being. Turns out, I was mostly just creating a written record of my ongoing internal meltdowns.

Most nights, my entries read like a transcript of a very bad stand-up comedy routine where the punchline was always "and then I felt worse." I'd recap every annoying email, every slightly passive-aggressive comment from a colleague, every tiny mistake I'd made. "Boss sent that email again, asking about the thing I already sent, so frustrating. Clearly he thinks I'm incompetent. And I forgot to pick up milk. What even am I doing?" You get the picture.

I’d fill pages, sometimes for an hour, rehashing every single interaction, every slight, every fear. I truly believed I was "processing" my feelings. But instead of feeling lighter, I'd often close the notebook feeling heavier, more agitated, and usually more convinced that the world was out to get me. My partner, bless his patient heart, would ask if I felt better after my "writing time," and I'd just sigh dramatically. "No, actually, I think I'm angrier now." He learned to stop asking.

It hit me one particularly grim Tuesday. I’d spent an hour meticulously detailing a minor workplace misunderstanding, complete with imagined conversations and all the ways I felt wronged. I finished, slammed the notebook shut (a little too hard, probably), and realized my heart was pounding. I wasn't just reliving the frustration, I was intensifying it. My journaling had become less about understanding and more about wallowing, a solo pity party on paper. It wasn't reflection at all. It was rumination.

This realization wasn't a lightning bolt, more like a slow, dawning "oh, duh." I started noticing the pattern: the more I fixated on the problem in my writing, the worse I felt. The actual moment of change was subtle. I started trying to nudge my thoughts, even just a tiny bit. Instead of just "I'm so annoyed by X," I'd try adding, "Why does X annoy me so much? What can I do about X? Or, if I can't do anything, what can I learn from X?"

It wasn't easy, and frankly, some nights I still slip into the old habits. My notebook still sees its fair share of griping. But now, after the initial vent, I try to push for something else. I look for patterns, or a tiny glimmer of a solution, or just a different perspective. It’s like I’m retraining my brain, on paper, to move past just observing the chaos and actually try to make sense of it, or even just accept it without replaying it a thousand times.

Funnily enough, around the same time I was trying to figure this out, I stumbled across a really helpful article that delved into the research behind why reflection helps and rumination hurts, giving words to what I was fumbling through. It laid out the distinction perfectly, and if you’re also someone who journals and wonders why it sometimes leaves you feeling worse, you might find it super insightful: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/journaling-reflection-vs-rumination

It’s an ongoing process, this whole "understanding yourself" thing. My journaling isn't a magic fix, but it's definitely not the emotional quicksand it used to be. Sometimes, it even makes me feel, dare I say, a little clearer. And that's a win in my book.

When Cutting Carbs Felt Like Cutting My Brain Power

Shreyansh Jain — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 12:15:46 +0000

I remember this one particularly brutal Tuesday morning. It was peak startup craziness, a week when every meeting felt like a high-stakes poker game, and my brain just needed to be on. But I wasn't. I was staring at a half-eaten plate of dal and sabzi, having skipped the roti again, feeling like I was wading through quicksand. The traffic outside our Gurgaon office window seemed to move faster than my thoughts.

For months, I'd been convinced that the path to peak performance, both at the gym and in the office, lay in maxing out protein and ditching pretty much everything else, especially carbs. I'd read a few articles, heard a few gym bros talk, and it just sounded so… efficient. More dal, more paneer, more protein powder, less roti, less rice. I figured, I'm already eating mostly home-cooked Indian food, so it's easy to just tweak it, right? My wife would make a perfectly balanced meal, and I'd just pick out the roti like it was a carb-shaped enemy.

At first, I felt lighter, maybe even a bit sharper. But that feeling didn't last. Soon, my morning runs felt like pulling a loaded truck. My strength training sessions in the evening, after a long day of coding and calls, became a real drag. I’d try to push through, but my body just didn't want to cooperate. It wasn't just physical exhaustion either. The brain fog was the worst part. I'd be in a strategy meeting, trying to articulate a complex technical solution, and my words would just… vanish. It felt like my mental RAM was constantly running at 50% capacity, even after a decent night's sleep.

My wife, bless her, noticed it before I truly admitted it to myself. "You're so grumpy these days," she'd say, handing me a glass of buttermilk. "And you look tired all the time." I'd brush it off, muttering something about startup life, but deep down, I knew it wasn't just the late nights. Something was off with my fuel.

The breaking point was a sprint review meeting. We were debugging a critical production issue, and I just couldn't connect the dots. My team was looking at me, expecting answers, and all I could offer was a blank stare. That night, after everyone had left, I sat at my desk, feeling utterly defeated. It hit me then: this hyper-focused, low-carb, high-protein experiment wasn't making me a super CTO. It was making me a dull, sluggish version of myself.

The next morning, I cautiously added a small bowl of rice to my lunch. Then a full roti with dinner. It wasn't an overnight fix, of course, but within a few days, I started feeling… normal again. My energy levels stabilized. My brain felt clearer. The gym sessions slowly started getting better. It was such a simple, almost embarrassing realization: my body needed those carbs for energy, especially with the kind of demanding schedule I had.

It taught me a pretty big lesson about listening to my body, and not just blindly following a diet trend. Sometimes, in our rush to optimize everything, we miss the most basic truths. I later came across a really insightful breakdown of the research, explaining why balanced macros, not just high protein, are so crucial for overall health and performance, and it totally resonated with what I had experienced. You can find it at healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/protein-vs-balanced-macros.

Now, my plate looks a lot more balanced. A proper roti or some rice, plenty of dal and sabzi, a side of curd. And guess what? I'm still getting plenty of protein. My brain is happy, my body is happy, and my wife isn't calling me grumpy anymore. Sometimes, the best hacks are just getting back to basics.

When gratitude journaling felt like another item on my to-do list

Shreyansh Jain — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 07:06:08 +0000

My gratitude journal was a fancy, linen-bound thing with a little ribbon bookmark. I bought it because everyone on the internet, and a few friends, were raving about how it changed their lives. They said it made them happier, more mindful, all that good stuff. I figured, hey, why not me? I was always up for a little more happy.

So, I started. Every evening, or sometimes in the morning if I remembered, I'd pull it out. The instructions were simple: write down three things you're grateful for. Easy, right?

Except it wasn't. My pen would hover over the crisp, blank page, and my mind would go completely blank. It felt like a test I hadn't studied for. My first few entries were okay, I guess. "My morning coffee," "my cat snuggling," "a warm bed." Standard stuff. But after a week or two, it started to feel forced. I'd be scrambling to think of things, usually just before bed, my eyelids heavy. "Uh, that I finished my laundry?" "That the internet didn't go out?" It felt less like a heartfelt practice and more like another chore on my already long mental to-do list.

I started to dread it, honestly. My perfect linen journal sat there, judging me from the nightstand. I'd skip a day, then two, then a week. The guilt gnawed at me a little, but mostly, I just felt like I'd failed at being grateful. Like it was some special skill I didn't possess. I put the journal in a drawer eventually, out of sight, out of mind. I figured gratitude journaling just wasn't for me, end of story.

Months went by. Life went on, with its usual ups and downs. Then, a particularly rough patch hit. Work was stressful, a friendship was rocky, and I just felt generally pretty low. One evening, looking for something to read, I rummaged through that old drawer. And there it was, my abandoned journal.

I picked it up, feeling a bit silly. I flipped through the pages, seeing those stilted, forced entries. "A sunny day." "Got an email back." They were so simple, almost childish. But as I kept reading, something shifted. I saw patterns I hadn't noticed at the time. There were entries about specific moments of laughter with my partner, or a tiny win at work, or the comfort of a home-cooked meal. Things I had completely forgotten in the daily grind.

It wasn't that those entries had magically made me happy in the moment I wrote them. Most times, I was probably just trying to check a box. But looking back, they were like little breadcrumbs leading me through the past few months, reminding me that even when things felt blah, there were these small, quiet moments of goodness. The journal hadn't changed my life overnight, but it had created a tiny archive of everyday joys that I could now appreciate with the benefit of hindsight.

I still don't journal every single day, and I don't force it. Sometimes my entries are still just about coffee. But I pick it up now and then, especially when I'm feeling a bit lost, and just read my old words. It's a reminder that even if the act of writing feels like a chore, the effect can be a slow burn. I thought I was just weird for feeling this way about it, but then I stumbled on an article that dug into the actual research behind gratitude journaling, and it made me feel a lot less alone in my initial struggles and doubts. You can find it here: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/gratitude-journaling-benefits

It turns out, there's more to it than just a quick fix, and maybe that's okay. Maybe the point isn't to be instantly joyous, but to slowly, over time, build a quiet collection of reasons to smile.

Turns Out, My Daily Run Didn't Give Me Permission To Be A Desk Statue

Shreyansh Jain — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:18:17 +0000

The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, painting the Delhi sky in shades of orange and purple, and my back felt like a block of concrete. My neck? A rusty hinge. I'd been in a flow state all afternoon, you know, one of those magical stretches where the code just clicks into place and hours vanish. It's a wonderful, terrifying thing.

I pushed back from my desk, groaning slightly as my joints protested. "Just a bit more," I'd told myself at lunchtime, then again at four, and now it was past seven. My wife would be calling me for dinner soon, probably some simple dal and roti, which would be a welcome change from my brain's constant whirring.

Now, here's the thing: I’m not exactly sedentary. I run a few times a week, hit the gym when I can, and even squeeze in some yoga on quieter mornings. I used to think that meant I was good. Like, I’d earned my right to be a statue for the rest of the day. Ten hours glued to my chair? No problem, I did lunges this morning!

That was my flawed logic for years as a startup CTO. My days are a rollercoaster of debugging, planning, and frantic calls, often bleeding into evenings. Finding time for a proper workout is a win in itself, so I figured I was ticking the ‘active’ box. My smartwatch would beep a gentle reminder to stand, and I'd wave it off mentally. "Later, watch. I'm building things! Important things!"

But the little aches started piling up. Not serious, just a dull, persistent stiffness. My focus would waver in the late afternoon, like my brain cells were also stuck in a concrete block. My eyes would feel gritty. And despite the morning workout, I’d often feel… sluggish. Like an old engine that needed a jumpstart, but instead I just kept trying to press the accelerator harder.

Then came a particularly brutal week. We had a launch, which meant even longer hours, even less movement. By Thursday, I felt genuinely unwell. Not sick, but just a deep-seated physical exhaustion that a cup of chai couldn't fix. My wife, bless her, looked at me as I tried to get up from the sofa after dinner, and simply said, "You look like you're trying to escape a straightjacket."

That hit home. It wasn't about the intensity of my workouts anymore. It was about the absence of basic, simple movement for huge chunks of the day. The idea that all my good work at the gym was being undone by marathon sitting sessions started to sink in.

So, I started small. Ludicrously small. Every hour, I'd set a timer, and when it went off, I’d stand up. Just stand. Stretch my arms overhead. Walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, even if my bottle was full. Look out the window at the chaos of the street for sixty seconds. Then sit back down.

It felt like cheating at first. Like, this couldn't possibly make a difference, right? It wasn't a workout. It was barely even a break. But slowly, over weeks, the concrete back started to loosen. The afternoon brain fog wasn't as thick. I didn't feel quite so much like a fossil at the end of the day. It was subtle, incremental, almost imperceptible. But it was there.

I later stumbled upon a really clear breakdown of why all this matters, which helped connect the dots for me: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/effects-of-regular-movement. It turns out, those tiny, seemingly insignificant movements are doing a lot more for us than we give them credit for.

I still get deep into my work, and sometimes the timer goes off and I ignore it for another 10 minutes (old habits die hard). But I come back to it. It’s not about perfection, it’s about persistence. It’s about realizing that movement isn't just something you do in an hour-long session; it’s a constant, gentle hum your body needs all day long. And honestly, my back thanks me for it.

The Time I Thought More Water Was Always The Answer (Spoiler: It Wasn't)

Shreyansh Jain — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:16:51 +0000

It was another Tuesday afternoon, a particularly gnarly one. My eyes felt gritty, my brain felt like it was wrapped in wet wool, and there was that familiar dull throb behind my left temple. I sighed, reached for my gigantic 2-liter water bottle, and took a long, virtuous gulp. This was my life. Always hydrating, always feeling like I was doing the right thing, and always, always feeling kind of… fuzzy.

I was one of those people. You know, the ones who carry their emotional support water bottle everywhere. Mine was a beast, clear plastic, with time markers down the side, like a tiny, liquid-filled taskmaster. 8 AM, 10 AM, 12 PM, 'You got this!' it cheered. I’d dutifully chug through it, often refilling it halfway through the day, convinced I was winning the hydration game. I’d see colleagues with tiny coffee cups and think, 'Amateur.' I’d boast about my water intake. It felt like a badge of honor, a small victory in the chaotic world of adulting.

And yet, the headaches persisted. The 3 PM slump was a concrete wall I slammed into daily. I’d attribute it to screen time, or that second cup of coffee, or maybe just 'being tired.' Never, not once, did I stop to think it might be my glorious water habit. I mean, I was drinking so much! How could I possibly be dehydrated?

One particularly dreadful Thursday, after a morning of feeling like my brain cells were slow dancing through treacle, I found myself staring at my almost-full water bottle. I'd been diligently sipping, hitting my marks. But I still felt completely rotten. That’s when a tiny, nagging thought crept in: What if I’m doing it wrong?

It sounds silly, I know. How can you 'do water wrong'? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized my approach was all about quantity, not quality, or consistency for that matter. I’d guzzle a huge amount in the morning, then less later. Or I’d try to 'catch up' by chugging a ton right before bed, which just led to midnight bathroom trips, not actual hydration. My body was getting these big floods and then long droughts, even if the total volume looked good.

I was poking around online one day, feeling particularly fuzzy brained despite my heroic water intake, and I found this breakdown of hydration needs that really opened my eyes. It’s way more nuanced than just chugging a gallon a day. Seriously, check it out if you're curious: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/hydration-guide It made me realize that my 'more is better' philosophy was missing the point entirely.

I didn't make any drastic changes overnight. There were no grand pronouncements. I just started paying a little more attention. I tried to sip smaller amounts, more consistently, throughout the day. I listened to my body instead of just looking at the lines on my bottle. Some days, I probably drink less than my old 'heroic' amount, but I feel better. The headaches are fewer, the afternoon slump is less of a cliff face and more of a gentle slope, and my brain fog? It still visits, sure, but it doesn’t take up permanent residence anymore. It turns out, sometimes the answer isn't just 'more' of a good thing, but 'smarter' of a good thing.