I remember scrolling in bed through Instagram after a particularly exhausting day with my toddler and a particularly toxic day at work. I was underappreciated at work once again. Unfairly demanded of once again. Not so secretly burnt out yet again. And on that same day, I was clung to for dear life by my toddler. Demanded hours of entertainment and fun. I can’t call that unfair, can I? What does he know about my burnout?

During my scroll, I remember watching a video of a woman emerging out of a jeep in sweats and a camouflage top, with something that looked like blood pooled around the lower half of her body. And then with her emerged only men. Brute men with machine guns. They put her in the boot of a car and off they went. This was my introduction to the 7th October Hamas attack in Israel. I will never forget that scene. My already crumbling nervous system, I think, permanently went into shock that day.

But that wasn’t the end. I didn’t learn. I kept scrolling. The Gaza war started. I kept coming across photos, videos and sounds of babies, of children, of the wailing mothers, of the fathers finding pieces of their children. And I kept watching. I kept crying. My body kept absorbing.

Till one day, I decided to create distance between myself and the world. My little house with thick walls is where we were going to live happily ever after. Away from the wars, the crimes, the injustices, the wailing mothers.

And then a massive earthquake shook that too.

A 7.7, completely uncommon in my part of the world, that shook my apartment and took pieces of the walls down with it, rattling the doors like I had never heard before. My heart rate went up to 170. I remember seeing it on my smartwatch. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. We all took refuge in a parking lot. The only thought in my head was my two year old, who had blissfully slept through all of it. I couldn’t cry in front of him. I had to hold it together.

We stayed the night in a hotel because aftershocks were expected. The government opened up the parks for people with damaged houses or those away from home. That’s where I really wanted to be. With others who might be feeling the same. To take comfort in not feeling it alone.

The days that followed were the hardest. The world resumed back to normal. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Call me a softie, call me weak. I am. I am sensitive. Highly sensitive at that. I didn’t choose it. I came like that. And denying it wasn’t helping. So I started crumbling, just like the walls of my house had during the earthquake.

Then one day, I opened my phone and recorded a voice note. I cried. I screamed. I said everything that had been sitting inside me. And to my surprise, I felt a tiny bit better. I was desperate to talk to someone who may have felt this way, so I transcribed it and shared it on a local mental health group. Turns out many others felt the same. And this was the start of my writing journey.

I write when my tears become too heavy to keep inside. I write to feel like myself again. I write to let the trapped emotions out. If I didn’t, I would probably implode.

I also write to connect. To find others who feel like I do. Because a whole lifetime of performing like someone else has left me surrounded by people I don’t relate to. I need to find others like me, wherever in the world they might be.

I don’t write to be good. I don’t write to be “successful.” I often fall into the trap of chasing numbers, but I catch myself more often than not. Most of my essays are born from my tears. They are not for everyone. And that’s okay.

She was a complex instrument arriving in a time of simple tools. And she didn’t come with a manual.

It was a different era. The world was louder then, or perhaps just less aware. They didn’t have the words we have today. They didn’t talk about nervous system regulation or emotional attunement.

Parenting was simpler, too. You gave the child the functional care they required. Let them play with their siblings, and cousins, and extended families, and learn about the world on their own.

But she was different.

She needed a warm touch. Comforting words. Less stimulation. Protection when she felt overwhelmed. She needed someone to look at her without her asking for help.

When people saw her silence, they just saw “shyness.” But the reality was different. The world terrified her. She was absorbing everything from the noise, the unspoken tension to the energy of a room. And it was too much. But she didn’t have the language for it.

Because she couldn’t explain the overwhelming input, she assumed the problem was her. She began to shrink. She learned to pack her feelings away. She became an observer, retreating to the corners where the noise was manageable.

The teenage years were a blur of confusion. Because she had spent her childhood quieting her own instincts to fit in, she entered adolescence with no boundaries. She was looking for connection, for someone to interpret the noise for her. She drifted into situations she didn’t understand, searching for safety in places that couldn’t provide it.

She wasn’t rebellious. She was just a bird trying to fly for the first time… sometimes into the wrong trees.

In her twenties, she dove into work. Work made sense to her. It offered a structure that the emotional world lacked. It gave her purpose and the freedom she had always desired. It offered belonging and validation. For the first time, through the lens of her career, she could finally make sense of the world around her. But it also exhausted her. Burnt her out. She neglected herself to keep performing.

And then motherhood happened.

Becoming a mother was the moment she realized she needed to write that damn manual. Watching her own child, and seeing the new world of information available today, the realization hit her like a wave: Oh. There was never anything wrong with me.

She realized she wasn’t flawed; she was just highly sensitive. She realized she wasn’t unlovable; she was just requiring a specific kind of nurturing that didn’t exist in her childhood timeline.

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The confusion faded, replaced by a deep, aching compassion for the little girl she used to be.

Now, she is doing the work. She is using the knowledge of today to heal the child of yesterday. She is learning to fill her own cup. To protect her peace. To honor her sensitivity not as a weakness, but as a superpower that just needs the right environment to bloom.

She is finally writing the manual. And she is mothering herself exactly the way she always needed.

I was raised with the belief that career is everything. That, without a title, an identity, a trajectory, you are nothing. My father is deeply career-driven, and that belief was quietly passed down to me as fact, not philosophy. So I followed it. Diligently. Religiously.

I’ve worked for as long as I can remember. I’ve done well by most external standards. I’ve built a solid, international career. I’ve worked across countries, climbed my way up advertising agencies, led teams, headed social functions. Today, I have a senior role, a well-paying job, a resume that looks impressive on paper.

And yet, it’s always been someone else’s version of success.

Because underneath all of that, I’ve always been creative.

That part of me was never celebrated growing up. It wasn’t encouraged. It wasn’t mirrored back with excitement or safety. So I learned to hide it. My creativity would peek through here and there, but I never let it fully live.

I loved music. I loved singing. I learned instruments. I danced obsessively and competed until my confidence got in the way. I trained in classical Indian music and performed recitals until my confidence got in the way. I painted when I lived alone, quietly, privately, never sharing it publicly because my confidence got in the way.

There’s a pattern there.

In the last year, I’ve finally admitted something to myself. Writing is my true passion. Storytelling is my gift. It feels like the most honest expression of who I am. And for the first time, I want my career to align with that truth.

But I’m terrified.

Because confidence is trying to get in the way again.

Recently, I applied for a job that felt like it checked every box. It wasn’t just a good role, it felt aligned. Purpose-led. Creative. Meaningful. I could see myself in it so clearly. I imagined my days. My contribution. My life inside that work.

And then I received the rejection email.

Something about that email shattered me.

Not because I didn’t get the job, but because it forced me to confront a painful gap. The gap between how I see myself and how the world sees me. The gap between what I believe I’m capable of and what someone else decided I wasn’t.

It shook my confidence to the core.

Now I’m sitting here wondering if I’ve been wrong about myself this whole time. If I’m actually not good enough. If this dream of a purpose-led, storytelling-driven career is just a fantasy I’m clinging to.

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As I try to move toward alignment, I feel paralysed by the fear of more rejection. I don’t know how much more I can take.

There’s only so much you can fake. Only so much you can endure.

How many meetings can you sit through where nothing meaningful is discussed? How many hours can you spend in spaces that feel soulless, political, empty of substance? How many days can you trade for a version of yourself that feels smaller than who you know you are?

All the while, I’m missing time with my child. Missing time to write. Missing time to show up as my full, authentic self. Missing deep connection with people. Missing a life that feels honest.

I yearn for a different path.

And yet, my lack of belief in myself is stopping me from taking it.

Not because I don’t know what I want. But because I’m scared I can’t survive more rejection. I’m scared that each “no” chips away at something fragile inside me. I’m scared that vulnerability, especially public vulnerability, is exhausting.

Today, I’m in a funk. I’m feeling all the feels. And instead of pretending I’m fine, instead of processing this quietly and alone, I want to do it differently.

I want to be honest about where I am.

So I’m asking, genuinely, from this stuck and tender place:

How do you handle rejection without letting it define you?
How do you keep going when imposter syndrome is loud?
How do you rebuild belief after the world tells you no?
How do you keep choosing yourself when confidence feels unavailable?

This feeling of not being good enough, especially when you’ve accidentally built a whole life around being “successful,” is a very hard place to be in.

If you’ve been here too, I’d love to hear how you made it through. Or if you’re still here, maybe we can sit in it together.

A liminal space is that in-between place, the threshold you stand on before stepping into something new. You have not fully left the old room, and you have not yet fully entered the next one. It’s that strange, soft middle where things feel unsettled but also full of possibility. Nothing is defined, but everything is shifting.

Honestly, this feels like my entire year. And especially this month, I can feel this in-between more so than ever.

This year, we have had tough days with no help. Long nights with a restless toddler. Work that stretches into late evenings. Family dynamics that take energy I don’t always have. A sense of trying to build a life in a country that still doesn’t fully feel like home. And more inner work than I’ve done in decades. Realisations, feelings, emotions and dreams are pouring in everyday.

I am seeing places where I have lived out of alignment. I am seeing parts of my life that were built from conditioning rather than my own desires. I am noticing how long I have ignored my own needs and wants because I thought I had to fit a version of myself that no longer exists.

And while I can see the new version of me forming at the edges, I haven’t fully dropped the old version yet. I know what I want for my life, but I am not there yet. My priorities have changed, but the old habits… they still linger. My body is craving rest, but my conditioning still whispers, push harder. My soul is dreaming bigger, but my calendar still pulls me into the old rhythm.

This is what a liminal space feels like.
You sense that the old life is falling away, even if it has not disappeared.
You sense that the new life is arriving, even if it has not taken shape.
Your inner world is rearranging itself in ways you cannot name yet.

It’s uncomfortable. And strangely beautiful.

The liminal space is where you can’t go back, but you’re not ready to leap forward either. It’s where your inner world is rearranging itself quietly, slowly, in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

And this December, I just want to embrace this liminal space.

I just want to rest, listen, daydream, enjoy my child… breathe.

I want to start forming a clear picture of my aligned life that I’m moving towards.

I want work that feels meaningful. Work that lets me go in-depth with people and stories. Work that feels human, creative, emotional, and real. Work that allows me to travel, speak to people, gather their stories, and shape them into something that matters. I want flexibility and freedom. I want a team that feels like a spiritual family. I want financial ease, comfort, and space for my family to breathe. I want a life shaped around who I actually am, not who I thought I had to be.

Saying it out loud already feels like alignment.

And to really embrace this liminal space, I have decided to build something without a marketing or business purpose. Just something close to my heart. A living archive of emotionally honest stories from women. From stories of anxiety to body image to life transitions and grief, I want to curate stories from women around the world with a hope that reading them might give someone else a sense of connection and compassion and maybe spark self-discovery of their own. This is what I’m slowly working on in my downtime.

I don’t know exactly where all of this is leading, and for the first time, I’m not trying to control that. I’m letting December be my liminal month. I’m letting myself feel the in-between without forcing the next step.

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If you’re in a liminal space too

Embrace it. Enjoy this transitional phase. Do something that bridges the old and new (without pressure).

It might be uncomfortable, but it’s also full of possibility.

And sometimes the most important thing you can do is exactly what I’m learning to do: slow down enough to hear what your life is trying to tell you next.

I didn’t have language for that feeling until I learned about Mother Hunger, a term by Kelly McDaniel. And suddenly, so much of my emotional landscape started to make sense.

Mother Hunger describes what happens when a daughter grows up without one or more of the three core developmental needs that only a mother can provide:
nurturance, protection, and guidance.

When these needs are unmet or inconsistent, a child grows up with an inner ache. A longing she can’t fully articulate, but one that shapes her sense of self and the way she relates to others. And that ache finds a voice again when she becomes a mother.

Nurturance

This part hit me deeply. Not because I had no care at all, but because the care I needed emotionally never arrived.

When I was upset, I was told I was the problem.
Nobody hugged me.
Nobody asked, “Are you okay?”
Nobody sensed my mood or offered comfort or softness.
I was never helped to calm down or regulate myself.
I was never made to feel special, seen, or cherished.

So now, when my son melts into my arms or looks for me with pure trust, something tender opens inside me. It’s a beautiful feeling, but it brings a subtle ache too. A reminder of what I didn’t get, and what I am now learning to give.

Protection

This one has always lived like an injury underneath my skin.

I was not protected from adult anger or from unsafe experiences that no child should endure. And when I did react, I was labelled as the problem. I grew up learning how to stay small, stay silent, stay out of the way. I learned to adapt to other people’s worlds, rather than having anyone adjust theirs for me.

Now, as a mother, I feel myself constantly scanning the environment. Watching closely. Anticipating danger. Staying vigilant. It can be exhausting, but it comes from a place of deep love and a deep wound.

I am determined to give my child the safety I never had.

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Guidance

Guidance was almost entirely missing in my childhood. My parents never talked to me about:

• puberty
• periods
• sex
• body boundaries
• emotional regulation
• self-esteem
• or even basic confidence

I was, however, constantly critiqued and compared. My mother was emotionally withdrawn. My father was reactive. Neither of them had the softness I came into this world with.

So now, when I guide my son… when I teach him how to name emotions, express needs, or understand his body, I’m aware that I am teaching him things I never learned myself. I am learning these things as I give them.

It is humbling. And healing. And sometimes painful.

How It Shows Up in Motherhood

These wounds don’t make dramatic appearances, they show up in small, everyday moments:

When my son cries, and I feel something tight inside my chest.
When I get overwhelmed by his needs, because mine were ignored for so long.
When I am overly careful, overly alert, overly loving, because I know the cost of not having those things.
When I watch him sleep, and, feel both an ache and a softening.

Motherhood is not just about raising my son.
It is about raising parts of myself too.

The Intergenerational Layer

Understanding that my mother also carried her own mother wound has softened something inside me. She did not fail me intentionally. She simply didn’t have the emotional tools, the support, or the nourishment that she needed herself.

I now see her with more compassion. For her limitations, her exhaustion, her unspoken grief. And a small part of me hopes that one day, when I have capacity, I can support her in healing too. Not out of duty, but out of love.

I know it’s not my burden to carry, and I will cross that bridge carefully. But the desire is there.

Where I Am Now

I’m not trying to become a perfect mother. I’m trying to become a present one. To my son and my inner daughter.

Every day, I give myself small doses of what I never received:

• nourishment through warm, comforting food
• time to write and express myself
• rest without guilt
• positive self-talk
• small rituals of care
• affection and gentleness
• permission to dream
• permission to be
• permission to live the way I want

I am learning, slowly, to mother my son with softness while learning how to offer that softness to myself too.

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Those private stories are the real puppeteers. They decide what we believe we deserve, how we handle conflict, what we tolerate, what we chase, and what we hide.

For the longest time, I didn’t understand this. I thought I was reacting to life.
I didn’t realise I was reacting to my narrative of life.

It’s taken a lot of emotional honesty, breathwork, journaling, and some very uncomfortable inner work to see the truth:
I wasn’t fighting the world.
I was fighting the stories I had inherited, absorbed, or created.

And slowly, I’ve begun rewriting them.

This essay is about that.
The stories we tell ourselves. How they’re born, how they shape us, and how we can choose new ones.

The Origin Stories We Never Question

Most of our inner narratives begin long before we have the language to name them.

Maybe it started with a parent who was always overwhelmed.
Maybe it came from a quiet household where emotions were never acknowledged.
Maybe it came from a childhood experience we didn’t have the tools to process.

In my case, I grew up believing that needing anything made me a burden.
I learned to stay small, quiet, and agreeable. I learned to adapt. I learned to notice everyone’s mood before noticing my own.

It became my identity. It became my survival.

So the story I told myself was simple:
“Stay small. Don’t take up space. You will be dismissed anyway.”

I didn’t choose that story.
I inherited it.

But I lived it for years.

How Old Narratives Show Up in Adult Life

Inner stories rarely remain inner. They show up everywhere.

They decide how you introduce yourself in a room.
They decide how you handle attention.
They decide whether you raise your hand or stay quiet.
They decide how you receive love.
They decide how you protect your boundaries or fail to.

For me, these stories showed up as dismissal.

I would walk into spaces already convinced that I didn’t matter or that I was less than. That belief then shaped how I carried myself, how I spoke, how I read the room.
And people responded to the energy I was putting out.

The old narrative became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It wasn’t the world dismissing me. It was the story I was projecting.

Once I saw this, everything began to shift.

When a Story Is No Longer True but Still Feels True

One of the strangest parts of healing is noticing when an old identity stops fitting you, yet still feels safe.

In the last few months, I’ve grown in ways I didn’t expect.
I’m more confident at work.
I’m more grounded at home.
I feel capable, powerful, steady.
But my inner story hasn’t caught up.

That’s the in-between stage, where your life expands faster than your self-concept.

You’re becoming someone new, yet still hearing the voice of someone old.

It’s disorienting. It’s also the exact place transformation begins.

The Moment You Realise You Can Choose a New Story

Here’s what no one tells you:
You don’t have to keep the story you were handed. You can rewrite it!

You can watch your thoughts like clouds.
You can notice what you’re telling yourself on autopilot.
You can observe your narrative the way you observe your breath.

And the moment you notice the old story, you begin to separate from it. You become the author instead of the character.

You begin to ask:
“Is this mine?”
“Is this true?”
“Do I want to carry this into the next decade of my life?”
“Who would I be without this story?”

And sometimes it means getting angry and saying f*** it. I’m ready to rewrite this.

Healing doesn’t start when you feel better. Healing starts when you question the script.

The Rewrite: Speaking to Yourself in a New Language

I am learning a new inner language.

A language that doesn’t begin with fear or criticism.
A language that does not assume the worst of me.
A language that is gentle, steady, and grounding.

This new language sounds like:

“I deserve to take up space.”
“My voice matters.”
“I am not here to be dismissed.”
“I am allowed to be seen.”
“I can choose who I become.”
“I am not defined by what was done to me.”
“I am whole, even when I am healing.”

You can feel the difference instantly.
The nervous system softens.
The breath deepens.
The body recognises truth.

This is where identity begins to shift. Slowly but surely. And at first, not visible on the outside, but enough to transform you internally.

The Practice of Becoming Someone New

Rewriting your internal story is not intellectual work. It is embodied work.

It is breathwork.
It is movement.
It is journaling.
It is catching your old voice and choosing a new one.
It is reminding your body that safety is possible.
It is noticing when you slip… and choosing compassion over shame. Again and again.

Some days you step fully into the new identity. Some days you collapse into the old one.

Both are part of becoming.

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A PRACTICE FOR YOU

Rewrite a story you’ve been carrying

Take a few quiet minutes and ask yourself:

1. What is one story I tell myself that no longer serves me?
Write it down in a single sentence.

2. Where did this story come from?
A parent?
A past relationship?
A childhood incident?
A belief you outgrew?

3. How does this story shape my behaviour?
List where it shows up — in your work, relationships, self-worth, or daily patterns.

4. Who would I be without this story?
Let yourself imagine it fully.

5. Write the new story.
A sentence you will return to every day.

Something like:
“I deserve to be here.”
or
“I am allowed to take up space.”
or
“I can choose a new identity now.”

Read it out loud. Let your body hear it. Let it feel unfamiliar. Let it feel possible.

This is how rewriting begins.

Childhood

When I was a child, no one really stopped to ask how I felt. If they noticed something was wrong, they didn’t pause to comfort. They paused to critique. I was too sensitive, too cool, too much. They called me the rebel, the wild one, the one trying too hard.

But no one asked why I was trying so hard. No one saw that I was being bullied, or touched in ways I didn’t understand, or chased home by boys who scared me. No one asked how unsafe I felt in my own skin.

They kept me in places that weren’t safe, physically or emotionally, and then labelled me for how I reacted. They mistook pain for performance.

So I learned early. Don’t expect to be protected. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let anyone see the soft parts because they’ll either ignore them or use them against you.

That’s how my independence began. It wasn’t confidence. It was survival.

When your emotions aren’t met with care or comfort, you adapt. You become the strong one, the one who doesn’t ask for anything. And people love you for it. They call you mature and capable and self sufficient. They don’t see that every compliment builds the walls a little higher.

Building a Life Away From Them

All I ever wanted was to get away. To earn enough, prove enough, be enough so I would never have to ask them for anything again. And I did that. I got out.

But when you build a life around rebellion, the walls you build to keep them out also keep you in. Even now, I catch myself still living inside the rules they created. Still measuring my worth through their eyes. Still chasing freedom that’s built on their approval.

I thought I was building my own life. But really, I was just trying to win at their game. And honestly, I don’t know what life looks like beyond that yet.

Motherhood

Motherhood has been the hardest mirror.

My son is almost three, and I still can’t ask for help without feeling like I’ve failed. Even with my husband, I hesitate before saying I’m exhausted. I feel guilty for resting. Guilty for having help. Guilty for not doing more.

It’s not really about motherhood. It’s about wiring. About the part of me that still believes I only deserve love when I’m holding everything together.

But I’m learning, slowly. That my son doesn’t need a mother who does it all. He needs one who knows how to stop. Who can rest. Who can receive without shame.

Work and Worth

I’ve carried these patterns into my work too. My dad still asks the same most infuriating questions every time we talk: Do they like you at work? Are you doing well? Are you being praised? It’s never about how I’m feeling. Always about how I’m performing.

So I learned to measure my worth through other people’s approval. Even after having my son, I couldn’t stop. I worked through my pregnancy. At three months postpartum, I joined a new job. At eight months, I moved countries for another one. I gave it everything because I don’t know how not to.

And now here I am, going through the biggest burnout of the century. But I won’t tell anyone. I’ll smile through it, hold it together, and figure it out on my own. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.

This is what real loneliness looks like. Breaking down in silence while the world applauds your strength.

Rock Bottom

Sometimes it’s good when everything hits rock bottom. Because that’s when you finally stop and start thinking about your life. That’s where I am now. Somewhere between breaking and rebuilding.

And I have to thank motherhood for that. It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever gone through, but also the reason I’m changing. It’s forcing me to question everything I believed about strength and success and survival.

It’s showing me that what I used to call resilience was actually emotional neglect in disguise.

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Learning to Be Free Again

Sometimes I think about that little girl who was never comforted. How she turned every bruise into a promise: I’ll never need anyone again. And how that promise built a life that looks like freedom but doesn’t feel like peace.

Now I’m learning something different. A kind of freedom that allows me to rest, to need, to receive. Because real freedom isn’t about doing everything yourself. It’s about knowing you don’t have to.

If you grew up proud of doing everything alone, maybe ask yourself what that pride is protecting. Maybe independence isn’t the goal at all. Maybe the real work is learning how to let someone in.

It’s funny because Ayurveda has always been around me. My in-laws even run an Ayurvedic wellness centre in India. And while I’ve heard about it all my life, something clicked this time. Something about it spoke to me deeply, and I couldn’t stop reading, researching, and experimenting.

And it has changed everything. The way I see my body, the way I live my day, the way I relate to myself.
It hasn’t been long, but the difference has been profound.
I wanted to share what’s been working for me, not as an expert, just as someone who’s been living in chronic anxiety, burnout, and post-partum overwhelm, and who’s finally starting to feel aligned with herself again.

1. Understanding My Body (and Its Doshas)

The foundation of Ayurveda is the idea that we are all made of three energies, or doshas:
Vata (air + space), Pitta (fire + water), and Kapha (earth + water).

Most of us are a mix of two, and imbalance happens when one goes out of proportion.
I always thought I was Vata (anxious, restless, airy), but I realized I’m actually Vata-Pitta, and my Pitta (fire) was way out of balance.

That excess fire showed up as acidity, inflammation, irritability, and insomnia. I was literally running on heat and adrenaline.
Understanding that my body wasn’t “wrong,” just overheated, changed how I treated myself.
Now I focus on cooling foods, grounding rituals, and slowing down.

2. Building Anchoring Rituals (My Version of Dinacharya)

In Ayurveda, the daily rhythm of life is called Dinacharya. It simply means living in sync with nature — waking with the sun, eating when digestion is strongest, and sleeping before the body’s natural reset begins.

My Dinacharya has three parts:

Morning:
I wake before sunrise (around 6 a.m.) when the world is still quiet.
I do tongue scraping to remove ama (toxins) from the body, followed by oil pulling with black sesame oil. Then I sit on my balcony swing with a warm cup of cumin, coriander, and cardamom tea, soaking in the morning sun. That moment of stillness sets the tone for my day.

Midday:
My “through-the-day” rhythm revolves around mindful meals and my bath ritual.
I do abhyanga (self-massage with warm sesame or coconut oil) before my shower. I eat my biggest meal when the sun is strongest at 12noon, my dinner is before sunset, and I eat slowly. These small anchors tell my nervous system that I’m safe and cared for, and it gives my body ample time to digest and reset before sleep.

Night:
After my son goes to bed, I have my quiet time again, usually on the swing, under the warm light.
I keep screens away for at least an hour before bed.
Then I do “legs up the wall” for five minutes to reset my nervous system, oil the soles of my feet (a gesture of gratitude and rest), and apply oil to my navel before sleeping.
I go to bed around the same time every night, and it’s changed everything - my sleep, my digestion, even my HRV drastically.

3. Spices as Medicine (But Not Every Spice for Everyone)

I used to think turmeric was universally amazing, until I learned that fresh turmeric actually overheats my system.
Whenever I take it raw, my heart races and my body feels hot for hours. It’s a classic Pitta reaction.

Ayurveda taught me that spices are medicine, but only when used with awareness.
Cumin, coriander, fennel, and cardamom cool me down.
Chili, mustard, and too much ginger do the opposite.

Now I cook with intention. Every spice I use has a reason.

4. Mindfulness as a Lifestyle

Mindfulness isn’t just about meditation. It’s about how I live: what I eat, what I wear, what I watch.

I’ve started replacing chemical-heavy products with natural ones. Oils and aloe vera for my hair and skin, gentle cleansers, coconut and sesame oil instead of synthetic lotions.
It feels cleaner, simpler, and more connected.

I’ve also completely changed how I use social media. I deleted Instagram, Facebook, Threads, and LinkedIn. All the platforms that used to spike my anxiety.
Now I only use Substack and YouTube, where I can choose what to consume and when. And I do it mindfully.
Ayurveda talks about Agni, the fire that digests food and impressions.
Reducing digital noise has done as much for my Agni as changing my diet.

5. Food That Grounds Instead of Depletes

I used to live on raw salads, smoothies, and “low-carb” meals, thinking that was healthy.
But I always felt bloated, cold, and restless.
Now I eat warm, oily, home-cooked Indian food. Dal, rice, sabzi, khichdi with zucchini or lauki, a little paneer or chicken.

I eat with the sun: breakfast at 8, lunch around 12–1, dinner before 6.
And I don’t skip meals anymore. I honor hunger cues, eat slowly, and stop when I’m full.

Warm, spiced, simple food feels like medicine to my Vata-Pitta body.

6. Rest as a Non-Negotiable

Sleep is not an afterthought anymore. It’s medicine.
Eight hours. Every night. No exceptions.

Before bed, I do my grounding routine. Skincare, gratitude journaling, oiling my feet, and quiet visualization and sleeping at the same time.
When I sleep well, everything in my body works better - hormones, digestion, mood, even self-worth.
My resting heart rate has dropped from 78 to 54 in just a few weeks.

7. Living in Alignment (My Version of Dharma)

In Ayurveda, Dharma means living in alignment with your truth.
For me, that means raising my vibration, through gratitude, affirmations, visualization, and love.

Every night, I thank my body, my home, my family. I send love to the people who challenge me. I see them healed.
That practice alone has changed how I start and end my days.

I’m not “healed.” I’m learning.
But I’ve realized that my body responds not to punishment, but to presence.
These simple Ayurvedic habits of waking with the sun, eating with intention, sleeping on time, and honoring my senses have given me something I didn’t know I’d lost: a friendship with my body.

And once that friendship starts to rebuild, everything else starts to shift too.

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I became like my father… emotionally expressive, reactive, sometimes volatile. I can feel emotion rise quickly in my body, especially anger. It’s almost genetic, like it lives in my blood.

And before I realized it myself, most people in my life have had to deal with my anger the same way I had to deal with my dad’s — carefully. Watching their words, adjusting their tone, waiting for the storm to pass. That’s the ugly truth.

Over time, I’ve started to see how deeply my anger is tied to my childhood patterns repeating themselves. It’s not random. It shows up when I feel unheard, dismissed, misunderstood, or unseen — the same feelings I lived with growing up. When someone interrupts me, overlooks my effort, or questions my intentions, it touches those old wounds instantly. It’s like my body remembers the feeling of not being celebrated or believed, and the anger rushes in to protect that small, hurt version of me.

Knowing this hasn’t made the anger disappear, but it’s made it more understandable. It’s given me a pause — a chance to see that the person in front of me isn’t the one who caused the original hurt. They’ve just stumbled into its echo.

The echo in motherhood

These days, I see my anger most clearly through motherhood.
My son is two and a half and in a hitting phase. When he doesn’t get what he wants, he lashes out — not to be mean, but because he’s overwhelmed and still learning how to express himself.

Yesterday, we were driving to an airplane café in Bangkok. He loves planes, and I’d been looking forward to taking him all week. But by the time we got there, he was tired, overstimulated, and furious about his seatbelt. When I wouldn’t unbuckle it, he hit me — once, twice, hard.

It’s incredible how fast the heat rises. The same fire I saw growing up, the one I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid, lives inside me too. I felt it build in my chest, that urge to raise my voice, to match energy with energy. But then I saw his little face — red, confused, still learning language — and I took a breath.

That moment wasn’t about control. It was about awareness. About choosing not to let the past decide how I parent in the present.

What’s helped me

Before motherhood, I could let my anger run its course. It would flare up, usually with my husband, and then fade on its own. Things would eventually settle, and I’d move on.

But motherhood doesn’t allow that kind of carelessness. If I let my anger go unchecked, my child will have to live with it — and worse, absorb it. It might bleed into his behavior, his nature. That thought alone changes everything.

Over time, I’ve noticed three small things that help me, even if imperfectly.

First, naming it. Saying, I’m angry. It sounds simple, but that moment of acknowledgment creates distance. It keeps the emotion from taking over completely.

Second, breathing. A few deep, deliberate breaths can do what years of overthinking can’t. It’s a small miracle, really — how something so basic can reset your whole body.

Third, perspective. Reminding myself that there’s another person in this moment too — my child, my partner, whoever it is — with their own feelings and reasons. It helps me remember that my version of the story isn’t the only one.

And sometimes, I add a quiet fourth: not taking everything so seriously. Unless it’s life or death, I remind myself it’s okay to let things go.

It doesn’t always work. But even if I manage one of these steps, it usually shifts something inside me. It gives me just enough space to respond instead of react.

The rest — the apology, the repair — that’s a longer journey. I’m learning it slowly, and maybe that’s something I’ll write about another day.

Redefining the inheritance

My father’s anger shaped me, but it doesn’t have to define me. I can feel it without becoming it.

Breaking a cycle doesn’t mean never getting angry. It means recognizing it sooner. Repairing faster. Speaking softer afterward.

It means remembering that I can show my son what it looks like to feel deeply and still choose gentleness.

And maybe that’s what emotional literacy really is — not avoiding the hard emotions, but learning to understand them before they spill over.

Anger isn’t my enemy anymore. It’s a teacher. One that keeps reminding me:
my boundaries matter, my rest matters, and my peace matters too.

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🌿 A gentle practice

Think about a person, situation, or memory that really triggers your anger.
It could be something small — a careless comment, a moment of disrespect — or something larger, like an old injustice that still lives in your body.

First, name it. This is anger.
Then, take a few slow, deliberate breaths. Notice what happens inside you when you do.
Ask yourself, where does this come from? What is this moment really touching in me?

See if you can talk to the anger instead of pushing it away.
Ask what it needs. Ask what it’s trying to protect.

Sometimes that’s all it takes — to stop fighting it, and to start listening.

She wasn’t just a nanny. She became my companion in the truest sense. The kind of person whose presence wraps around you like safety.

Before Bangkok, we lived in India, surrounded by family, friends, and constant noise. There was always someone around to hold the baby for a minute, to drop by unannounced, to ask how we were doing. Life was demanding, but never lonely.

When we moved here, that changed overnight. Suddenly, it was just the three of us, my husband, my eight-month-old, and me, in a quiet apartment in a city where we knew no one. The isolation hit hard. I would come home from work to the silence of our new life, trying to hold it all together while figuring out how to rebuild from scratch. There was no village anymore. Just us.

That’s the transition Mariyam helped ease. She brought lightness into the heaviness of those early days. Her laughter filled our home, her calm steadied the constant undercurrent of anxiety I carried, and her instincts with my son were so pure and intuitive that I often felt she knew what we both needed before I even said a word.

When my husband traveled for long stretches, she and I became a team. We took turns through long nights of coughs, fevers, and every virus that came our way. We found rhythm in the unpredictable. She held him so I could shower. I made tea so she could rest. We spoke more through gestures and glances than words.

The day a major earthquake hit, she didn’t hesitate. She scooped my son into her arms, prayed over him, and ran barefoot into the street. That was the moment I knew she loved him like her own.

It’s rare to find someone like that - someone who becomes part of the pulse of your everyday life without ever asking for space. And then, one day, she had to leave.

And life didn’t pause.

People like me, who feel things deeply and hold on tightly, need time to process sudden change. To absorb what’s been lost before building what comes next. But the world doesn’t wait.

Presentations still need to be made. Meetings still start on time. Dinner still needs to be cooked. My son still wakes up at sunrise, expecting the same smile, the same rhythm, the same warmth.

On the surface, the city looks exactly the same - the traffic, the chatter, the hum of routine - but for me, everything has changed.

And that has been the hardest part of motherhood, and one I didn’t realize while stepping into this role. How on you have to be, and how little time there is to decompress. To process. To sit. To pause. And for someone who has spent a lifetime overgiving, overdoing, and pleasing, this has been a crash course in boundaries and self-preservation.

Before my son was born, I could lie in bed after a long day, watch my favorite shows, eat comfort food, cry, journal, go out, and breathe. Now those options are limited. My nervous system, my sleep, my skin, my hormones, my body image - everything has changed. So has my sense of identity. It is transforming in front of my eyes.

And yet, amid that transformation, I’ve come to admire mothers everywhere. How mothers everywhere continue to give so much in such small, in-between moments. Between naps and meetings. Between feeding and cleaning. Between fatigue and hope.

It is nothing short of extraordinary.

If you’re in a season that feels relentless, take a moment today, even if it’s just while your child naps, to breathe and be gentle with yourself.

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And what I’ve realized is that the messages my body has been sending me aren’t just mine. They’re part of a much bigger story — one that so many women carry quietly. A collective truth about shame, safety, and how our bodies become the battleground for both.

For me, shame has always been tied to intimacy. From a very young age, I felt things I wasn’t ready to feel, and instead of safety, I was met with silence. That silence grew into shame, and it followed me into adulthood. Even now, with a partner I trust, my first instinct is to pull away. Not because I don’t want closeness, but because my body has learned to brace itself. Desire comes with guilt. Saying no feels impossible. Saying yes sometimes feels like betrayal. And so the shame cycle continues.

Then there’s the way my body holds weight, especially around my stomach. For years I’ve blamed myself for this, tried to fix it with diets or workouts, and wondered why nothing seems to stick. But I think part of it is that my body still doesn’t feel safe. Growing up in India, being an “attractive” girl was never just neutral — it brought harassment, stalking, bullying, the constant fear of what might happen if I stood out too much. Add to that the endless stories of women being assaulted or killed, and of course my body learned to protect me. Of course it learned to hide.

Even now, I dress modestly without really thinking about it. I don’t show cleavage. I don’t wear things that draw too much attention. I want to feel magnetic and visible, but I’ve also been conditioned to associate visibility with danger. And my body has taken that in so deeply that it doesn’t just live in my wardrobe choices, it lives in my weight, in my skin, in my posture.

There’s also the way I people-please, the way I say yes when I want to say no, the way I push through to avoid letting anyone down. That fear of abandonment shows up everywhere — in my relationships, in motherhood, and yes, in intimacy too. And my body keeps paying the price, carrying anxiety, breaking out, holding on to stress until I can hardly sleep at night.

The more I untangle my own story, the more I realize it isn’t just mine. So many women I know carry the same hidden fears. Shame around sex. Fear of being too visible. Guilt for taking up space. A body that feels heavy, not just with weight but with the burden of keeping us safe.

And yet we rarely talk about it. We blame ourselves. We try to “fix” ourselves. We carry the silence.

I don’t have a perfect answer here. But what I do know is this: my body has never been the enemy. It’s been the protector, the messenger, the witness to everything I didn’t feel safe enough to voice. And maybe the real work isn’t to fight it, but to finally listen.

If you’ve ever felt unsafe in your own skin, you’re not alone. Maybe if we start naming these truths together, the shame will start to loosen. Maybe our bodies will finally believe they can exhale.

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I learned to scan faces for approval before I even opened my mouth. I learned to measure my worth against everyone else in the room. And at some point, I stopped showing up altogether. I grew timid. Shy. Afraid to risk being seen doing something imperfectly. The toll it took on my confidence is something I am only now beginning to understand.

Even today, the patterns follow me. When I enter a room, I still catch myself scanning every expression, every dynamic, asking where do I fit here, will they take me seriously, am I good enough. I live in a cycle of guilt. About food. About work. About rest. About not doing enough as a mother. My internal critic never seems to rest.

But motherhood has shaken me in ways nothing else could.

My son is only two and a half, and the last thing I want is for my son to inherit this pressure. I don’t want him to grow up believing love has to be earned by performance, or that joy only belongs to the people who do things best. If I want him to grow up free to be himself, then I have to learn to free myself too.

So this year, I made a choice. I will not keep performing perfection.

I will do things badly.

I write here, not knowing if the words are good enough. I put together outfits I once saved for the day I became thin enough. I sing loudly in my home, even when my voice cracks. I speak up in meetings, asking questions I would normally swallow. I draw boundaries clumsily, feeling terrible after, but learning that the discomfort passes. I rest without guilt, even when my mind whispers I should be doing more. I bring up unpolished thoughts with my husband, even when they feel raw, because hiding them only isolates me further. I am not going above and beyond at work just to prove myself. I am doing enough. And that is enough.

And as much as I critique my parents and upbringing, I have seen glimpses of rebellion around me all my life. My mother and aunts refusing to conform quietly to what was expected of them. My father taking up new studies and hobbies later in life, daring to reinvent himself. My in-laws building a wellness center at seventy, not knowing where it would lead. My husband leaving a safe career path to follow his gut and build something of his own, facing criticism but trusting himself anyway. None of them knew how it would end. They just tried. And that in itself is its own kind of courage.

So maybe this is the lesson I needed: it is better to do things badly than not do them at all.

I wonder what that might look like for you. What is the thing you have been holding back from because you are afraid you will not do it well enough? The song you never sing. The thought you never voice. The dream you have tucked away until you feel more ready.

What would happen if you let yourself try it anyway, without the weight of perfection, without the fear of being seen as less than? Maybe it will be clumsy. Maybe it will not look the way you imagined. But if nothing else, you will have something to laugh about with your grandkids one day. So why the hell not just do it!

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life.” 
— Anne Lamott

And I know I’m not the only one.

So today, I want to share a letter from the version of me who remembers. The version that doesn’t get pulled into spirals of shame or self-criticism. The version that speaks from love, not lack. The version that already knows how this all ends, and holds me with grace as I catch up.

I hope this letter reminds you of your power, your value, your bigness.

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A Letter from Your Highest Self

My love,
Look up.

There is a whole sky inside you.

You've been bending over mirrors and numbers, shrinking your worth to fit the width of your waist, the clarity of your skin, the noise of your own overthinking. You’ve been trying so hard to fix the surface, hoping it might quiet the ache underneath. I know. I’ve been there. I remember.

But let me remind you of something you once knew:
You were never meant to live a small life.

Not in body.
Not in voice.
Not in love.
Not in power.

You are not here to be palatable. You are here to be alive.

You are made of flame and river, softness and steel.
You carry centuries of resilience in your spine, oceans of empathy in your chest, and galaxies of story behind your eyes. You are not the size of your jeans. You are the size of your spirit.

Stop measuring your worth in teaspoons and inches.
Stop putting your radiance on hold.
Stop waiting to arrive at yourself.

You are already here. You made it. This version of you that’s still healing, still unfolding, still not sure, she’s just as sacred as the one you’re trying to become.

There is no version of you that is more worthy than the one who is reading this right now.

I know the world taught you to hustle for approval, to perform for belonging, to perfect your way into love. But that is not your path anymore. You are not here to chase a life. You are here to build one. A life rooted in truth. A life that feels like breath. A life that holds you, not the other way around.

You will not find yourself in the tightening of your thighs or the clearing of your skin.
You will find yourself in the loosening of your fear.
In the choice to return to yourself again and again and again.

Let go of the fixation.
Let go of the shame.
Let go of the myth that you have to be “better” before you can be seen, be celebrated, be loved.

Your softness is not a flaw. It is your force.
Your emotions are not a liability. They are portals.
Your body is not a project. It is a home.

You are doing holy work every time you choose nourishment over punishment, rest over guilt, truth over performance, joy over perfection.

This chapter you’re in, of healing, of reckoning, of remembering, is not a detour. It’s the epic adventure you’ve been dreaming of.

There is nothing wrong with you.
There never was.

Keep going, love.
You are building something beautiful from the inside out.
And I am walking beside you.
I am who you become every time you tell yourself the truth and choose to stay.

With infinite pride,
Your Highest Self

If this letter stirred something in you...

Take a moment.
Place a hand on your chest. Breathe.
And ask:

How would my higher self (the one who vibrates high and doesn’t get caught up in the day to day) look at my life and this situation?

If this letter feels like something a friend needs to hear, feel free to share it forward. Sometimes, the most radical gift we can give another woman is the reminder: You don’t have to earn your enoughness.

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My mother was emotionally absent. My father only cared about academics. Marks. Prizes. How I came across. What others thought. He didn’t care about how I was feeling or what I needed emotionally.

Maybe because he never got that growing up. Maybe neither of them did. And now, as an adult, I can see that. But as a child, you can’t. You just feel abandoned. You just know something is missing, and no one can explain why.

Together, they made sure I always felt alone. Unseen. I started raising myself very early. I built an inner self that could carry me through. I had no choice. My only dream growing up was to become fully independent. That was the goal. Total self-reliance. No one could hurt me if I didn’t need anyone.

I learned how to act like I was okay. Like I had it together. I forced myself to be confident just to survive. It became a performance. A full-time job. And it worked, until it didn’t.

I became a mother. The sheer exhaustion and fullness of it took away all my pretenses. I didn’t have the time or energy to keep up my old coping strategies. I couldn’t bedrot all day being in a funk with my favourite shows. I couldn’t emotionally eat in secret. I didn’t have the space to hide. Everything I buried rose to the surface. Fast.

And now I feel like I’m falling apart.

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I see other mothers thriving. Smiling. Having more kids. They make it look easy. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m drowning with one. I can’t even recognize myself some days. I’m just tired.

What makes it worse is that my parents don’t see it. They have their own version of my childhood. It’s neat. Selective. Convenient. So once again, I carry the truth alone. I mother myself while I mother my son. And I try, every day, to give him what I never got.

And yet, that little girl I used to be, the one who was never protected, never fully seen, she still lives inside me. Now that I can see the pattern, I know I can’t keep hiding behind old coping strategies. I want to step into my full self. Into the life I was always meant to live. I truly believe it’s possible. I’m determined to make it happen. Through healing. Through sharing. Through unlearning everything I thought I had to be. Through growing up for real this time.

I’ve carried those memories quietly for years. But lately, I feel an ache to sit with her again. To write to her, to tell her the things she needed to hear back then but never did. I want to use these letters as a way to heal, to reconnect, to remind myself that she didn’t deserve what she went through, and that she is still here inside me, waiting to be held.

This will be the beginning of a series: Letters to the Girl I Used to Be. Each one will be written to a younger version of me… the girl who cried quietly into her pillow, the teenager who buried her needs, the child who didn’t know how to ask for love for fear of rejection. My hope is that by putting these words down, I can slowly untangle the shame and sadness I’ve carried, and maybe offer a reflection for anyone else who grew up feeling unseen.

Letter One: To the Girl Who Had to Earn Love

My sweet girl,

I see you there… hiding away in your room, trying to be invisible and yet hoping someone will knock on the door, step inside, and say, “I love you just as you are.” No one ever did. So you learned to stop asking. You learned to stop hoping. You trained yourself to achieve instead, because you realized that being good, being perfect, being successful was the only thing that earned you attention.

I see you crying quietly into your pillow, not because you wanted to hide, but because you already knew no one would come. No one would sit next to you and stroke your hair and tell you it’s okay. And so you carried the sadness alone.

You made friends with books because they never compared you to anyone. You trusted music because it didn’t tell you that you weren’t enough. You lived whole secret lives in your imagination because the real one felt too heavy, too loveless, too harsh. You created worlds where you could be free, but even those worlds were tinged with the knowledge that when you opened the door again, it would just be you. Quiet, diplomatic, moving through the day without anyone seeing what was inside.

I know the fear you carried, the one that lodged in your chest. That if you showed how much you needed love, if you dared to ask for it, you’d be rejected. That somehow, you were too much, or not enough, or wrong just for wanting tenderness. That fear made you swallow your words, hide your tears, put on a face of composure. You were just a little girl, but you learned to act like someone who didn’t need. That was your survival.

No one noticed. No one gave you the warmth you deserved. You felt like love had to be earned, like affection was conditional, like you were always a step behind some invisible standard. That’s not what childhood should be. It should have been safety, softness, arms to fall into. And you were denied it.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your fault. You were a child who needed love, and you didn’t get it. That is the deepest sadness of all. That you learned to live without something that should have been your birthright.

But I’m here now, sweetheart. I see every tear, every daydream, every fear you kept locked away. I see how clever and resourceful you were to create worlds of comfort when the real world failed you. And I see how much it hurt, how lonely it was, how you longed for something as simple as a hug or a kind word.

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I can’t go back and change what you lived through. But I can sit with you now, in that small room, while you cry, while you dream, while you clutch your books like life rafts. I will hold you in the warmth you never got. I will whisper to you what you always deserved to hear: You don’t need to perform. You don’t need to earn it. You are lovable simply because you exist. You are not too much. You are not wrong. You are mine, and I will never leave you.

With all my love,
The girl I grew up to be

Since then I have realised that emotional honesty is what creates true intimacy. It is not the polished version of ourselves, not the “I’m fine” answers we throw around, but the real truths we carry inside.

Why are we scared of it

We often save emotional honesty for our closest relationships, if at all. But why should it only belong in romantic partnerships? Why not friendships, motherhood, work, and even the way we talk to ourselves?

People are scared of emotional honesty. Part of it is judgment, but part of it is also this: we spend years building an image of ourselves that feels acceptable to the world. The thought of breaking that facade, even for a moment, can be terrifying.

What it reveals

The more you practice emotional honesty, the more layers you uncover. You start to see what your deal breakers in life really are. It becomes harder to stay in denial, even when denial feels easier. You notice what is not working, and you cannot unsee it. You become more perceptive about people and situations. You begin to feel more empathy, because you are honest about your own humanity. And that empathy itself can feel heavy to carry.

Many of us were conditioned this way

Many of us were raised to swallow our feelings, to keep the peace, to look perfect. I grew up in a family where emotions were rarely spoken about. Everything was swept neatly under the rug. Over time, that silence showed up in my body as physical symptoms, stress, and a deep sense of disconnection. This is why I am unraveling this now. This is why it matters so much to me.

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Just look around you

Everywhere I look, I see people quietly breaking down. Secret panic attacks. Silent spirals. Burnout hidden behind perfect smiles. We read headlines about the rise of anxiety, depression, and all kinds of mental disorders, yet the world still does not lean toward emotional honesty.

It amazes me. Because maybe if we could be even a little more emotionally honest, we might actually get the help we need. We might receive the support we long for. At the very least, we might feel less alone. And isn’t that what humanity is meant to be about anyway? Real connection. Real care. Real belonging.

What changes through emotional honesty

Emotional honesty has not made my life simple. I have been judged. I have spiralled after sharing too much. I have questioned myself. But even with all that, it is still lighter than the exhausting act of pretending.

Even the smallest truths — “I am tired,” “I need help,” “I don’t know” — have opened doors. They have brought new friendships, breakthroughs in old relationships, and deeper conversations at work that go beyond the surface.

No, emotional honesty does not make life neat. It makes it real. And real is always more alive than perfect.

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A small practice for you

Take a moment today to pause and ask yourself:
What is one truth I have been avoiding?

You do not need to share it with anyone. You do not even need to act on it. Just write it down or whisper it quietly to yourself. And if you do decide to share it with someone, see what shifts.

But now I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t betraying me.
Maybe it was just carrying everything I couldn’t.

The girl who didn’t speak

I didn’t speak till very late as a child. And when I did, I stuttered.
My parents took me to doctors, therapists, specialists. They wanted to fix it.
But no one said, “You’re safe now.”
No one just hugged me and said, “It’s okay to be you.”

And the irony is — I now work in communications. I speak in boardrooms. I run social media for a global brand.
But I still feel like an imposter.
That scared, silent little girl is still somewhere inside, flinching.

My teenage rebellion

As a teenager, I stopped eating.
Like properly stopped.

I would drink black coffee and go the whole day without food. I’d only eat when I was about to faint.
My period disappeared. My lymph nodes swelled up.
I had ultrasounds, tests. They thought something was seriously wrong.
But really, that was just my quiet rebellion.
I didn’t know how to scream, so my body did it for me.

That was the first time I learned how my body speaks when I can’t.
And it’s never stopped.

On the outside: fine. On the inside: screaming.

From the outside, I always looked like I had it together.
I smiled. I performed. I said yes. I people-pleased.
But inside, I was permanently bracing. Like something bad was always about to happen.

My body has always carried that weight.
And I don’t just mean emotional weight — I mean physical, too.

My weight has yo-yoed for as long as I can remember.
Every time I tried to control it, I could. But the moment I stopped micromanaging food, my body would return to a heavier place.
And I’ve started to wonder, maybe it feels safer that way. Maybe it’s protecting me. From visibility.

I’ve lived most of my life in a low-grade fight-or-flight state.
Even when I look calm, I’m bracing.
I numb it with sitcoms. With scrolling. With “vegging out.”

But it’s always there. Right under the surface.

And then I became a mother

Motherhood cracked it all open.
The overstimulation, the guilt, the sleep deprivation, the pressure to be everything all the time — it brought every buried feeling back to the surface.
And my body? It couldn’t hide it anymore.

It broke out. It bloated. It tightened. It shut down.
It was like it was finally done protecting me from myself.
And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

The hug I’ve been chasing

There’s a memory I come back to often.
Years ago, when I was living in Indonesia, I went to a full moon meditation.
And during the session, I felt something — a presence.
It wrapped around me like a hug. Maternal. Protective. Loving.
I cried and cried. And I still cry when I think about it.

Because maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along.
That feeling of being held. Without needing to earn it.

And maybe… just maybe… my body has been trying to give me that this whole time.

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I’d been the first in my master’s program to land a job, but it was in a different city. While everyone else was traveling and soaking in their last few months of freedom, I was commuting between Brighton and Cardiff, working full-time and finishing my thesis.

It was exactly what I’d been chasing since I was nineteen: independence. Proof I could take care of myself. But independence without connection is just being alone somewhere new. And that’s what I was: alone. Deeply alone.

Independent, but invisible

When I left my student friends behind in Cardiff, I thought I’d grow into this confident, worldly version of myself. Instead, I cried on the bus home everyday from missing out, being lonely and tired. At work, I made myself small. I was good at my job, but I stayed quiet, never letting people see more than the polished (mysterious) professional version of me. Somewhere deep down, I didn’t think I was interesting or good enough to truly belong.

Outside of work, I clung to the familiar… people I already knew, situations where I felt safe. I remember going to a rugby game with friends who were loud and boisterous. I stayed on the edges, blending into the background.

It wasn’t that they were unkind, they were amazing… I had just decided that I’m not fun or loud enough to belong here. They will anyway see through it, so I may as well hide now.

I reinvented myself endlessly.

Chasing whatever I thought would make me fit in.
I dressed the way I thought was “cool” instead of what I actually liked.
I coloured my hair in every shade of the rainbow, hoping someone would notice me. Once, I even got a lower lip piercing to impress a guy. His reaction was terrible, and I laughed it off, but inside I felt ridiculous. I still have second-hand embarrassment thinking about it.

I changed my opinions to match the room instead of saying what I actually thought. I said yes to plans that drained me because I didn’t know how to say no. I went along with things other people wanted to do, all while quietly shelving the things I loved.

The result? Exhaustion. Resentment. And a string of jobs that burnt me out, because I didn’t know how to say, I’m not happy. This isn’t working for me.

I carried that pattern with me from city to city.

I lived in Singapore for six years, but I made friends, but only to a certain depth. I avoided hard conversations, quietly stepping away when things felt uncomfortable. In relationships, I’d morph into whoever I thought the other person wanted until resentment made me leave.

I thought I was protecting myself. In reality, I was locking myself out of my own life. You can’t belong anywhere if you never let yourself be seen.

Jakarta was different.

I met a woman who was so unapologetically herself… that something about her gave me the encouragement to stop hiding.

And as I did, my life expanded. My friendships deepened. I had conversations I couldn’t have imagined before.

One afternoon, I found myself in my garden with a group of women from all over the world. We spent hours talking about dreams, heartbreaks, and fears. No small talk, no performance. Just the kind of conversations that make you feel lighter, more alive, more seen.

On another afternoon in Jakarta, I was sitting in my friend’s living room with her, a refugee from Afghanistan, and another friend from Tanzania. We were laughing, as we compared whose life had been the hardest. Of course, the refugee won.

Some might call it trauma bonding. I call it freedom: the kind that comes from being able to tell the truth about your life without editing yourself.

That’s when I realised: vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the doorway to belonging.

Vulnerability has shaped everything since.

It’s how I found love: an old friend who became my husband after a single, unguarded conversation. It’s how I’ve built friendships that can weather hard truths. It’s how I’ve navigated motherhood, by letting people in on the messy days instead of hiding them.
It’s how I’ve deepened my relationship with my parents and begun to feel at home in my own skin.

It hasn’t always been comfortable. But it’s given me a life where I can breathe.
A life with a diversity of connection, richer conversations, and a self I no longer feel the need to hide.

Vulnerability isn’t weakness.
Vulnerability is freedom.

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Over the weekend, I attended a somatic workshop. My first, actually, since becoming a mother. And in that room, I met some truly incredible women. One of them stood out. She was the brightest, most joyful person in the room. The kind of presence that just draws you in.

Only later did I learn her story. I won’t share the details, out of respect for her privacy. But it was one of the hardest stories I’ve ever heard. And what shook me wasn’t just the story, it was the way she carried it. With lightness. With no bitterness. With an evolved understanding that made me almost cry watching her speak.

It made me realize something I’ve been circling around for a long time:

We are not defined by the worst things that have happened to us.
But we do have to own them to become free of them.

And that’s where I’ve been stuck.

Because for me, it’s easier to share things with strangers than it is to sit across from my own family and say the truth out loud. I don’t fully know why. Maybe because the stakes feel so much higher. Maybe because of the fear of being judged. Of being misunderstood. Of becoming too much. Or of watching my relationships shift in ways I can’t control.

No one prepares you for what it means to own the hardest parts of your life. No one tells you how to navigate that line between forgiveness and truth. No one teaches you how to say:
“This happened to me. But it’s not the whole of me.”

But I know one thing for sure: vulnerability has changed everything for me. It has helped me grow more than any course or book or conversation before.

Even when it’s messy, or scary or uncomfortable.

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These days, I’m trying to practice vulnerability more and more:

• I write without knowing what will land, trusting that if it feels honest, it’s worth sharing.

• I post on Instagram without polish, without strategy, even though I work in social media by day and know that many might judge me for not doing better.

• I talk about burnout and mental health at work, even if it feels uncomfortable or unprofessional, because it’s the truth and I’m tired of pretending.

• I share my writing with colleagues, not because I’m promoting anything, but because it helps them know me better, and somehow, it’s deepened those relationships.

• I’ve started to be more open with my husband too. About what I need, what I can’t do, what feels too heavy… and even though it’s not always easy, it’s helped us find more ease.

• At home, I’ve been clearer about my capacity, and that’s let me ask for the kind of support I really need, especially with Kai.

• Whether it’s hormonal shifts, mental health, or just needing rest… I’m learning not to hide that anymore. All of it has come from a place of owning more and more of my truth.

But now, I stand at a precipice… the line between being vulnerable in small, daily ways... and owning the big story. The hardest one. The one that shaped me, but that I no longer want to hide.

And it terrifies me.

But I also know:
That’s where my next transformation lies.

Today, as I write this, the world is on tsunami watch after a massive 8.7 earthquake off the coast of Russia. Just three months ago, in March 2025, we lived through a huge earthquake here that cracked the walls in our home and shook me to my core. I still feel phantom tremors sometimes. My husband had to leave for work the day after, and I was left alone with our son, barely able to process what had just happened.

A recent plane crash in India killed every single passenger on board. I was supposed to travel for a big meeting right after that, and I canceled my trip. I just couldn’t get on a plane.

I moved to Bangkok at the end of September 2023. The day after I started my new job, there was a shooting at the mall attached to my office building. A sixteen-year-old opened fire in the food court where I’d been just the day before, claiming three people, including a mother of twins visiting from China.

The fear I felt after that was paralyzing. I couldn’t be in public places with my son without scanning the room for danger, always looking for exits. I still remember cutting short a shopping trip because I saw a man standing awkwardly outside Sephora and convinced myself he was going to kill someone.

When you become a mother, the fear hits differently. There’s so much more to lose.

But life doesn’t stop. Work still expects you to show up for meetings. Your child still needs you to smile. You’re still expected to function even when all you want to do is cry and hide.

Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing more — being louder about world issues, being an activist, doing something big to make a difference. But the truth is, I’ve made peace with the idea that the change I can bring is closer to home. For me, it’s about working on myself, spreading joy and meaning where I can, and being helpful to the people around me.

One of the reasons I write is because I can’t control world events, but I can make someone pause and feel seen in the words of a tired, overwhelmed mother trying to make sense of it all. I can ask the big questions that transform me from the inside out and maybe… just maybe, someone else too.

But there are some other things I return to when everything feels like it’s falling apart and nothing has any meaning.

1. I talk about it… to anyone who will listen. Saying it out loud always lightens the load a little.

2. If I can’t find anyone to talk to, I write it down. Pouring my thoughts onto a page feels like unclenching a fist I didn’t know I was holding.

3. I tune out when I need to. We know too much about the world and each other. I limit what I read and scroll, because I’ve realized we aren’t built to carry the weight of the whole world every day. It’s hard to limit social media, but places like Substack help. Getting into documentaries or watching movies instead of doom-scrolling also really helps.

4. I lean into spirituality. Knowing that life doesn’t end here brings me peace. There was a phase I watched an embarrassing amount of near-death experience videos, and they brought me peace to know that we misunderstand death and loss.

5. And I practice gratitude. It’s cliché, but it works. My son’s laugh, my husband making coffee in the morning, the small rituals that make our home feel safe — these are the anchors that keep me steady.

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Even in the chaos, there are reasons to stay, to smile, to dance, to keep choosing life. I try to hold on to those.

How do you cope when the world feels heavy? I’d love to hear your thoughts.