39 Years, One Soul, A Lifetime of Becoming

I was born into a middle-class family that measured wealth in values, not valuables.

Where “ethics” wasn’t a chapter… it was the air.

Where “sanskaars” weren’t sermons… they were stitched into the way we lived, the way we spoke, the way we treated people.

Do the right thing.

Be a good human.

Work hard.

Keep your head down.

That soil shapes you quietly.

And you don’t realise how deep it goes until much later.

Maybe that’s why the girl I was—quiet, lanky, awkward—carried this strange mix of humility and hunger.

I didn’t know the word ambition.

But I knew effort.

I knew try again.

I knew don’t give up just because it’s hard.

Life pushed me into worlds I didn’t yet belong to.

Where silence was mocked, difference punished.

Where I learned early that standing tall could feel like standing alone.

And yet…

even in the quiet corners where I thought I didn’t exist…

something inside me whispered: “You will rise.”

Boarding school gave me a taste.

Recognition. Structure. Pride.

Those years straightened my spine from the inside.

College came like a blessing.

Excellence became a rhythm.

Placements lined up.

Life looked like a straight, shining road.

And then—before my MBA results—everything twisted.

Marriage.

A joint family.

A world that looked “traditional” on the outside and felt suffocating on the inside.

A culture where silence was considered grace.

Where shrinking yourself was seen as maturity.

Where being unseen by your partner was normalised as “adjustment.”

Slowly… painfully… the overachiever in me dimmed her light and a people pleaser took birth.

Because I thought love required sacrifice.

That peace required silence.

That being “good” meant being small.

Children happened—

not from love,

but from expectation.

And the parts of me I kept burying…

began to claw their way out after my second child.

Anger.

Resentment.

A bone-deep exhaustion.

A woman I didn’t recognise staring back at me in the mirror.

Two kids.

A handicraft business I held onto for meaning.

No support.

No softness.

Not even a corner to breathe.

And just when everything in me was collapsing…

the Divine slipped in.

Laddu Radhu walked into my life.

They opened a whole new world for me.

A whisper rose: “Come back to yourself.”

That whisper took me to therapy—

not as a therapist,

but as a wounded client.

Raw.

Shaken.

Confused.

Hurting.

But willing.

Every session felt like walking barefoot on gravel.

Every truth scraped.

Every memory ached.

To afford therapy, I worked two jobs.

Ran my business.

Slept three hours or perhaps less.

Did every chore to cut down expenses.

Raised two kids under 5.

Held my breaking heart with my own two hands.

It was brutal.

And the most beautiful chapter of my life.

Because the deeper I went, the clearer I became.

The clearer I became, the stronger I grew.

And the stronger I grew, the more life opened for me.

Advanced trainings.

Loans taken with no idea how I’d repay them.

Healing that reshaped me.

Awareness that freed me.

Teachers who loved me.

Colleagues who stood by me.

Clients who trusted me.

A community that held me.

My work became my prayer.

My purpose.

My joy.

And maybe that’s why the cracks at home widened.

Because nothing threatens a fragile ego like a woman who rises.

Still… I tried.

For my kids.

For the dream of a family that might work someday.

I paid for everything I needed—thinking independence would bring peace.

I cooked the fancy meals.

Helped with studies.

Ran to sessions.

Ate hurried lunches.

Cleaned, organised, soothed, managed, carried.

Trying to make sure my work and my family weren’t competing.

Trying to earn love from people determined not to give it.

But you can’t keep peace with someone who wants you in pieces.

And finally—after years of trying to stay—

I chose myself.

I chose my children.

I chose freedom.

And when I chose to honour my truth, and the gift of life, the support from the Divine amplified. Laddu-Radha directed me to Darbar.

Darbar gave me wings.

I filed for divorce.

It wasn’t rebellion.

It was resurrection.

Today, I live in a home where no one can throw me out.

Where the chapatis I eat aren’t counted.

Where my laughter isn’t mocked.

Where I’m not a shadow—

but a woman in full colour.

This isn’t a sob story.

It’s a homecoming.

And today on my 39th birthday…

I honour her.

The girl I was.

The woman I fought to become.

And the soul I am still unfolding into.

And this—this deep bow to my own becoming—is my birthday gift to myself.