Sadhana Bhadoriya

Of all the moments in the writing process, facing the blank page is the most terrifying. You have a 10-page paper to write, the deadline is looming, and the sheer scale of the task induces a state of paralysis. The thought of producing 2,500-3,000 coherent, well-argued words can make even the most seasoned student want […]

You have the prompt. You’ve done the preliminary reading. You’ve even scribbled down some ideas. But you’re stuck, staring at a blank document, the cursor blinking with a mocking rhythm. The entire essay—all those potential words, arguments, and pages—waits for a single, solitary sentence: the thesis statement. For many writers, this is the most daunting

You have your topic, you’ve done some preliminary research, and you’re staring at a blank document. The cursor blinks mockingly. The introduction paragraph of a research paper can feel like the highest barrier to entry. It’s the first thing your reader (and more importantly, your grader) encounters, and as the old adage goes, you never

Of all the frustrations a student can face, this one is perhaps the most insidious. It’s not the sharp panic of a looming deadline or the confusion of a difficult topic. It’s a heavy, grey blanket of nothing. You open the textbook, and the words blur. You sit at your desk, and your brain feels

Let’s paint a familiar picture. It’s a Tuesday night. Your phone is blowing up. The group chat is planning a spontaneous trip to the new burger joint downtown, and someone just scored tickets to a concert you’ve been dying to see this weekend. You glance over at your desk, where a mountain of textbooks and

Let’s be honest. You click the “Join” button on your virtual classroom, the professor starts talking, and suddenly… your brain is everywhere. The notification pings from a group chat. The siren call of a new YouTube video is irresistible. That pile of laundry in the corner suddenly seems like the most urgent task in the

The mere thought can tie your stomach in knots: standing before an audience—whether it’s a single professor or a room full of peers—to be judged not just on what you know, but on how you express it. Unlike a written exam, an oral assessment feels intensely personal. There’s no place to hide, no backspace key,

The graded exam lands on your desk, or the digital score flashes on your screen. The mark is a gut punch—lower than you expected, lower than you needed. The immediate reactions are visceral: shame, anger, disappointment, a sinking feeling in your stomach. The instinct is to stuff the paper in the bottom of your backpack,