As Mental Health Awareness Month prompts us to reflect on what truly nurtures our wellbeing, I find myself thinking about relationships – specifically, the ones that, despite our best efforts, aren’t meant to last.
I recently faced this with someone who once meant a great deal to me. After experiencing hurt, I valued the relationship enough to offer peace, to make things lighter, to do my best from my end. I genuinely tried to nurture what we had, hoping we could rebuild what was lost. Yet despite these sincere efforts, I eventually realized something important: sometimes the same patterns that caused the initial hurt remain, even after forgiveness has been offered and accepted.
Some relationships naturally drift apart, as though they were never truly meant to endure. The pattern can be particularly painful: a relationship forms, hurt occurs, distance grows, forgiveness follows, reconnection happens… only for the same cycle to repeat itself months or years later.
What I’ve learned about mental health through this experience is profound. Our inner voice often whispers the truth long before we’re ready to hear it. That feeling of something not being quite right – that’s wisdom trying to protect us.
I believe that prioritizing mental health means honoring those internal signals. It means recognizing when a connection depletes rather than replenishes us. It’s not about blame or holding grudges; it’s about acknowledging the reality of what is, rather than clinging to what we hoped could be.
Not every relationship that enters our life is meant to remain there permanently. Some connections serve their purpose for a season, teaching us necessary lessons before we continue separate paths.
The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is that forgiveness doesn’t obligate us to restore a relationship that repeatedly shows itself to be unhealthy.
I don’t believe we should forget the experiences that have shaped us. Each relationship – even the painful ones – has contributed to who we are today. These moments have taught us about boundaries, about ourselves, about what we truly need from connections that deserve space in our lives.
The journey toward better mental health often involves making peace with the reality that some chapters in our story are meant to close. This isn’t failure – it’s growth.
As Mental Health Awareness Month reminds us, we must come first in our own lives.
The greatest responsibility we have is to nurture our own wellbeing. No one else carries this responsibility for us – it is ours alone.
Sometimes, protecting that wellbeing means making thoughtful decisions about which relationships deserve our continued investment, which ones should be honored from a distance, and which should be released entirely.
This is crucial to our mental health – recognizing what brings us peace versus what disturbs it, acknowledging those feelings, and honoring them instead of pushing them aside. There’s wisdom in our discomfort that deserves to be heard.
There’s profound courage in recognizing when a relationship consistently disrupts your peace. Sometimes the most compassionate choice – both for yourself and the other person – is to release the expectation that things will be different next time.
Forgiveness doesn’t always mean restoration. Sometimes, it simply means freedom – the freedom to wish someone well on their journey while continuing your own, unburdened by regret or obligation.
In honoring our mental health, we learn that some of the most important boundaries we’ll ever set are the ones that protect our peace, even when others don’t understand. And that’s not just okay – it’s essential.
What have you realized about relationships that has been crucial for your mental health? What wisdom has your journey taught you about the connection between healthy boundaries and wellbeing?
Every time she shares these childhood memories – even though I’ve heard them countless times – I find myself filled with the same joy and wonder that lights up her face. I have gathered here some of the stories she has shared with me over the years. I never grow tired of listening to these tales. Instead, I am marveled at the innocence and plain adoration she has for her siblings. Watching her describe these incidents with such delight, even now at seventy-two, fills me with gratitude for her, for her upbringing, and for the joy she carries through life.
In a recent video call, my mother narrated her times with her siblings. Even though I listened to many of these stories before, I was delighted and engaged in her stories, smiling at her enthusiastic narrations of her childhood times with her cute expressions.
My mother with her younger brother Subi Mama
My mom Lakshmi’s face lights up when she talks about her family. At seventy-two, she still giggles like a child when she mentions Subi Mama, her younger brother and partner in mischief. When she speaks of Vicha Mama (Vishwanathan), her elder brother who was thirteen years older, she transforms into a respectful student, still in awe of his wisdom. And then there’s Balamma, whom we lovingly call Pedhamma (which means “elder mother” in Telugu), who was 15 years older than my mother and whose quiet strength has inspired us all.
When Mom talks about her brothers, her whole face changes. Stories about Subi Mama bring out her playful side – she smiles and laughs with that same childhood mischief in her eyes. But when she speaks of Vicha Mama, she becomes almost reverent – still grateful for her brother’s loving guidance.
My mother’s elder brother Vicha Mama
The Salt Surprise
When my mother was a little girl, she had a sweet tooth that often got her into trouble. Whenever she thought no one was looking, her small hands would sneak into the sugar box. She’d keep watch at the door while quickly scooping sugar into her mouth, enjoying her secret treat.
What she didn’t know was that Vicha Mama, her elder brother who was studying to be a doctor, had noticed her sugar stealing. One day, he quietly switched the sugar and salt containers.
That afternoon, when my mother dipped her fingers into what she thought was sugar, her face twisted in shock as salt filled her mouth.
“You think you had sugar,” Vicha Mama said, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a stern face hiding a hint of a smile. “But now it’s salt. I know what you’ve been doing, all that stealing.”
He made her finish what was in her mouth. “You need to swallow it all,” he said firmly.
Tears filled my mother’s eyes as she swallowed, but the lesson stuck with her forever. It wasn’t meant to be cruel – it was Vicha Mama’s way of teaching her to be honest, even when nobody seemed to be watching.
She is 72 years old now and still sneaks sugar and candies when we’re not looking. I’ll catch her with a sweet in her mouth, and she’ll give me that same guilty smile from her childhood stories.
Sweet Mango Days
Summer meant mangoes – sweet and juicy. Vicha Mama would hand-pick the ripest ones and bring them home for his younger siblings. My mother and Subi Mama would sit together eating mangoes, juice dripping down their chins, giggling as they enjoyed their treat.
“This is the best thing in the world even with the fiber that gets stuck in your teeth, it made it even more fun,” my mother would say, with those naughty eyes. I never understood how she could be so excited about something that left strings between your teeth, but her enthusiasm was infectious.
But one day, my mother got suspicious. She thought her elder brother was keeping the biggest, juiciest mangoes for himself. When no one was looking, she stole a large, perfect-looking mango from his room.
Her excitement quickly turned to disappointment when her first bite revealed it was sour and unripe. Before she could hide the evidence, Vicha Mama found her.
“Why don’t you wait for me to give you the best mango?” he asked, looking disappointed but not angry. “The best mangoes have wrinkles on the skin – that means they’re sweet. The big, smooth ones are usually sour.”
He made her eat the entire mango, teaching her another lesson: patience is virtue.
Learning Order from Chaos
Vicha Mama believed in teaching his siblings how to take care of themselves. On Saturday afternoons, he would empty their cupboards, throwing all the clothes on the floor in what looked like a mess. But he had a plan.
“Watch carefully,” he would say, showing them exactly how to fold each piece of clothing. “By the time I come back, everything needs to be back in the cupboard, neatly organized.”
Even the freshly ironed clothes weren’t spared from this weekly lesson. My mother and Subi Mama would work together, their small hands learning to transform disorder into harmony. These Saturday organizing sessions became a kind of ritual – first the chaos, then the teamwork, and finally the satisfaction of a job well done.
Penmanship and Character
“Your handwriting must be neat and very clear. It must reflect your mind,” Vicha Mama once told my mother, and she took this to heart.
He taught his little sister to leave exactly one little finger’s width between each word. He would watch as she practiced, gently guiding her hand across the page. “Make each letter clear,” he would say.
Today, at seventy-two, my mother’s handwriting is still beautiful – whether she’s writing in English, Telugu, or Tamil. Each letter is carefully formed, each word has its proper space. Her writing isn’t just words on paper – it’s a kind of art that shows how clearly she thinks.
Watching her write even a simple note is like watching someone who has practiced the same careful movements for decades. Her pen moves smoothly, never rushing. I marvel at her patience in enjoying the writing process – something never meant to be done quickly – in our world of quick typing and text messages.
Learning Self-Reliance
When school started each year, my mother and Subi Mama would first ask their house helper to cover their books with brown paper and put on neat labels. When her elder brother found out about this, he decided it was time for another lesson.
“You’re old enough to do this yourselves,” he told them, my mother studying in ninth grade at that time.
Step by step, he showed them how to measure the paper, make clean folds, and secure the corners. “From now on, you’ll do this yourselves,” he said.
This skill stayed with my mother her whole life. Years later, I would watch in amazement as she covered our schoolbooks with the same careful attention, neatly binding them. Those bindings weren’t just neat – they stayed strong and firm throughout the school year, protecting our books through daily wear and countless openings.
Paper Bits in the Breeze
While Vicha Mama was the teacher, my mother found a best friend in her younger brother, Subi Mama. When their parents would go out to see a movie, the siblings would say:
“Oh, you go. We’ll be fine at home” with angelic faces masking the playful schemes already forming in their minds.
Once alone, they would tear paper into tiny pieces, gather them in their hands, and run outside to throw them into the air, watching the bits float like snow. They never got caught for these small adventures, their shared secret bringing them closer together.
In the 50s and 60s, when social media was not part of the world and with many homes not having a television, children found creative ways to spend their time and play. I would say back then there was more quality time spent with each other, and people had a lot more time appreciating the little things in life.
As they grew up, their connection stayed just as strong. Being separated by less than two years in age helped them see each other not just as siblings but as true confidants. They became each other’s trusted friends, protectors, and supporters through life’s journey – their deep bond nurtured by those childhood conspiracies.
Strength Through Silence
My mother with her eldest sister (my mother on left, Pedhamma on the right)
Apart from these childhood adventures was Balamma, my mother’s eldest sister. Married young, as was common then, Pedhamma only appears in my mother’s early memories as a visitor who came home with her young son during vacations. But her influence on our family was deep and lasting.
Pedhamma’s life was filled with heartbreak – a genetic disease in her husband’s family took not only her husband but two of her children as well. As a single mother, she faced these terrible losses and many other hardships with a quiet dignity that touched everyone who knew her.
What made Pedhamma so special wasn’t just that she survived these troubles, but that she never felt sorry for herself or became bitter. She never complained, never acted like a victim, never let her own pain stop her from loving others. She would cry for someone else’s problems before even mentioning her own, facing each new challenge with quiet strength and dignity instead of giving up.
When my mother or her siblings had problems in their own lives, they would think of their eldest sister. Their troubles would suddenly seem smaller compared to what she had been through and how gracefully she handled it all.
Today, Pedhamma’s memory lives on in our family. Her name stands for accepting life’s hardships with dignity – not by giving up, but by acknowledging reality in a way that lets you move forward without being defined by your troubles. She showed them that real strength isn’t about avoiding hard times, but about how you carry yourself through them. Her perseverance, patience and love showed all of us how to accept life’s challenges and act from the place of now.
Stories that Bind Us
My childhood summers were filled with fun and excitement of meeting my cousins and staying at my Mamas’ and Pedhamma’s.
At Vicha Mama’s, I’d bubble with excitement as he’d greet me at Warangal station with that precious flask of vanilla ice cream – a small gesture that made me feel so special.
My time at Pedhamma’s house created another kind of joy – simple, happy times spent playing with neighborhood children, exploring freely in a loving space under the watchful eyes of my mother’s eldest sister. Pedhamma spoke little but loved deeply – strict yet never judgmental. Her quiet way of showing affection created a peaceful haven I looked forward to every school break.
Then there were the magical stays at Subi Mama’s home in Bhimli. His house, surrounded by mango trees in the ashram grounds, became my childhood paradise. The sound of ocean waves in the nights felt soothing and shifted us to a place of calmness. There was nothing like the thrill of climbing those mango trees with my cousins or playing hide-and-seek within that big compound.
Even now, when my mother and Subi Mama get together, the years fall away and they become those children again – the ones who once threw paper bits into the summer breeze. When she tells stories about their mischief, her eyes light up with that same playful sparkle, her laughter as fresh as it must have been back then. And when she talks about Vicha Mama, her voice fills with the same respect and love she’s felt her whole life for the brother who taught her so many important lessons – sometimes strict, always loving, forever shaping the person she became.
In my mother’s life at seventy-two, her relationships with her siblings remain the strongest foundation in her life. Their love for each other, the playfulness, and wisdom continue to influence not just her, but all of us who came after. The reverence we children feel for our Mamas and Pedhamma mirrors what my mother feels for her own siblings – a cycle of love and respect that continues through generations.
The stories she shares now – about sugar turned to salt, about sour and sweet mangoes, about paper pieces floating in the wind – are more than just childhood memories. They form the foundation of who she is. There is a special joy in watching my mother become a child again, her face lighting up as she relives these precious moments from her past.
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