Hostel Life

I wanted to make things a bit more interesting on Happy Chirp, so now I’m sitting down with guests for candid conversations. Just two girls talking about life, feelings, and everything in between. And who better to start with than one of my own friends? Today, I brought Anmol to the mic. She’s not just any friend, she’s someone who has seen me at my messiest and my best. Right now, she’s also plotting my baby shower with my other friends, so there’s that. In this episode, we go back to our hostel days at LMDC. It was a time that broke us open in the best and hardest ways. It’s a conversation about finding yourself when nobody is watching, and holding onto the people who help you become who you are.

The sheltered girl who exploded

Before LMDC, Anmol lived a very sheltered life. Her parents, one papa, one mama, and three sister mamas, they all checked on her. She was a really good kid, she says. But something in her felt suffocated after so many years. So she made a bold move. Going to Lahore for her studies was her own decision, and when her dad agreed, she cried. In her head, the reality hit: “I made this decision and I’m going to leave home.” Then came the explosion. “I exploded with all the independence,” Anmol admits. And if you’ve ever been overprotected, you know exactly what that feels like. It’s the kind of freedom that can feel like a wild, disorienting ride. I remember, because I was right there next to her. I learned from Anmol’s experience, and I learned for myself: sheltering someone too tightly only guarantees they will burst out later, often in ways they don’t fully understand.

The tiny things that held us together

When Anmol first arrived at LMDC, she didn’t know how to do the smallest things on her own. She didn’t know how to call a Careem, explain an address, or handle the daily logistics of life outside her family. I became that person for her. “Up until final year, I was still calling the Careems for you,” I remind her, laughing. And she was still explaining addresses to drivers. That dependence might sound silly, but it’s the glue of our friendship. We had to plan our showers together, not in the same cubicle, but side by side, timing them so we could chat through the thin walls. We saved food for each other, woke each other up, and in those early days, it was just the two of us against the world. Anmol says, “I would still be calling the Careems for you and I was still explaining the addresses to the Careem driver.” And I think about how, when you’re that young and that scared, having someone do the tiny things for you is everything. It’s not about dependency, it’s about trust. We had each other’s backs so fully that if one of us cried, the other would be in tears too. That bond, Anmol says, is something she hasn’t been able to find beyond her hostel friends. And I agree. There’s a difference when you’ve lived through the same four walls, the same bad mess food, the same 45-minute rickshaw rides to anywhere fun.

What the hostel took and what it gave

Hostel life wasn’t all laughter. The food was terrible, but that wasn’t the hardest part. It was the isolation, the strange rules, and learning to be alone. I remember coming to the hostel in a vulnerable emotional state. I had not recovered from losing my father and the trauma that came with it. Being away from home was painful, but it also gave me space to heal. I found people I could talk to. Anmol was one of the first. I started to sort out my emotions. At the same time, I learned how to manage money because my mom was strict with my allowance. That led to our first side hustle: a content writing job where we wrote entire ebooks for pennies. We did sleepless nights, extra shifts, and we learned what hard work really felt like. Hostel taught me to be okay in solitude. It taught me how to have my own boundaries, not the ones my family set for me, but the ones I truly needed. Anmol learned to recognize people, she says, and how not to let the noise of others affect her. She witnessed a lot of gossip and backbiting, but she never gave in to that peer pressure. She learned to stick to her identity and principles. “I just didn’t care what people thought of me,” she says. That was her quiet rebellion. And it’s a lesson I still carry.

The guilt of missing out, and finally talking about it

For all the growth, there was a lingering guilt. Anmol was away from her family for four years, and during that time, her family went through things she wasn’t there for. As a single mother, her mom needed support, and her brother had to step up. When she came back home, she tried to be the new, wise version of herself, but the old dynamics pulled. She realized she hadn’t been there for them. One day, she broke down in front of her family, apologizing for not being present. “I cried and said, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” They reassured her it wasn’t her fault, but that conversation lifted a weight. I’ve had similar moments, missing my father, feeling the distance even when I was physically present. The guilt of being away can eat at you, but talking about it, as Anmol did, is the first step toward releasing it. Now, as she prepares for a child of her own, she’s learning to balance that guilt, to not let it consume her. She’s realized she can’t be there for everyone 24/7, and she’s learning to be kind to herself. It’s a messy, ongoing process, and I’m here for it.

Anger, sadness, and what my dog and marriage taught me

Somewhere in the middle of our chat, we stray into territory that feels just as raw. Anmol tells me about her little dog, Burrito, who barks and acts aggressive. She realized he’s just sad. That simple observation made me think: when people are really sad, sometimes they lash out. And isn’t that true for so many of us? I tend to cry when I’m angry. A softer release, but it still hurts me. Anmol admits she’s made the mistake of expressing anger in a messy way, but marriage taught her how to handle it differently. In the early days of marriage, she and her husband fought a lot. It felt like something was wrong with them. But over time, she realized those fights were just part of figuring each other out. You need a certain amount of data collection, she says, like gathering enough information about the other person to know what to do. The first two years are about understanding and misunderstanding each other, and eventually finding a middle ground. That sense of security only comes with time. I think back to my own marriage, and I know exactly what she means. The fear that every argument is a sign of a doomed relationship is so real, but often it’s just two people learning to live together.

Small things that still matter

This conversation wasn’t about big revelations. It was about the small, specific memories that shaped two women. The showers we planned together, the Careem calls, the ebooks we wrote in the dark. And the bigger things, like the guilt and the healing. Anmol says hostel life was one of the hardest and best things to happen to her. I feel the same. When I look back, I know I wouldn’t be who I am today without those years. And I wouldn’t have Anmol as a part of me, literally. “You play a huge part in who I am today,” she says, making a hand gesture that speaks of intertwined growth. We’ve grown together, and in different directions, but the root stays strong. If you’re someone who’s about to step into a hostel, or you’re in the middle of it, or you’re sitting with the guilt of independence, I hope this episode feels like a hand on your shoulder. You’re not alone, and the hard parts really do shape you into someone you’ll be proud to become.