My “soft detox” from Nepali politics started a few years ago, back when I was still in Nepal. It was a conscious act of self-preservation. I looked at my life and saw that my peers were building careers and families. I was in my late 30s, unmarried, and my career was stalled. Why? Because I was spending 100% of my emotional budget on politics. I stopped reacting on social media. I stopped the daily, angry scrolling. I had to focus on my own life.I was finally “clean.” Well, “clean” is a strong word. A “soft detox” is never a clean break. I wasn’t an active user, but I was still an addict. I stopped following the daily “noise,” but I still curated my “fix”—I’d follow a few meaningful interviews, listen to the serious podcasts. I was an observer. But the real problem was the “push” of reality. Coming to London wasn’t my first choice; growth was. And the reason I couldn’t grow in Nepal—the reason I was in London at all—was the political deadlock. So, I’d walk into a social gathering or get on a phone call, promising myself, “Keep it light. Talk about work. Talk about the weather.” Then, inevitably, someone would mention the latest political drama back home. And just like that, I was pulled in. The passion I’d been suppressing would take over. The discussion would get intense. I could feel the vibe of the party changing—that awkward moment when everyone else is just trying to have fun, and you’ve accidentally spoiled it with your intensity. It got to the point where I was even thinking of stopping that, too. Of just... never talking about it, ever. Fast forward to today. The stakes are even higher. I’m in my 40s in London, a new father to an 11-month-old baby girl. I’m on a student visa, struggling to build a career from scratch. My wife can’t work while caring for our daughter. My reality is the daily, exhausting grind of rent, bills, and work. My emotional budget isn’t just low; it’s non-existent. I was that close to finally achieving total, quiet detachment. And then, the GenZ revolution happened. I tried to ignore it. “It’s just another flash in the pan,” I told myself. But the “pull” was immediate. This time, it felt different. It was my home country. It was a purpose I could connect with. I still tried to stay detached, to be “rational.” And then I saw the news: 14 people dead. I was at my office in London when I saw the headline. My “rational” detachment was shattered. I turned to my colleague and just... angrily told them what was happening. The detox was over. I was pulled back in, not just by emotion, but by a sense of moral urgency. I couldn’t just “unfollow” that. I have a confession: for people like me, Nepali politics isn’t a hobby. It’s the Premier League season. It’s not that it’s a “game”—it’s far from it, it affects real lives, every single day. But it’s about the investment. You can’t be a casual fan. You’re in it, every week, yelling at the screen, celebrating the wins, and feeling crushed by the losses. Nepali politics is my league, and right now, it’s the final match. It’s high time. But this time, I reacted differently. Instead of just yelling on social media, I channelled that anger and hope into the blog series I’ve been writing. I gave suggestions, I offered a framework—the “Shared Vision”—as my two cents. I feel like I’ve vented what I had inside me. The answer, as I see it, is now on the record for the public. It doesn’t have to be me who takes it forward; I’ve put the idea out there in the simplest way I know how. And that brings me to today. The “pull” is still there. I get messages. I feel the drag to do more, to reach more people, to get into the “real politics” of it all. But here is the final, unchangeable truth. As I wrote, it’s “high time” for Nepal. But it’s also, inescapably, “high time” for my personal life. I am a dad to an 11-month-old. I am a husband to a wife who is also navigating this new life. I am the son of an ageing single mother back home. I am her backup. I am the one who has to be there if things go wrong. I cannot run away from these responsibilities. This is an oath I have already taken, and it is not negotiable. This is the shared, bittersweet condition of the diaspora. We are caught between the “push” of a system that failed us and the “pull” of a home we can never forget. So, I’ve made my choice. I am renewing my detox, and this time, more seriously. I simply can’t be on the front lines of the daily political fight; my duties are right here, in this small flat in London. But I will remain “watchful” and am always available for meaningful contributions. My ideas are on the record. This blog, too, will reflect this shift. I’ll still write about Nepali politics when I feel it truly matters, and I’ll touch on global politics. But I’ll also write more about what I’m experiencing here—my life, my work, and the lessons I’m learning. It’s time to broaden the conversation. If that journey sounds interesting to you, I hope you’ll subscribe.This blog, too, will reflect this shift. As part of this renewed detox, I’ll be adjusting my pace, shifting from weekly posts to perhaps every two weeks or even monthly, depending on time and inspiration. I’ll still write about Nepali politics when it truly matters, and I’ll touch on global politics. But I’ll also write more about what I’m experiencing here—my life, my work, and the lessons I’m learning. It’s time to broaden the conversation. I’m also excited to share this in a new format. From now on, I will be creating a podcast version of my posts for those of you who, like me, are not always into reading but love to listen. Personally, I’m a big fan of listening and writing, so this feels like a natural step. So, whether you prefer to read the article or listen to the audio, I hope you will subscribe to Saurav Insight. You can get both the blog and the podcast right here as per your preference. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sauravinsight.substack.com
