Growing up, my early childhood was filled with quarrels and fights that felt extreme. I was around people who weren’t who they seemed to be – who changed depending on the situation. As a child, it was deeply confusing. I carried hurt that wasn’t mine to carry.
What developed for me was this: any kind of disharmony meant panic. If someone had issues with my intentions, I would think that was the end. I could not be close to them anymore.
So, I lived between two extremes. Sometimes I’d give in completely, bending backwards to keep someone happy, losing myself to keep the peace. Other times, when I finally couldn’t take it anymore, I’d have to cut people off completely. Both came from the same fear – that disharmony was something dangerous, something to guard against.
Growing up, I’m realizing something.
I am grateful to have people who love me. Here’s what I realize: everyone is different. We’re bound to clash sometimes, to not see eye to eye. Having disagreements is normal – it’s even healthy to voice them. The love stays despite them. Feeling confident in that – not apologetic or angry about it – changes everything.
When disagreements come up now, I can actually say what I feel. “I see this differently” or “That hurt me.” Being able to say that – being honest like that – feels like a privilege.
I’m also learning to listen – really listen – to their point of view. That feels like honoring the relationship – making room for both our truths.
This extends beyond just disagreements. Any disharmony – tension, misunderstandings, different needs – doesn’t have to send me into panic anymore. I can stay present with it, notice when I’m overthinking, and come back to what’s actually happening. I can navigate it without losing myself or cutting people off.
I can forgive people from the past, and sometimes that forgiveness includes keeping distance – respecting what’s healthy for me. I can have honest conversations with people who can meet me there. I’m no longer swinging between those extremes.
I’m grateful for this shift. I’m learning that disagreement doesn’t have to mean the end. It can be a chance to truly see each other.
Tuffy, my golden lab, my companion for nine years, taught me something I’m still learning – how to live in the moment, how to love without conditions, how to be childlike without being self-conscious. His recent passing still feels like disbelief. It still feels like he’s gone to daycare while we’re on vacation.
This is what life is teaching us, I feel – to live like dogs do. Fully present, fully joyful, fully here.
With humans, I can’t be that way. I hold back. I perform. I worry about how I’m perceived. But with Tuffy? I could be silly. I could talk in that voice I use only for dogs, sing songs that made no sense, play games that were just ours. I could sit on the floor with him and forget about everything else.
He brought out the childlike part of me I thought I’d lost.
Tuffy didn’t need me the way I needed him. He was content. Emotionally mature. He trusted me. He didn’t need constant affection or reassurance – he just wanted to be near. I was more of a “Velcro” human to him. I’d put his bed wherever I was working, wherever I was doing things. He slept on his bed. I would just feel happy looking at him and calling out to him every now and then. In response, Tuffy would open his eyes or wag his tail, as if to say he loved me too.
And somehow, that was everything for me.
I remember how excited he’d get when I’d take him for walks, how happy he would be to welcome me every time I opened the front door and walked in. He loved bringing his toys to me and to play with him.
And I remember the last time.
Even when he was in pain – on what would be his last visit to the ER, though we didn’t know it then – he waited for me in the garage. My husband was walking with him toward the car, and I had to go back to get something. Tuffy stopped and turned to look at me. He wouldn’t budge. He turned back, waiting for me, looking out for me despite being in pain. I find that so emotional – his love for me, even in that moment. It was a habit he had. He wanted all family members to walk together with him. Not one ahead, not one behind. He found such joy in that togetherness.
What Tuffy taught me goes beyond the grief. He showed me what it means to live in presence – to find joy in simple things, to simply love, to trust without needing proof, to be fully here in each moment.
That’s the lesson. That’s what I carry forward.
Thank you, Tuffy, for teaching me how to live. For showing me what unconditional love looks like. For bringing out the best, most childlike, most joyful parts of me.
You can never be replaced. You will never be replaced.
I’ll honor you through the choices I make from what you’ve taught me. Somehow every time I think of you, I don’t end up feeling sad – rather a smile, a happiness in how you lived, what you taught us, our beautiful times together.
Storm clouds gather in my throat – quiet ache, a cold that won’t move. Each word I choose feels like a step on thin ice. The space between us hums, static, tired, unforgiving.
“Let it be,” says a voice – not the one rooted in peace, but the sly one, the one dressed as kindness, telling me to fill the silence, to soften myself, to keep the peace at any cost.
So, I do. I fill space with words that aren’t necessary. Try hard. Bridge the distance with explanations when all that was needed was quiet truth. Respect that doesn’t need to prove itself.
And even when I speak my truth, I rush to smooth it over – making sure you’re comfortable, that harmony remains. I manage reactions that haven’t happened yet, compensating for pain that could have come from honesty, cushioning my own voice.
And beneath it all – a small ache burns: Why can’t I just be liked?
It’s not pride asking. It’s the child – the one left unseen when the room filled with noise and chaos. The one who learned that safety came from being agreeable. Grief, dressed as gentleness. Anger, hiding behind persuasiveness – because sadness sounds more agreeable, more passive, less threatening.
Then, the weight returns. The knowing: I’ve done it again. Square one. The frustration of the cycle repeating.
And something soft opens – a whisper, this time honest: Help me.
Help me stop gripping. Help me remember – everyone walks their own path. Help me loosen the need to fix, to please, to control.
Right now – this moment – is enough. I can start again.
Let it go. Breathe peace in. Let gentleness find its way back. One more time, I choose calm. I choose presence. Now.
Somewhere in my healing journey, there was this gentle slowing down – a soft withdrawal from my usual urgency to react, to fix. Before, when I felt triggered or when sadness and panic hit, there was always this restlessness, this need to fix something, to move quickly. That place was not comfortable to be in.
What I never expected was that this slowing down was actually nature’s way of teaching me to be present. Through my trauma, I discovered this was a sign in my healing journey – that I was learning to let go and be more accepting.
One day when my best friend was asking me how I was doing, the words just came: “I’m steeping, like a tea bag in hot water.” I was surprised I even said that, because it was exactly how it felt.
Now when I need this time, I grow quieter, naturally gravitating toward solitude – long walks in nature, visits to the spa, or simply sitting on my balcony watching the sky and trees. I write sometimes, or just think, or don’t think at all. During this time, I don’t rush to process or understand. I just let whatever I’m feeling exist.
There’s something profound in this stillness. A calmness emerges that I never found in all my previous rushing toward solutions. Realizations surface naturally, like bubbles rising in still water. And in those moments, I find myself talking to my Creator – not in desperation, but in surrender.
“This is where I am. I need your help.”
It might take a day, sometimes longer, but eventually something shifts. There’s lightness. Clarity. A deeper understanding I couldn’t have forced. And always, always, humility.
I realize now that healing doesn’t happen through panic or the urge for immediate fixes, but through presence. Through simply being with what is, without needing to change it right away.
The most healing happens when I stop trying to heal and just… steep.
This process has taught me that sometimes the answer isn’t to do something about our emotions, but to be with them. To trust that sitting quietly with our experience, creating space for it to exist, allows something natural and necessary to unfold.
I’ve learned I need time alone with whatever I’m going through. And in that solitude, in that steeping, I find not emptiness but fullness. Not avoidance but the deepest kind of presence.
Maybe what we call healing isn’t always about getting better faster. Maybe sometimes it’s about learning to be present with ourselves exactly as we are, trusting that this presence itself transforms us in ways our rushing never could.
In daily life, whatever we do – whether we experience negativity like anger, frustration, jealousy, or hurt – I’ve come to understand that if we look deeper and deeper into our actions, we’re all seeking the same thing: peace, happiness, and contentment.
I think all that negativity is our unconscious way of trying to prove our self-worth through our ego. We demonstrate this in ways we’re not even aware of – through our struggles, our pain, our reaching for something more – all in an attempt to show that we’re worthy of love and recognition.
In my own life journey, I’ve recognized these patterns – wanting to feel seen, feeling inferior, trying to be the best at everything, people-pleasing, being self-critical, or carrying shame. Through my meditation practice and self-awareness, I’ve come a long way in understanding these tendencies. While they still show up every now and then, I can now choose differently when I notice them. We all have our own ways of unconsciously trying to prove we deserve love and happiness.
The truth is, we don’t have to do anything to earn that peace or prove our worth. It’s already within us. Our Creator loves us completely, and we have always had this love. The unconscious ways in which we try to prove our self-worth to ourselves and to others around us is never needed.
Sometimes we go through difficult experiences and learn from them. We realize that certain behaviors, thoughts, or choices aren’t bringing us the happiness we’re seeking. We start to notice that when we look for fulfillment outside ourselves – whether through hurting others, seeking power or even through self-criticism and shame – it doesn’t satisfy us. All these patterns come from the ego trying to find worth and meaning, when we already possess infinite worth simply by being.
When we observe how our life unfolds with these patterns, we can see how they affect the quality of our life and the quality of our mind. We can make different choices and turn inward instead. We can ask ourselves deeper questions about why we do what we do, why we react the way we react.
Many people don’t want to do this inner work because we’re afraid of what we might find about ourselves. We’re afraid of our shadows, our mistakes, our deeper wounds. But those questions, when we’re brave enough to ask them, can lead us deeper into self-awareness and self-discovery. It’s like removing a thorn that got deep within us. Yes, it hurts when the thorn is in, and it hurts even when we try to get it out – but we need to do it to be healed.
This process is beautiful. It’s a way of unbecoming who we think we are to discover who we were always meant to be – how we were originally created. The unbecoming process is like peeling away layers of an onion. As you go deeper, removing each layer of conditioning, fear, and false identity, you get closer to the pure essence that was always there.
This is what remains when everything else falls away – love, peace, and our true nature. We feel at peace knowing we do not have to prove anything to anyone. We feel comfortable knowing we are not perfect, and this makes it easier for us to let down our guard and accept ourselves as we are. This also enables us, as a ripple effect, to be more present and naturally accepting and loving toward others. When we are accepting of our own imperfections and loving toward ourselves, it becomes natural to extend that same acceptance and love to others. The nature of pure love is giving rather than expecting, and this changes our dynamic in relationships.
This understanding doesn’t require any special experiences or practices. It’s available to us in every moment of daily life, in every challenge, in every choice to look within rather than outside ourselves for what we’re truly seeking. Meditation practices help us through this self-awareness journey and help us become comfortable with ourselves. They allow us to see ourselves through a lens of detachment, helping us be more loving and gentler toward ourselves.
The journey inward is the journey home to who we’ve always been.
Some people carry grace like a quiet strength, touching the lives around them through simple, daily acts of love. In my husband’s mother – Amma – I discovered a woman whose beauty runs far deeper than what meets the eye, whose generous heart has shaped not just her family but everyone fortunate enough to witness her way of living.
When I first entered this family as a young bride, I was struck by more than just Amma’s natural beauty. There was something in the way she moved through her world – purposeful, caring, always thinking of others before herself. Over the years, what began as admiration has grown into deep respect and genuine affection.
In her, I found a mentor whose actions spoke louder than any words of advice.
The Art of Grace
There’s something almost magical about walking into Amma’s home. No matter when you arrive – whether it’s been planned for weeks or you’ve shown up unexpectedly – everything is immaculate. Not the cold perfection of a showroom, but the warm, lived-in cleanliness that speaks of care and respect.
In those early years of marriage, I was amazed by this aspect of her life. Despite her workload, despite being tired after long days, she ensured her work was done and, most importantly, that her space reflected the care she felt for her family. Her home wasn’t just clean – it was organized with a thoughtfulness that made everything feel intentional.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand her philosophy about our surroundings. The place around us is the one thing we can have control over, and when we keep it with neatness and care, that’s how we respect our space and ourselves.
I watched her live this philosophy every single day. She kept her things organized not out of obsession, but out of love. What I’ve always admired about Amma is her ability to not procrastinate or push things to a later date – she gets things done because she thinks it’s important. This applies not just to keeping her surroundings clean, but to everything in her life. She always dresses very neatly, presents herself with care, and tackles tasks without delay. This is another quality I can see clearly in my husband – he learned from her that important things shouldn’t be postponed.
Every time I visit India, even now when she and Appa are in their later years, I’m still amazed by how neat and tidy their house remains. Despite their age, their home still reflects that same grace and attention to detail.
What amazes me about Amma is her memory – it’s sharper than mine, and I’m much younger than her. She remembers details about conversations, events, and people that happened years ago. She even remembers exactly where things are placed in the house. She recalls exactly what was said, who was there, what was served. Her incredible memory helps her keep track of everyone she loves.
This became one of my greatest inspirations. Through witnessing her actions – never through words of instruction – I learned how keeping our space clean helps our minds feel clearer, more peaceful. I try to follow this lesson she taught me, though I often fall short of her standard of grace.
A Heart That Overflows
If there’s one thing that defines Amma’s approach to life, it’s abundance – not material abundance, but an abundance of heart. This shows most clearly in her kitchen, where no meal is ever planned for just the right number of people.
“It’s better to have more than for someone to have less,” I’ve come to understand this is her philosophy, and I’ve watched her live by this principle for over two decades. When guests come – whether it’s two people or ten – she always cooks extra. Always. I used to think this was just careful planning, but I came to understand it’s something deeper. It’s her way of showing love through provision, of ensuring that no one who enters her home ever feels there isn’t enough.
What moves me most is how she approaches her own needs. Every single day, Amma eats last. After making sure everyone in the family has had everything they need, after serving seconds and checking that everyone is satisfied, only then does she sit down to her own meal. I’ve tried countless times to negotiate with her about this, to convince her to eat with the rest of us, but I’ve lost every single one of these gentle battles.
This generosity extends beyond food. She gives of herself in countless small ways – remembering exactly how her family members like their coffee, ensuring their favorite dishes are prepared, thinking ahead to what might make their visits more comfortable. Her heart overflows with care for those closest to her.
Kitchen Companions
Some of my happiest memories with Amma happen in the kitchen. There’s something special about working alongside her – the easy rhythm we fall into, the way we can cook together without getting in each other’s way. She became not just my teacher but my companion in creating meals for the family.
In those early years of marriage, her kitchen became my classroom. Not through formal lessons, but through watching, trying, and gradually understanding the subtle art of South Indian cooking. Her cooking has so much taste, so much depth of flavor, and I learned by standing beside her, observing how she balanced spices, how she knew exactly when each dish was ready.
What meant so much to me was how she would encourage me when I cooked something she enjoyed. Coming from someone so experienced in the kitchen, her appreciation gave me confidence to keep trying new dishes and flavors.
But our connection goes beyond cooking techniques. We’re both women who love to enjoy life, who find pleasure in good food and good company. What I discovered about Amma is how beautifully spontaneous she is. Many times, in the middle of an ordinary day, I’d turn to her with a sudden idea.
“Would you be interested in going out to eat?” I’d ask, and she would always say yes with such enthusiasm. Off we’d go – two women who shared a love for trying different foods, for the simple pleasure of eating something delicious without having to cook it ourselves.
Amma enjoys chaat – those wonderful North Indian snacks – and South Indian foods with equal enthusiasm. Be it food outings or watching movies together – another common interest we share – these became some of our best bonding moments.
What made our relationship so easy from the beginning was discovering that Amma, despite being from an older generation, wasn’t rigid or overly orthodox in her ways. She was ritualistic, yes, but in a practical way that worked for our family rather than being bound by tradition for tradition’s sake. This was such a blessing for me as a young bride – being someone who also isn’t too rigid or overly ritualistic, I found in her a kindred spirit who valued substance over strict adherence to form.
The Family Keeper
Amma carries the stories of her entire family in her heart. She’s deeply attached not just to her own children, but to the family she married into and her extended family – her brothers and their families. When she speaks of them, which she does often, it’s always with warmth and affection. I’ve never heard her say anything negative about any family member. Instead, she focuses on their positives, their kindness, the ways they’ve touched her life.
Through her stories, I’ve come to know these relatives as real people with beautiful qualities. She remembers all the small things someone has done for her – a thoughtful gesture from decades ago, a moment of kindness during a difficult time. Her gratitude runs deep, and she carries these memories like treasures.
Her love for her grandchildren is something truly special to witness. When my children were young and she and Appa would visit us here, the house would transform with her presence. She didn’t just babysit – she played with them, engaged with them, created a bond that my children still cherish.
I can still picture her playing card games with them, and she brought the same competitive spirit to these games that she had with the adults. She would playfully hide the jokers, keep a perfect poker face, and tease her young opponents with that mischievous glint in her eye. What I loved watching was how she never gave up her competitive edge just because they were children – she played with the same interest and determination, making the games genuinely challenging and exciting for them. She was an expert at card games, and even with her grandchildren, she played to win while making sure everyone had fun.
When they were toddlers, she would spend hours making their favorite pureed foods, taking such care to prepare exactly what they loved. She would sit with them during cartoon time, patiently feeding them spoonful by spoonful, completely absorbed in making sure they were well-nourished and happy and equally enjoying with them their favorite shows. Even now, years later, her first concern when the grandchildren visit is whether they’re hungry. She’ll immediately start thinking of what to cook for them, what would make them feel most loved and cared for.
Her cooking was aromatic, filling the house with wonderful scents. She made sure her grandchildren experienced the tastes and comfort of traditional South Indian foods she grew up with.
Lessons Without Words
The most powerful teachings often come not through lectures or advice, but through quiet examples. Amma taught me about life simply by living hers with such grace and intention.
From her, I learned that cleanliness and organization aren’t about perfection – they’re about creating a peaceful space where love can flourish. I learned that hospitality isn’t about having the fanciest things, but about making people feel genuinely welcomed and cared for.
I can see her influence clearly in my husband – the way he keeps things organized, his natural cleanliness, his attention to neatness. These aren’t traits he consciously learned; they’re simply part of who he is because of the mother who raised him.
Amma has other passions that bring her joy – she loves playing Sudoku and puzzle games, exercising her sharp mind with challenges that keep her engaged. I can see where my husband and children inherited their love for puzzles and mental games.
A Heart Full of Gratitude
As I write this memoir as a birthday gift for Amma, I reflect on the woman she is and the many ways she has touched our family’s life.
What I’ve come to appreciate is how we’ve both grown in our understanding of each other over the years. Family relationships aren’t always simple, but there’s something valuable in learning to honor the good we see in each other.
Amma, as you celebrate another year of life, I want you to know how much your devotion to your children and grandchildren means to all of us. You’ve also been there during my difficult moments, listening with patience and understanding. That quiet support meant more to me than you might know.
I see how lovingly you care for Appa, always making sure he’s comfortable and has everything he needs. I find that very inspiring.
Your son carries your best qualities – your sense of organization, your attention to detail, your love of family. Your grandchildren light up when they remember those card games and the special foods you made just for them.
You’ve shown me what it means to maintain a graceful home, to care deeply for family, and to find joy in simple pleasures like a good meal shared or a challenging game of cards.
On this special day, I celebrate the gift of having witnessed your love for your family over all these years. May this new year bring you continued health, happiness, and many more moments of joy with those you hold most dear.
A Poem for you, Amma
Sweet moments with grandchildren, laughter we share, Your love for adventure takes you everywhere. Amma, you’ve touched our lives in countless ways, A life lived with purpose, a heart full of light.
As you celebrate another year of this beautiful life, We honor the woman, the mother, the wife. May this birthday bring joy, health, and cheer, To someone we cherish and hold very dear.
Have you ever gone to a movie theater by yourself? Bought that big bucket of popcorn, settled into your seat, and watched exactly what you wanted to see – no negotiations, no compromises? Have you ever taken yourself to your favorite restaurant, ordered your go-to dish, and simply enjoyed your own company?
I call it dating yourself. And it’s one of the most liberating things I’ve discovered in my thirties.
It all started when my bestie shared how much she loved going to theaters on her own. Something about that struck a chord in me. Her simple joy in choosing her own movie, her own time, without negotiation or compromise, inspired something in me I hadn’t realized I was missing.
My husband has always been wonderfully loving and surprising – he still is. This isn’t about lacking love in my life; it’s about discovering an additional layer of fulfillment I didn’t know I needed.
When I first tried going to a movie alone, I felt a rush of freedom I hadn’t expected. Just me, my popcorn, and exactly the story I wanted to lose myself in. The same goes for restaurants. Sitting alone at a table, ordering exactly what I’m craving, taking my time – it’s not lonely. It’s intentional. It’s caring for myself in the most direct way possible.
I used to wait for others to make my birthday special, to remember Valentine’s Day, to surprise me with thoughtful gestures. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was placing a heavy burden on the people I love – expecting them to be mind readers, to fulfill needs I hadn’t even clearly expressed.
Now? Every Valentine’s Day and every birthday, I take myself on a proper date. I plan exactly what I want to do, buy things that make me happy, celebrate who I am and who I’m becoming. It’s become my annual tradition – one I genuinely look forward to. And you know what’s beautiful about this shift? When my loved ones do surprise me – with a hug, a smile, a gift, a dinner invitation – it feels like pure joy instead of that craving or wondering within me about what they might do or give. They’ve always given out of love, but now I receive their gestures without the weight of expectation. When I do receive their loving gifts this way – already fulfilled and content – it’s pure bonus joy, free from any sense of need or demand. It makes me truly grateful for all the love I’m receiving, in a way I never was before.
I’ve learned to tell my husband exactly what would make me happy, without the guessing games. “I’d love a surprise,” I’ll say, “It could be anything.” And he delivers, every time, because there’s clarity now instead of pressure.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how crucial it is to be comfortable with our own company – not just as we age, but throughout our lives. We need to know who we are when no one else is around. We need to enjoy our own thoughts, our own interests, our own dreams.
This isn’t about becoming isolated. It’s about building a strong foundation of self-knowledge and self-care that makes us better partners, parents, and friends. When we’re not constantly running from ourselves or depending on others to fill every emotional need, we can love more freely and authentically.
When we take responsibility for our own happiness, something beautiful happens. The people in our lives can love us without the pressure of being our sole source of joy. Their gestures become gifts instead of obligations. Their presence becomes chosen rather than needed.
And when life inevitably brings changes – when children grow up and need us less, when relationships shift, when we face the natural solitude that comes with aging – we’re ready. We’ve already built a loving relationship with the person who will be with us through it all: ourselves.
I was talking to a friend recently about how much I enjoy spending time with myself, and as I spoke, I realized how transformative this journey has been. Learning to be my own companion hasn’t just made me more independent, it’s brought me a deeper peace. Less expectation, more fulfillment. I’ve become happier because I’m not waiting for others to fill a void; I’m already whole.
When I do need something from others, I simply ask. And I’m grateful that my family is supportive of this approach. There’s clarity now instead of resentment, requests instead of demands.
This is simply my story, my way of finding peace and fulfillment. I wanted to share how this approach has changed my life, how it’s helped me love the people around me more freely, and how it’s brought me to a place of genuine happiness.
When we learn to be our own providers of joy, when we stop placing the burden of our happiness entirely on others’ shoulders, something shifts. The love we receive becomes a beautiful addition to our lives rather than a desperate need.
Dating yourself isn’t about being alone; it’s about being whole. It’s about those solo movie nights, those birthday celebrations you plan with excitement, those honest conversations where you simply ask for what you want. It’s about finding that quiet confidence that comes from truly enjoying who you are.
Sometimes the most important realizations come from the simplest conversations with friends – moments when we suddenly see how much we’ve grown, how much peace we’ve found, and how beautiful it is to just be ourselves.
This morning, after I fed the birds in the little park area in front of our home, I sat down to meditate near the trees. I watched these little birds come and eat, and I felt so happy I lost track of time.
There’s a crow who visits my balcony every morning for his feed. He once came into our home through the open balcony door, cawing to remind me it was feeding time.
There were times when I used to feel lonely. But now, with the crow visiting me and me feeding the birds, I realize no one is really alone. We’re all here together. We’re so connected.
I feel this is such a blessing. I feel connected to these beings, like I belong with them. The land where I feed the birds isn’t mine in the human sense, but I can still feed them there. The birds aren’t confined to me, but I still feel like we belong to each other. The trees aren’t confined to me either, but I feel I belong alongside them.
When we belong and coexist, there is no sense of controlling or owning. We’re living with them as family.
That’s when it hit me – I had it backwards. I used to think I needed to own things to truly enjoy them. Like the times I felt if I had a bigger outdoor area, I could have a bird feeder hanging in my garden or grow more plants and flowers to enjoy. But the truth is, I don’t need to own anything. Everything already belongs to me. The whole world belongs to all of us.
It really does feel like we all belong to it. The trees, the birds, the sky, the water – it’s all just there for me, for all of us. We belong to it, and it belongs to us.
I feel such abundance, such richness – not because I possess anything, but because I have access to everything through belonging. Everything is given to us without needing to grasp or control it.
I feel immense gratitude to our Creator for providing us with all that we need – everything is already given – and for all the beauty that’s already there for us to enjoy.
We can still grow plants or take care of our animal friends in our space, but that doesn’t restrict our sense of belonging to the vastness of creation.
This thought made me feel so vast, so free. I felt truly happy – not because I had something, but because I let go of needing to have it. The happiness comes from not controlling, not owning, just being and connecting.
We’re so blessed. We have this entire world, and we can experience it as belonging to us while we belong to it. When we see it that way, everything changes. We want to take care of it. We want to coexist with each other because we’re all part of this same beautiful belonging.
This is such a beautiful reminder to step out into nature whenever we feel down or alone – to realize the beauty and peace that nature offers, reminding us we’re never truly alone.
We’re all family, belonging to this unlimited creation – a gift of God’s unlimited love flowing through everything around us.
I must have been quite young, about 6-7 years, when I visited my father’s uncle in Adoni, a small city in Andhra Pradesh. That was the early 1980s, and their neighborhood had rows of small, tiled houses where everyone knew each other. It was a simpler time – not much of city development, just a close-knit community where neighbors seemed to care for each other. Their house was simple – a small house with a tiled roof with just three small rooms: a living room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom. What fascinated me most was the little room on the tiled roof that you could climb up to reach. It felt like a secret hideaway in that modest home.
They didn’t have a bathroom inside the house. Instead, we used the communal street bathroom. As a child accustomed to indoor bathrooms, this was genuinely difficult for me, but I managed. My parents had taught us to adjust gracefully when staying with others, to not make the hosts uncomfortable. They had shown my siblings and me that love and kindness mattered beyond anything.
Adoni Thatha (that’s how I called him) was a happy man who always lovingly addressed me as “Bangaru” (gold). He had this innocence about him and the way he laughed. He had a positivity that even as a young girl, I could feel – perhaps because I had experienced the absence of such warmth before. I felt happier around him and safe.
Looking back, I realize he was the first grandfather figure I felt connected to. Both my grandfathers had passed away before I was born. Even though we did not interact much, the time with him felt like being with my own grandfather.
What I remember most vividly is the Adoni upma that Avva (his wife, grandmother in my language) would make for me. I remember Thatha would rave about this food as it is a traditional food of the city and told me I would love it. He had asked his wife to make this for me. It is my favorite to this day. This south Indian upma was made with puffed rice that was soaked in water and drained. It was made mostly the usual way of making upma but at the end garnished with crushed roasted gram dal and roasted peanuts.
The Parrot with the Broken Wing
One of the most beautiful memories from that visit was a green parrot that Adoni Thatha cared for. This bird had fallen and broken its leg, and I watched how tenderly he took care of it. He kept the parrot in a cage to help it heal. He would take the bird out, wrap its leg with a bandage, and talk to it lovingly. He allowed me to play with the bird, and he would become like a child himself, playing and feeding it.
What touched me even more was learning later – months or maybe years after my visit – that once the parrot’s leg had completely healed, he set it free. This was one of the earliest memories I have of kindness to an animal that stayed with me. Even though he loved the bird dearly, he chose to let it fly away when it was ready. His love for the bird meant wanting it to be free.
Community Friendship
Adoni Avva was equally wonderful. I remember accompanying her as she worked with other women in the community, making cotton threads for lighting lamps in the temple. I don’t remember exactly what I did during those gatherings, but I remember I would observe how it is done and she let me weave a few cotton threads and taught me how to.
I would tag along when she went to visit her friends. As a child, I remember enjoying just observing the surroundings and soaking in the newness of the experiences.
What Children Remember
Looking back now, I realize something profound: children remember kindness above all else. Despite the uncomfortable bathroom situation, despite being in an unfamiliar place with relative strangers, what stayed with me was love.
I wasn’t there with my parents and siblings – it was just me in that small house with these caring people who made sure I felt welcomed, fed, and included. They could have seen my visit as an inconvenience, but instead they treated me, a little girl, like a treasured guest.
They took me around the community, introduced me to their world, and shared their simple but meaningful life with an open heart. In their small house, they made sure I had everything I needed to feel at home.
These memories have stayed with me, not because of any grand gesture or expensive gifts, but because of the genuine warmth I felt in that little house in Adoni. It taught me that hospitality isn’t about having the perfect home or the finest things – it’s about making someone feel truly seen, loved, and valued, and genuinely welcomed with your whole heart.
Pavitra had always believed that truth was enough. That if you were honest, if your intentions were pure, people would see that. Especially family. Especially the people who claimed to love you most.
But sometimes truth isn’t enough when people have already decided what they want to believe.
The Innocent Mistake
It started so innocently. Pavitra was managing the WhatsApp group for the community volunteer cleanup project when she saw a notification about her son Arjun’s friend, Vikram, who had helped with the last event. Without really thinking – just quickly trying to add helpful volunteers while managing multiple tasks – she accidentally added Vikram to the group chat.
Within minutes, Arjun was storming into the room, his face flushed with anger.
“Mom, what is wrong with you?” he said, his voice sharp and disrespectful. “Why are you adding my friends to random group chats? You’re making Vikram feel obligated to volunteer when he never asked for this. You’re crossing boundaries!”
Pavitra looked up from her phone in confusion. “Arjun, it was completely accidental. I was quickly adding people and …”
“That’s impossible,” he cut her off, his tone harsh in a way that made her heart sink. “You don’t accidentally add someone to a group. You had to search for his name, select it, and click add. You’re lying about this being an accident.”
“I can show you exactly how it happened,” Pavitra said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the familiar panic rising in her chest. “It was literally a matter of seconds; I was moving quickly through contacts and …”
“Stop lying to me!” His voice was cruel, cutting. “You did this deliberately and now you’re making up excuses. Just admit what you did!”
“Arjun, I’m sorry this happened,” Pavitra said, her voice breaking slightly. “It was completely an accident – it happened in a matter of seconds while I was managing the list. I’ll remove Vikram right now and let him know it was a mistake.”
But even her immediate apology and offer to fix the situation wasn’t enough. Arjun continued to glare at her with that look of disgust, as if she had committed some terrible crime instead of making an innocent mistake.
She found herself wondering – why was he making such a big deal out of this? Why was he speaking to her with such disrespect over something that could be so easily resolved? Was this just how this generation handled conflicts – with immediate accusations and refusal to accept explanations? Or was this something deeper, something about how he saw her, how he valued her feelings?
The questions swirled in her mind as she watched her son’s face, searching for any sign – some part of her son that could trust her, even a bit of willingness to give his mother the benefit of the doubt in that moment.
The Betrayal of Silence
What happened next shattered something inside Pavitra. Her husband, hearing the raised voices, came over and instead of asking for her side of the story or addressing Arjun’s disrespectful tone, immediately began trying to smooth things over.
“Arjun, calm down,” her husband said, but his next words cut deeper than his son’s accusations. “And Pavitra, maybe you should give the boys some space with their friendships. You know how sensitive these relationships can be at their age.”
The betrayal was complete. Not only was her husband not defending her against being called a liar by their own son, but he was also suggesting she was somehow in the wrong for accidentally adding a friend to a volunteer group.
This was no longer just about a group chat or volunteer list. When your own son calls you a liar and your husband sides with him instead of you, when they choose his comfort over your dignity, when they let him disrespect you in your own home – it becomes about everything that matters: respect, trust, and whether your feelings have any value in your own family.
Old Wounds, Fresh Pain
As Pavitra stood there, watching her husband smooth things over and her son avoid eye contact, she felt that familiar sensation – the walls closing in, the ground shifting beneath her feet. She had been here before. Different situation, same feeling of being utterly alone while surrounded by people who claimed to love her.
Years of similar moments came flooding back. Times when she had been misunderstood, when she had to defend her truth to deaf ears, when keeping the peace was more important than protecting her dignity. The accumulation of all those times when she had swallowed her hurt for the sake of family harmony.
Pavitra felt angry, upset and could not help crying and felt a panic. Her anxiety rose. Her voice rose and she began feeling out of control.
“I know what I did and why I did it,” she said angrily, her voice unsteady following the growing storm inside. “It was an accident that happened in seconds while I was managing the volunteer group. But if you’ve decided I’m a liar, nothing I say will change that.”
That day, Pavitra found herself eating emotionally, seeking comfort in food when comfort from family wasn’t there. She stayed away from them, spending time outside, trying to process the weight of feeling so alone in her own home.
The Loneliness of Being Right
Later that evening, after Arjun had stormed off to his room and the group chat issue had been “resolved” with apologies and Vikram being removed from the group, Pavitra sat alone in her kitchen. Her family had moved on as if nothing had happened. Her husband was watching TV and her son in his room.
But she couldn’t move on. Not from being called a liar when she had told the truth. Not from watching her family choose the path of least resistance instead of standing up for her. Not from the realization that in their eyes, her feelings mattered less than avoiding conflict.
She thought about all the times she had intervened when someone disrespected her family. How natural it felt to be a moral support for the people she loved, and how important it felt for her family to be heard, understood and be happy.
Why didn’t they feel that same instinct for her?
The Weight of Invisible Pain
The hardest part wasn’t even the accusation or the misunderstanding. It was Pavitra’s wondering – how could this happen? How could everyone just get over it and expect her to get over it too? How could they expect her to be okay and just be fine, to accept the disrespect without any apology, as if nothing had happened?
It was the way her pain became invisible the moment it became inconvenient.
Pavitra wondered if this was about a lack of empathy – the inability to put themselves in her shoes and truly understand what she was feeling. Could they see her pain and still choose the easier path? Was it about seeking quick comfort rather than going deeper into understanding what really happened? Was it about avoiding the emotional work of truly supporting each other through difficult moments?
Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t care – maybe they just didn’t know how to handle the messiness of someone else’s pain when it felt easier to smooth things over and move on.
But she also realized something else: her truth didn’t need their validation to be real. Her worth didn’t depend on their recognition. And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply know your own heart, even when no one else seems to.
Moving Forward
That night, Pavitra wrote in her journal:
“Today I learned that some battles you fight alone, even when you’re surrounded by family. Today I learned that my truth belongs to me, whether others choose to see it or not. Today I learned that sometimes the people who should stand with you will choose comfort instead, and that doesn’t make you wrong – it just makes you strong.”
She didn’t know how to heal the hurt yet. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap between her need to be believed and their need to avoid conflict. But she knew she wouldn’t apologize for expecting basic respect from the people who claimed to love her.
She did realize deep within that the hurt she felt came from the expectations on how people need to be in her eyes. The moment she lets go of the expectations, she can be set free and there will be clarity, forgiveness and peace in her heart. She knows it is a matter of time when she will seek His help to let go of the expectation and be at peace. No one is responsible for her happiness except herself.
And maybe, just maybe, that understanding and insight is enough for now.
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