This is an expanded version of an essay I wrote during my recent 200-hour yoga teacher training.
The Bhagavad Gita is one of the most celebrated texts in Indian philosophy. It takes place on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, where a great war is about to begin. The central figure, Arjuna, is a warrior paralysed by doubt and moral conflict as he prepares to fight against his own relatives and teachers. His charioteer, Krishna, reveals profound spiritual teachings to guide him through this dilemma. The battlefield becomes a metaphor for the challenges and moral struggles we all face in life, and Krishna’s wisdom provides tools for navigating them.
The Kurukshetra battlefield resonates deeply with me. Although I only recently encountered this concept through my yoga teacher training, its lessons feel profoundly familiar. From a young age, I had an innate sense of justice and couldn’t sit idly by when others were wronged. In primary school, I often stood up to bullies, even if it meant confronting them directly. On more than one occasion, this led to physical fights, including once when I challenged a group of boys who were targeting a classmate. Later, in middle school, I faced a similar situation when a girl in my school was ostracised and threatened by her peers. The group warned everyone to avoid her, declaring that anyone who befriended her would face consequences. I ignored their threats and welcomed her into my group of friends. This decision led to retaliation in the form of physical abuse by the group of girls, but I continued to stand by my truth and remained her friend.
Though these actions felt right, they left me with bruises, both physical and emotional. My mother, witnessing the aftermath, expressed her concern by calling it “hero syndrome.” She warned me about recklessly placing myself in harm’s way to defend others. At the time, her words stung and planted seeds of doubt in my mind. But as I grew older, I began to understand the context behind her comments. My mother comes from a background of deep suppression, where she was neither allowed nor encouraged to have a voice. She was raised in an environment where speaking up or standing out seemed impossible. Her comment about “playing the hero” came from the wounds of her own suppression, which had led her to carry self-doubts she may not have been fully aware of herself.
Understanding this softened my perspective toward her words, but it also clarified how they had shaped my own inner dialogue. Over time, the doubt she had unintentionally planted grew into a deeper internal conflict, leaving me torn between my moral convictions and the fear of judgment or disapproval.
How did I come to understand the depth of this doubt? A few years ago, during a seemingly ordinary phone call with my mother, the truth suddenly spilled out. I found myself telling her how much it had hurt when she used to say, “You just want to play the hero.” Her response, “I can see how that could have hurt your feelings,” was simple but validating. That moment became a turning point, a catalyst for deeper reflection on how this doubt had shaped my inner world.
Later, a friend of mine battling severe OCD shared an insight that struck a chord. They explained that compulsive thoughts often stem from something deeply tied to one’s moral beliefs. It was like a puzzle piece clicking into place. I realised that my ongoing self-doubt wasn’t random—it was rooted in the actions I had taken from a place of good will and good heart. Over the years, these actions, which I had always believed were genuine, became the subject of a recurring question in my mind: “Am I faking it? Am I just acting this way to look good?” The weight of this doubt echoed through me for a long time, almost turning into a compulsive thought.
And yet, I am beginning to wonder—do we ever fully resolve the inner battles that shape us, or do we simply learn to live alongside them? The Bhagavad Gita suggests that the goal isn’t to eliminate conflict but to understand its place within the larger tapestry of life. Perhaps my struggle isn’t something to fix but something to carry, with the hope that it teaches me more about myself as I walk forward. What remains unclear is whether the battle ever truly ends—or if, like Arjuna, I will continue to meet it, time and time again, on my own evolving battlefield.