Because sometimes, surviving is the bravest thing we do !

Prologue

There was a time I didn’t know how I would make it to the next morning. The weight was too much, the silence too loud, and the smile I wore felt like a mask that had melted into my skin. I looked fine, strong even but I was quietly breaking in places no one could see.

This book isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s not about perfect endings or Instagram-worthy recoveries. It’s about the truth of it all the messy middle, the moments I almost gave up, and the decision I made, again and again, to keep going.

O.D.A.A.T – One Day At A Time wasn’t just a phrase, it became my way of breathing when I felt like I was drowning. It was how I held myself together amidst the wounds I hadn’t even begun to name.

This book is a tribute to every woman who has ever looked in the mirror and wondered, “Where did I go?”
To every mother who showed up for her kid/kids even when her own soul felt hollow.
To every heart that’s been broken, and every spirit that refused to stay that way.

It’s not just my story. It’s a lifeline, a hand on your shoulder, a whisper that says you’re not alone.

If these pages do anything, I hope they remind you of this:
You don’t have to be perfect to be powerful.
You don’t have to be fearless to move forward.
You just have to take the next breath, the next step, the next day.

One. Day. At. A.Time

With love,
Namrta

Chapter 1: The Girl Who Was Always Smiling

She was born with a dimple, drama in her DNA, and a heart that refused to be quiet.

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I was born on a rainy night-27th June 1986, at exactly 10:43 PM, in a city that hadn’t quite become what it is today. Back then, it was still Bombay. The monsoon had arrived in all its stubborn glory, and the skies were doing what they did best that time of year pouring, without apology.

A dimpled girl entered the world that night, into the arms of two people still finding their way in the city of dreams. My parents had arrived in Bombay in 1984, newly married, filled with hope and courage, and carrying more love than money in their pockets. They made their home in Vashi, then a quiet stretch of newly developing land on the edge of a city that never stopped growing.

There were no fancy hospitals. No expressways. No ride-hailing apps.
Crossing the Vashi Bridge was a journey of its own.
And yet, it was there on the other side of the chaos that my story quietly began.

I’ve heard the story of my birth many times from my mother, told with a mix of exasperation, laughter, and love. How she walked the hospital corridors several times, only to be sent home again and again because apparently, I wasn’t quite ready. And how, in between contractions, she munched on boota-roasted corn slathered with masala and lemon from a roadside stall.

Maybe that’s where my love for the ordinary magic of life began.

I was their first child.
And with that came a kind of silent royalty.
Curly hair. Dimpled cheeks. Layers of baby fat. I was the perfect blend of mischief and charm and I knew how to work it.

But if I had any real superpower, it came from one person: Dada-my paternal grandfather.

He was my first memory of unconditional love. Everyone knew I was his favourite, and honestly, I wore that crown with pride.

They say I was a difficult child-dramatic by default.
I like to think I was just expressive, with a natural flair for theatre. One story stands out as proof:
I simply wouldn’t go to sleep at night unless Dada took me for a ride on his Bullet motorbike. And not just any ride. I needed to sit on the petrol tank, feel the wind in my face, and only then would my eyes close.
I needed chaos to rest.

I wasn’t delicate, or soft-spoken, or the kind of daughter people pictured in polite company.
I was a tomboy: loud, fast, curious, untamed.
You’d find me racing boys down the building corridor, playing cricket, scraping my knees, and breaking things and hearts without a clue.

And of course, being Punjabi only added spice to the mix.

Food was my first language of love.
I could eat parathas like peanuts: hot, buttery, stuffed with anything, preferably served by my grandmother.

I was their star. And I knew it.

But somewhere between that noisy, loved, spirited little girl and the world outside our walls, I began to understand something:

Being a girl came with quiet rules.

It wasn’t told to me. It just… showed up.

One day I was running with the boys in the building.
The next, I was told to sit “properly.”
To cross my legs.
To stop jumping.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just Namrta.
I was a girl.
And that came with invisible boundaries I didn’t remember agreeing to.

The people around me weren’t cruel.
They were simply repeating a script, one passed down through generations.
Girls had roles. Girls had rules.

And though I was still stubborn, loud, and full of light,
I began to learn how to shrink.

And just like that, I became the girl who always smiled.

It was a delicate dance, one I mastered too young.
But deep inside, the wild girl with scraped knees and untied hair?
She never left.

She watched. She waited.
And one day..older, louder, unafraid..she would return.

And that’s how it began.

A girl born on a rainy night, with dimpled cheeks and drama in her bones.
A girl who was deeply loved, joyfully fed, and allowed to run free.
Until the world reminded her that she couldn’t.
Not completely.

So she adapted.
Smiled.
Survived.

But if you looked closely…
You could still see the spark in her eyes.
The defiance. The longing. The quiet refusal to disappear.

Because no matter how many rules she learned to follow,
She would always carry the memory of freedom in her bones.

And that girl?

She wasn’t going anywhere.

---

“To the little girl I used to be, THANK YOU for surviving in silence so the woman in me could finally speak.”

Chapter 2: The Experiment

“Most firstborns are love stories. Some are lessons. I was both.”

They say the firstborn is always special.
And I was like I said, I was the star.

But love, I’ve come to realise, doesn’t always look like what it should.
Sometimes it comes wrapped in loud voices, missed cues, and good intentions tangled in generational confusion.

My mother was in her early 20s when she had me.
A rich girl from Agra, raised in comfort and emotional restraint. My father was her brother’s best friend , they played together, and somewhere between shared innings and stolen glances, she fell in love.
She came to Bombay, married him, and had me within two years.

A love story, yes.
But like many young couples, they were in love with each other, not prepared for who they were becoming parents.

And I, like most firstborns, became the experiment.

Parenting doesn’t come with a manual.
No one teaches you how to raise a child, especially a girl, especially in the emotional chaos of figuring out your own life first. And as much as I know they loved me, I don’t think my parents ever truly understood me.

Love was there, but it wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t gentle, or safe, or the kind that wraps you up in hugs after a bad day.

My father was aggressive.
I remember being shouted at.
I remember being slapped for mistakes I made-big and small.
I remember fear being a language I learned early, long before I knew how to speak up for myself.

The house wasn’t calm.
It was loud. Chaotic. A place of more arguments than agreements.
The energy was always on edge, like walking through rooms with broken glass on the floor.

To all the parents reading this, please hear me.

That kind of environment? It leaves marks.

The first five years are the most formative years of a child’s life.
Not just for the brain, but for the heart.
For the sense of safety, confidence, self-worth.
And when those early years are shaped in confusion, criticism, or constant correction, something shifts inside you.

I felt it then.
I still feel it now.

---

There were no bedtime stories.
No whispered “I’m proud of you.”
No hugs for no reason.
No safe space to cry, or even just be.

There was food. There was routine. There was discipline.
But not presence. Not softness. Not connection.

I was a part of their life.
But they weren’t a part of mine.

I often wonder if I came into thir lives too soon.
Maybe they were still growing up themselves.
Maybe they didn’t know what they were doing.
And maybe, like every parent, they made their share of mistakes.

But unlike scraped knees or broken toys, some wounds don’t fade with time.
They settle into your wiring.
And they show up later in relationships, in self-doubt, in the voices in your head that you can’t quite trace.

It took me years to admit this to myself: That I didn’t have a loving relationship with my parents. It wasn’t built on warmth, acceptance, or feeling seen.
It was functional. Conditional. Often silent.

I was raised with a sense of responsibility but not belonging.
I knew how to behave, but not how to feel.

They provided. But they weren’t present.

And I grew up carrying that emptiness, like a quiet echo that only I could hear.

I don’t write this from a place of blame.
I write it because I know I’m not the only one.
Because so many of us are walking around with childhoods that look okay on paper,
but left us quietly aching for something softer. Something safer.

I didn’t grow up with a mirror that told me I was enough. I grew up with expectations, raised eyebrows, and a constant need to prove that I belonged.

And so, I learned to be good.
To adjust. To behave. To take care of myself.
I became the girl who didn’t ask for too much, who smiled even when it hurt,
and who mistook control for love because that’s what she was shown.

But the truth is, no child should grow up surviving their own home.
No child should have to wonder if they’re lovable only when they perform.

And yet, many of us did.
Many of us still carry that version of ourselves in the quiet corners of our hearts.

That little girl in me?
She deserved better.
And every day now, I try to give her what she never received – validation, gentleness, and a place to simply be.

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“When you grow up learning how to survive in your own home, it takes years to learn how to live anywhere else.”

Chapter 3: The Experiment, Part Two

“I thought he’d protect me. Turns out, I was the one protecting both of us.”

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It was another rainy day when he came into this world on 9th July 1992, at 4:20 PM.
We often joke about the timing “Chaar Sau Bees!” a phrase we use for con artists and crooks.
But there was nothing crooked about him.
He was Bunty, my little baby brother. A tiny soul in a hospital bassinet.

I was six years old. Toothless in the front, but smiling wide.
Peering at him through a small glass window, feeling something I couldn’t name then. It was pure, overwhelming love.
Also… a strange kind of ache.
A quiet knowing that he, too, would grow up feeling some of the same detachment I did.

But that day? That moment? It was joy.
Unfiltered. Full-bodied. Celebrated.

Like every proper Punjabi household, the loudest voice of happiness was my grandmother’s:
“Sadde ghar munda hoya hai!” – A boy has been born into our house.
Sweet boxes were distributed to neighbours, to strangers, to anyone who smiled back.
The home was bursting with visitors, laughter, celebration.

And I remember thinking, “Were they this happy when I was born?”

It wasn’t jealousy. Just a question.
Because back then in India, having a girl wasn’t a celebration.
It was a responsibility.

I’m glad that’s changed now.
But back then, I knew the difference, even if I didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Still I was happy.
I saw love in my parents’ eyes.
I felt special because now, I had a partner in crime.
And let’s be honest he was a boy, which in my head meant he’d protect me.

That’s what boys are supposed to do, right?
(Though let’s not kid ourselves men might be physically stronger, but we women? We’re emotionally built like oak trees.)

He was named Sidharth, but to us, he was Bunty.
And me? I was Sonu.
Because no Indian household is complete without two completely unrelated pet names.

It was overwhelming to watch my mother handle this tiny human.
I saw her massage him gently, bathe him with care, feed him with a patience I hadn’t noticed before.
Something in me shifted.
My maternal instincts switched on instantly.

I didn’t just watch, I observed. I absorbed.

Because somewhere deep inside, I knew his would be my reality too, someday.
This is how we girls were raised.
Or should I say how we still are.
To nurture.
To tend.
To quietly place ourselves second. Always second.

As Bunty and I grew, our bond bloomed.
Raksha Bandhan and Bhai Dooj became rituals.
His first Diwali, first Holi, every milestone was celebrated and benchmarked.

But eventually, the house slipped back into its old rhythm of chaos, disagreements, loudness.

I saw a mother who was angry, irritated, stretched too thin. Raising a full-grown man and two children, in a house that felt smaller with every passing year.

We didn’t know what PTSD was back then.
We didn’t talk about mental load or emotional exhaustion.

I never said it out loud, but I often felt sorry for her.
She had her hands full – no help, no time, no space to even breathe.
But still, she stood like a rock. Solid. Stoic. Strong, even when she was silently falling apart.

I wanted her to feel supported. To know that I saw her. That I understood, even if I was just a child.

“I love you” wasn’t something people in our family said out loud. Not in words.
Love lived in actions, not affection.
So I started showing up in small ways, and then in all the ways that mattered.

Not just with chores, but with emotions.
I tried to keep the house quiet. Tried to fill in the gaps. Tried to be more daughter than child.

And before I even realised it, I wasn’t just Bunty’s sister.
I had become his second mother.

That innocent, beautiful brother-sister relationship morphed into something more complicated.
Love remained, but roles shifted. And I grew up too fast.

Somehow, as he grew older, life started easing up. The parenting got better.
He became the child they raised after the trial version.
He got the love I wish I had.

---

We were opposites in many ways.
He was calm. I was fire.
He was soft. I was survival.
A reflection of the different versions of our parents we each got.

We went to the same school.
I wasn’t the academic star, but I was a state-level athlete: handball and basketball.
People knew me. Liked me.
Which, in turn, gave him a certain protection.

Then we went to the same college, and once again, I became his safety net.

Even when I was growing away from him, I kept showing up.
I was always in his story, even when he didn’t ask me to be!

That’s the thing about being the older one. You carry expectations no one speaks aloud.
You protect everyone, even when you’re the one who needs protecting.

Bunty, my little baby brother-
He grew up. Taller, stronger, calmer.
Built a life of his own.
He now lives in Melbourne, and I couldn’t be prouder of who he’s become.

He turned out better than me.
And I say that with zero bitterness.
Only love.

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“I didn’t just grow up with him. I grew up for him.”

Chapter 4: What Home Taught Me About Love

“I learned love in pieces : loud, urgent, inconsistent. So I kept chasing echoes instead of choosing presence.”

If home is where we first learn what love looks like, mine painted a complicated picture.

Love was loud.
It came with raised voices and weary silences.
It hid behind duty served in meals, folded into laundry, offered through chores.
But it rarely arrived softly.
And almost never without conditions.

I learned early that affection wasn’t given, it was earned.
That being “good” meant staying small, quiet, and agreeable.
Approval felt temporary, always one mistake away from disappearing.

So I adjusted.
Became cautious with my feelings. Mindful of how much space I took up in any room.

But, never measured with my words.

When you grow up navigating love like that, you carry it everywhere.
Into classrooms.
Into conversations.
Into connections.

I was the loud, happy girl. Popular, even.
I laughed easily and spoke louder than I needed to just enough to prove I belonged.
But behind all that noise were walls.

I didn’t fall in love early, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to trust it.
Still, in my teens, I started craving something deeper.
Not romance but belonging. Not fireworks but quiet reassurance.
To be seen, heard, and held without having to earn it.

But when love finally came to me through various mediums it didn’t feel soft.
It felt… familiar.

It was hot and cold.
Present, then gone.
Kind in moments, apologetic in others but never consistent.
It mirrored everything I had grown up believing love was:
A test.
A performance.
A negotiation.

So I tolerated it. Waited through its absences. Clung to its presence.
Because I didn’t know better. Because chaos felt more real than calm.

I mistook emotional turmoil for intensity. Confused inconsistency with depth.
Believed that if love made me ache, it must mean I was alive.

Looking back now, I see the patterns.
How I’d been wired to chase love instead of receive it.
To work for affection instead of rest in it.

I am still trying to unlearn. to stop flinching when kindness stayed. To stop mistrusting gentleness. To understand that love, real love, isn’t something you survive, it’s something you settle into.

Because no one had shown me that love could be soft.
That it could be quiet and still and safe.
That it could hold you without hurting you.

It wasn’t love that broke me. It was what I believed love was.

Chapter 5: Becoming Me, Quietly

“In my teens, I wasn’t just growing up, I was growing in.”

I was always the fat kid in school.

Of course, back then, there wasn’t a word like body shaming floating around.
But the nicknames, the teasing, the subtle digs yeah, I heard them all. The thing is, I wasn’t too conscious of my body at the time.
I was a handball player. The goalkeeper.
And in that space, my size helped. My strength was an asset.
That court was my escape. It didn’t matter what I looked like. What mattered was that I could stop a ball better than anyone else.

But still no crushes. No secret notes. No boy who ever looked at me the way girls in movies were looked at. No stolen glances, no giggles in corridors, no childhood romance stories to tell.
Just me. Showing up. Playing hard. Laughing louder than I needed to.

I had friends though, good ones. People who saw past my body and into my energy.
Friends who are still in my life today, and I’m so grateful for that kind of loyalty.
We were all just… innocent then. Figuring things out without social media, filters, or the pressure to be perfect.

Now I see those same friends married to each other, raising kids, meeting in different parts of the world. Doctors. Entrepreneurs. Artists. Beautiful lives unfolding.
And it makes me proud. Not just of them, but of us and the simplicity of who we were.

Academically, I was never brilliant. I scraped through my Class 10 exams with more prayers than prep.
And when I turned 16, I looked nothing like the teenage girls on TV or in teen magazines.
I was dark-skinned, overweight, with a boycut that was more practical than pretty.
I had no roadmap for my life, only chaos at home, confidence on the outside, and fear tucked somewhere deep inside.

But I smiled. I smiled through all of it.

Because home was still loud. Still unpredictable. So school and handball practice became my places to breathe.
To be.
I gave everything I had there, because at home, I didn’t know how.

Then came college. I got into one of the best institutions at the time, Swami Vivekanand College in Chembur on sports merit.
I still remember standing in the admissions line with my mother as the only girl under the sports quota. My marks weren’t impressive, but my handball credentials were.

Those two years changed something in me.

For the first time, I started becoming aware of me, the person beyond the performance.
I discovered aerobics, and damn, I was good at it. Movement felt like freedom. Sweat felt like purpose.

For the first time, I saw a glimpse of a career, of a life I could build that didn’t depend on anyone else. With my parents’ support, I enrolled in the REEBOK certification program after Class 12 to become a certified aerobics instructor.

I had found something I was not just good at, but passionate about helping people feel better about themselves through movement.
It wasn’t just fitness. It was healing.

Looking back now, I realise I was just an ordinary girl with an extraordinary appetite for life.
Over-energetic. Over-excited. Always on.
I poured every ounce of myself into practice, into friendships, into laughing too hard—because I didn’t know how to do it at home.

And you know what?

I miss her sometimes.
The girl who woke up smiling even after a bad night.
The one who fell down, got up, and laughed before anyone else could.
The one who never learned how to hide her light, even when the world told her to dim it.

I know I’ll never be her again.
But I’ll always carry her with me.

“I didn’t know who I was becoming, but I knew I was surviving and somehow, that felt enough.”

Chapter 6: From Misfit to Medalist

“When no one clapped, I clapped for myself. And that became my rhythm.”

I ’ve always been someone driven by value.Not the kind you measure in money or titles but the kind you feel when you make a difference. Even back then, I didn’t just want a career.
I wanted to matter.

Maybe because, in some ways, I always felt helpless about my own life. So I began focusing on making others feel seen. Strong. Better. That was my fuel.

By now, things at home were relatively stable. My parents had finally bought a house in one of the more remote sectors of Vashi. It was a third-floor bungalow unit, with a terrace that looked over both the Vashi creek and a still-functional cemetery.The first time I saw a body being cremated was from that terrace.
It was oddly symbolic, something was always ending, something else just beginning.

By then, I had started to detach from a lot of things.
From people. From expectations. From needing anything I couldn’t give myself.
I had grown up, faster than most. I wanted to work. To earn. To feel self-reliant. I didn’t want to compare what I wore with others anymore. I wanted to wear my confidence, instead.

At 17, I was studying, working out, attending college, doing my Reebok certification, and working part-time at a local studio in Vashi.
I’ll never forget my first class as an aerobics instructor.
I earned Rs.75. And I was ecstatic.

No one else knew it, but I did. I didn’t announce it to the world. I just smiled, walked out of that studio, and high-fived myself in my head. Because that day, I had done something, for me.

I had set the tone for the kind of life I wanted:
One where I worked hard. Helped people. Earned my worth. And smiled through the mess.

My world expanded.
People started calling me “Ma’am”, some older than me. I was respected. I was seen.
For the first time, I felt validated not by family, but by strangers who showed up for my classes.
It felt… healing.

I was also doing better academically.
After Class 12, I joined Ruia College to study Psychology hoping one day to pursue Sports Psychology in Australia – It was the perfect marriage of everything I loved: fitness, people, understanding the mind.

I even played basketball for college.

But then came the ATKT – I failed economics. I was terrified to tell anyone.
And when I did, I got the reaction I expected – disappointment, judgement, the usual lectures.
Aerobics was put on hold. I was told to “focus on studies” or forget everything else.

But if you’ve read this far, you know I’m not someone who gives up.

In my second year, I made it to the top 5 in class. Then I transferred to Jai Hind College, pursuing a double major in Psychology and Philosophy. Known for its ocean views and crowd(kids who study in college), Jai Hind felt like a whole different universe.
I thought I’d be a misfit but somehow, I blended in. Quietly. Confidently.
Because I had started believing in my own story.

I had no academic background of excellence, but I decided I’d shut every mouth that doubted me with results. And I did.

I topped the college and the university.
Yes, me.
The same girl who was once told she wouldn’t “amount to much.”
I became a Gold Medalist in Psychology and Philosophy, not only in Jai Hind college but also Mumbai University.

I remember when the college called home to share the news. My mother didn’t believe it.
She asked them repeatedly if it was actually me.

On the day of the convocation, as I walked across that stage, not once, but twice – I think it finally hit her: how far I had come, and how quietly I had done it all. I wished my father could’ve seen me make that walk. This was my moment. My victory. I was no longer the girl who was expected to fail. I was the girl who rose.
There were over 500 people in that auditorium clapping, cheering, teachers patting my back, and friends smiling as they whispered,
‘That’s the Vashi girl who gave me notes.’
And in that moment, I wasn’t invisible anymore. I was undeniable.

Yes, my parents supported me the way they knew how. But they weren’t involved.
I existed in their world, but they weren’t present in mine. Until, one day, I turned around and realised something that pierced deeper than anything else.

There was no one behind me.

No one clapping. No one catching me. Just silence. And in that silence, I met my first real companion: loneliness.

But instead of letting it break me, I let it build me.
I knew I had to make a mark.
Because no one else was going to do it for me.

“I wasn’t built with a safety net. I became my own.“

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Chapter 8: The Escape Plan

“I didn’t want a perfect life. I just wanted a life that felt like mine.”

I had graduated. I was no longer the student with dreams, I was living them.

By then, I was working full-time as a fitness instructor, hopping across gyms in the city with my newly bought Activa. It was freedom on two wheels. It gave me time, independence, and the thrill of going wherever I needed, without asking anyone.

I was meeting people from all walks of life : athletes, housewives, actors, airhostesses, CEOs all with different faces, but similar battles. They came for physical transformation, but what they really sought was emotional healing. Some shared their struggles with fertility. Others just wanted to fit into their kitty groups. Some were fighting personal grief; others just wanted to be seen.
And I was more than their instructor, I became their safe space.

By day, I was changing lives one workout, one honest conversation at a time, by night, I had a fun group of friends. We worked hard, and partied harder.
I wasn’t in a relationship, but I was okay with that. I had built a life I could call my own.

But in the back of my mind , always, there was that fear.
Of home. Of him.

The aggression hadn’t disappeared. The hands still rose. The words still hurt. And even if the frequency had dropped, the feeling hadn’t. It kept me from bringing my pain home.
It kept me from letting anyone in.
There are memories I can’t and won’t speak of. But they didn’t break me. They simply pushed me further into detachment.

And then one day, I made a decision.
I was going to study again.

I enrolled in an MBA program specialising in HR and Marketing. It wasn’t a top university, but it was what I could manage. I continued working out and following the rhythm I had created for myself.
Two years later, I had a degree.
And soon after, my first corporate job in HR in a logistics firm.
It felt surreal.

Suddenly, I had colleagues. Teams. Targets. A boss. I had entered the world of formals, appraisals, and power lunches. And like everything else, I gave it my all.

But something was still missing.

At home, marriage became the next topic. But we didn’t come from a family that socialized or networked, so there were no proposals, no relatives scouting for matches.
And from what I had seen of marriage…
I wasn’t sure I even wanted one. But I wanted out.

I wanted a home of my own.
A man who would hold me when the world got too loud.
Family dinners. Movie nights. Vacations. A life like the ones in Karan Johar films.
Yes, I was and still am a hardcore Shah Rukh fan so you can imagine the scenes I dreamt of.

All I wanted was someone to choose me.
To see me.
To love me.
Like I had loved others, tirelessly and without conditions.

And so began the search, not just for a partner, but for freedom.
It was time.

It was time to escape.

“I wanted to run away from home towards a life where I could finally exhale without fear.”

Chapter 9: The First Yes

“I wasn’t looking for perfect. I was just longing for someone who’d stay. Someone who’d choose me, gently and completely.“

They say when the time is right, things fall into place. I was finally beginning to tune my mind into the idea of marriage. No one was aggressively hunting for matches, but my profile was up on Shaadi.com, and I was open, open to the possibility of love, of belonging, of creating a life I could call my own.

Then, one day, my father reconnected with a college friend. She mentioned someone, a family from her teaching circle whose son was in the merchant navy. She thought we might be a good match. My father typed out a “bio” of me on his desktop, what I’d studied, where I worked, and what I had achieved so far. He attached a picture of me in a black saree, clicked casually at a friend’s wedding. No makeup, no fancy shoot, just me, smiling, dimpled cheeks and all.

It was the first time I was going to meet a boy. I remember the date clearly: 8th July 2011, a day drenched in Mumbai rain. The city was flooding, trains were slowing down, and my office shut early. My parents called several times to check not if I was safe but where I was and I rushed home, unaware of how that night would change my life.

I wasn’t nervous. Not anxious. I just was.

I slipped into a chudidar kurta I’d worn to office nothing elaborate and sat with my parents. My mother had shown me his picture that morning, warning me gently that he had less hair, as if that mattered. Looks were never on my list. I just wanted love. A home. A man who would be mine.

They came, he and his parents. He was quiet, shy. I was myself- comfortable, confident, curious. When the option to spend a few minutes alone was suggested, my father shut it down immediately. I stayed silent.

I shook the boy’s hand when he left. That was it.
My parents wanted to discuss, but I told them one thing: “Let me speak to him.”

A few evenings later, while I was on a packed bus ride home, he called. His voice was soft, hesitant. He asked if it was a good time. It wasn’t but I said yes anyway. We spoke. Or rather, I spoke, he listened. Calm. Composed. So unlike everything I had known.

Over the next few days, we kept talking. I told him everything – about my work, my friends, my parties, the boys I called friends. Everything except the one thing I didn’t know how to say: my home wasn’t perfect.

On 14th July, my Dada’s (paternal grandfather)birthday, I said yes.

There was no dramatic proposal, no fairy lights, no violin in the background. But it was still the most special moment of my life. He said “I love you,” and I said yes.

A few days later, we met. He arrived with a nervous smile and a bouquet of roses. We went to Tanishq to get our ring sizes. When we stepped out, he slid his hand around my waist and in that moment, I felt it.
I belonged.
Someone would finally watch my back.

He kissed me on the cheek when he dropped me home.
I couldn’t stop smiling for days.

The engagement planning began. Nothing too extravagant, just close friends and family. His mother sent me a maroon and gold saree. No one asked if I liked it. I was told to wear it. And I did. Because this was going to be my new family.

Did I wonder why no one asked me what I wanted? Yes.
Did I speak up? No.

The countdown began. I was excited. Nervous. Curious.
I hadn’t told him I loved him yet. I wanted to mean it. And I did, just a few nights before the engagement.

On 7th August, I got engaged.
A beautiful diamond ring slid onto my finger. I shook his hand after, unsure if I could hug him. It was new territory.
But it was ours.

I was engaged to a man I believed would give me the love of a father I never had. The protection of a brother I always craved. The friendship I longed for. I never asked him what I meant to him. But to me – he was my whole world.

I was ready to love him.
Ready to build a life.
Ready to be his wife, the mother of his children, and his forever.

“I didn’t fall in love with a man. I fell in love with the idea of finally being chosen. And in that moment, that was enough.”

Chapter 10: A Wedding, A Promise, A Shift

So I was engaged to this man who was everything I wasn’t.

He was calm. Composed. Shy. Soft-spoken. Everything about him whispered stillness, while I was a storm of emotion and expression. And I thought this is perfect. Maybe opposites don’t just attract, maybe they balance. Maybe this was my moment to breathe. Maybe I had finally found someone who could ground me.

For the first time in my life, I belonged to someone.

I let myself blend into his world slowly. Our parents met, rituals were discussed, and timelines chalked out. Since he was a sailor and would soon be leaving, it was decided we should get married before he sailed again. And just like that, the preparations began.

We had a simple court wedding planned before the Hindu ceremony. I was juggling work, wedding prep, and a heart full of new emotions. It was mostly Mumma and me managing the entire show, and I kept praying for everything to go smoothly.

In between meetings and logistics, I chose to spend time with him and his family. I stepped into what was going to be my new home. I saw the bedroom that would be mine – the first room I could call my own. I had never had that before. I looked at the wardrobe and imagined my clothes inside it – again, my first. Even the kitchen, where I pictured myself cooking for him and for this family that already felt warmer than the one I came from.

I told myself I had to be a good wife. A good daughter-in-law. I wanted to be accepted, and I was willing to go to any extent for that acceptance, even if it meant reshaping who I was. I wanted to belong. Fully. Completely. Quietly.

Our wedding date was chosen by the priest, but when we realised we were both born on the 27th, I suggested we get married on the 27th too. And he agreed, no justifications, no questions. Just a soft yes. For someone like me, who’d spent her life explaining herself, that moment was liberating.

We couldn’t get married on his birthday as I’d hoped, but it didn’t matter. None of that did. Because I was marrying the man I wanted to build a life with.

His family hugged me. Welcomed me. Saw me. He held me, pulled me close, and for the first time in years, I felt I wasn’t alone.

And still, I never told him the truth.

I never spoke about how things were at home. How fear still lingered in my walls. How I had grown up tiptoeing around tempers and swallowing pain. I didn’t want him to judge my parents. I didn’t want him to think less of me.

That’s the thing with people like me, we protect the very things that have broken us. We keep secrets so others don’t have to carry the weight we’ve lived with.

And then it was time. The end of September.

We stood in a government office, surrounded by just a handful of people, yet my heart felt like it was beating in front of a thousand.
The court marriage-no glitz, no rituals-ust the law and our vows.
I was overwhelmed, brimming with joy, anticipation, and a strange calm.

I hadn’t seen the mangalsutra yet, but I knew he had bought one.
I remember the day he went shopping for it. He hadn’t called or texted me the entire day.
Just silence.
And I panicked. It shook me more than I expected.

We’d only known each other for three months. Met in July, engaged in August, and now standing on the brink of marriage in September and yet, in that silence, I felt like I was losing my world.
I fought with him that night. Not dramatically, but emotionally.
He didn’t understand why I was upset. But in that moment, I understood something about myself:
I wasn’t as strong as I thought.
I wasn’t as independent as I claimed.
Because slowly, quietly, this man, this calm, steady, gentle man – had become my everything.

And it scared me.

Still, I didn’t overthink it. I brushed the doubt aside, because the happiness was louder than the fear. The idea of “forever” with someone who held me without questions, who stood beside me with patience-it was enough.

So there we were.
Reading out the words written by law:

“I, Namrta Sharma, take this man to be my lawfully wedded husband…”

We exchanged garlands, he tied the mangalsutra around my neck, and our parents signed the papers.

Just like that-
I was married.
A wife.
His wife.
And he, my husband.

We took a photo together. For the first time, I leaned my head on his shoulder in front of everyone.
I was leaning on him- not just physically, but emotionally, fully.

And in that moment, I knew no one could take him away from me.

I slowed down.
I breathed differently.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid.

I belonged somewhere.
To someone.
I belonged to this man who held me close not just in his arms, but in his life.

Yes, there was a grand three-day wedding celebration being planned.
Yes, I would be dressed as a bride and walk under the phoolon ki chaadar and do the saat pheras.

But for me?
The real wedding was this one.

That simple court office.
That sacred mangalsutra.
That moment when he put it around my neck in front of the two sets of people who gave us life.

That was my wedding.

The next morning, he messaged me.

“Good Morning, Mrs.”

And I smiled.
I smiled like I hadn’t in years.
I smiled and cried and whispered those words back like a prayer.

I was his.
I belonged.

And though I knew I would have to wait a few more months before moving into our new home, it didn’t matter.
I would wait a lifetime if I had to because this was mine.
He was mine.

And I remember thinking that day – If I died in that moment, I would die with a smile.

“In that moment, I truly believed love had found me. But belief and reality don’t always walk the same path.”

Chapter 11: The Day the Lights Were Bright

“Weddings aren’t just about two people. They’re about the worlds they come from and the one they’re about to build together.”

You know what they say about Punjabi weddings- they’re loud, full of life, with music so deafening it could shake the walls, and alcohol flowing like water. Mine was no different. In fact, it was probably the wedding everyone had been waiting for.

First, because it was an excuse for many of my relatives to come to Mumbai, some for the very first time. Second, I’d been part of so many of their weddings over the years, so of course they had to be there for mine. And third, my people skills have always been my superpower-I’d kept in touch with everyone, built my own bonds. If I invited, they came. Simple.

It was a three-day celebration:

• Day 1: Mata ki Chowki
• Day 2: Mehendi and Sangeet
• Day 3: Chooda ceremony and the Hindu wedding

Everything was planned down to the smallest detail. Everyone had their assigned jobs. My father, of course, decided who would be “involved” and who wouldn’t, something I didn’t entirely agree with, because I had my own set of relationships. But he was adamant, and I decided not to fight every battle. The countdown was on, and I wanted to focus on what mattered.

In the middle of all the chaos, I still found my moments with my husband(-to-be). We were already married in court, but I wanted to soak in every part of this big, traditional celebration. I had quit my job because the plan was to sail with him once he left on duty, so I was preparing myself for this whole new life.

The celebrations kicked off, and the memories blur together – laughing faces, clinking glasses, overexcited relatives, slightly tipsy uncles, aunties and young adults, endless dancing. I could feel the happiness in the air, and I chose to stay in that feeling.

On the big day, I wore a sea-green lehenga, and he stood tall in a black sherwani. We met hundreds of people on stage, shaking hands, smiling until our cheeks hurt. Then it was time for the saath pheras. By Hindu tradition, we were now husband and wife.

Oh, and technically, this was my third wedding. Yes. In between the court ceremony and the Hindu rituals, I also married a tree. A priest had convinced my family that without this, I might have trouble conceiving. That’s a whole story for another time.

By the time we made it to our room that night, we were exhausted. No “first night” fairy tale, no quiet candlelit moment, a friend was even sharing the room with us. But none of that mattered to me. I knew my moments with him would come.

The next day was Pag Phera – the ritual where the bride returns to her parents’ home one last time before going to live with her husband. When I entered my new home afterward, there was another ritual: I had to sing a poem with his name in it before I could cross the threshold.

There were many new faces that day, but I did well. I spoke less, observed more, trying to read the rhythm of this new household while blending into it. I wanted to do everything right.

---

Moving into his house in the days that followed felt like stepping into a new version of myself. I touched the wardrobe that was now partly mine, something I had never had growing up. I stood in the kitchen imagining breakfasts, evening teas, and Sunday lunches. I walked into our bedroom and traced the edges of the bed with my fingertips.

The first mornings as his wife were soft. His “good morning” came with a smile, sometimes a quick touch on my hand. I cooked my first meal for the family, nervous but determined. I laughed more, spoke less, choosing to observe the rhythm of my new life before fitting myself into it.

And yet, between the warm embraces and shared glances, there were moments – fleeting, almost invisible where I felt the need to try harder, to say less, to adjust a little more than I expected. I told myself it was normal, that all brides go through this.

I didn’t know it then, but the vows I made that day would be tested in ways I had never imagined.

For now, the lights were still bright.

“I believed marriage was the destination. I didn’t know it was just the beginning of another journey.”

Chapter 12: When the Curtains Fell

“The wedding ends when the music stops. The marriage begins in the silence that follows.”

The wedding was over. The lights were taken down, the laughter of relatives packed back into trains and planes, the songs fading into memory. And then it was just us. and the family

Marriage, they say, begins where the rituals end. And mine began in the quiet mornings, in the unfamiliar kitchen, in the way I adjusted myself before stepping into a room full of new faces.

Those first few days, I was still glowing like the nayi naveli dulhan who everyone smiled at and welcomed. My first mornings as his wife were soft, a quiet “good morning,” sometimes a quick brush of his hand against mine. He was calm, reserved, but present. And I clung to that presence as if it was oxygen.

Moving into his house felt like stepping into a version of myself I had only ever imagined. A wardrobe of my own, a kitchen I could call mine, a room that finally belonged to me. For a girl who had grown up sharing space, fighting for silence, and hiding parts of herself, this was liberation wrapped in small domestic details.

But marriage wasn’t just about me and him. It was about a family. A system. A rhythm I was expected to join without missing a beat. His family was warm, but warmth often comes with expectations. And I wanted so badly to be accepted that I bent myself into shapes I didn’t always recognize.

I tried to understand what made each person tick, what kept the peace, what earned approval. I was determined to do it right to be the wife, the daughter-in-law, the woman who would make everyone proud.

And yet, in between the embraces and the rituals, there were flickers. Moments that pricked. A silence that lasted too long. A word that felt heavier than it should. A reminder that marriage was not a constant smile, but a daily negotiation.

I brushed those moments aside. Told myself all brides feel this. That love, like everything else in life, requires adjustment. That if I just gave a little more, spoke a little less, tried a little harder, everything would fall into place.

But deep inside, I felt the faintest echo of something I had known all my life: To be loved, I would have to earn it. Again. I didn’t know it then, but the real tests hadn’t even begun.
For now, I chose to hold on to the softness, to the hope, to the idea of forever.

Because for the first time in years, I belonged to someone.
And I wasn’t ready to let that go.

“For now, I held on to belonging. I didn’t know how much it would one day cost me.”

Chapter 13: The First Cracks

“Sometimes life gives you everything you ever wished for, only to see if you can carry it.”

Our wedding had barely ended when we left for our honeymoon – a week in the Maldives. My first trip abroad. My first time in a business-class seat. The first of many firsts, I thought.

For me, it was a world I didn’t even know existed. White sand that looked painted, water so clear it seemed unreal, and days that felt like postcards come alive. It was beautiful, yes. But it was also overwhelming.

Around the third day, something in me shifted. I wanted to go home. Not because I was scared, but because I felt left out in a world that wasn’t mine. I remember crying quietly, trying to make sense of emotions that had no name. It wasn’t sadness, not really. It was just… too much. A happiness so big it overshadowed the discomfort rising inside me.

Still, I told myself this was love, this was marriage, this was the dream I had always chased. I smiled through the unease, convincing myself that if I just leaned into the joy, the strange ache would go away.

And then, just weeks after we returned, life gave me another first.

I found out I was pregnant.

I still remember that moment with startling clarity – the rush of emotions, the shock, the tears that came before the smile. I wasn’t ready, not really, but I was overjoyed.

Me, a mother. Us, parents.

I still remember the conversation right before the sonography, when the thought lingered – should we keep the baby? Was it too soon? Too sudden?

But in my heart, I knew. This baby wasn’t just a life growing inside me, it was a promise. A proof of how deeply I loved him. Of what he meant to me. This was my way of saying, I am here, I am yours, and I am giving you the one gift no words can ever match – our child.

It felt like an assurance to the family too that I wasn’t just marrying into them, I was choosing them as my own. I remember telling him, almost with childlike excitement, can you imagine? Our grandparents will become great-grandparents. Do you know what that means to them?

I was ready to let go of parts of myself, to reshape myself completely, just to show him that I belonged.

That this, our family would be my everything.

It was overwhelming in ways I couldn’t always say out loud. Yes, there was fear. But far louder than the fear was love. A love so vast, so unfamiliar, it scared me and comforted me all at once. A love I hadn’t even lived yet, but somehow already carried in every corner of my being.

When we shared the news with our families, the reactions were a storm of extremes. There were smiles and congratulations but also whispers that cut through the joy.

Questions about timing. About responsibility. About whether we were truly ‘ready.’

I tried to hold on to the happiness, but beneath it all, a quiet unease began to take root, small, almost invisible at first, yet strong enough to remind me that love and acceptance can sometimes come with conditions. Because while I had imagined marriage as the start of a new chapter, I hadn’t expected motherhood to arrive so soon after.

The girl who had just become a wife was now about to become a mother.
And though I smiled, I couldn’t shake the thought-was life moving too fast, or was I just running to catch up?

The cracks weren’t visible yet.
Not to anyone else.
But I could feel them, quietly forming in the background of my joy.

“In that moment, I thought life was giving me everything I had ever prayed for. What I didn’t realise was that it was also testing how much of me I was willing to give away.”

Chapter 14: A Mother is Born Too

Pregnancy came into my life sooner than I had imagined. I was still settling into the idea of being a wife when life handed me the role of becoming a mother. One chapter had barely begun, and already another was opening, this one was bigger, heavier, life-altering.

And unlike the stories you hear of glowing mothers-to-be surrounded by family, I knew early on that I would have to walk this path largely on my own. The father of my child has a job that kept him away for long stretches. The very thought of it scared me, nights when I might wake up craving something simple like “seen,” mornings when I would have to go for check-ups alone, afternoons when a doubt or a fear would gnaw at me and I’d have no one to turn to right away.

It was even harder because I had escaped one house only to find myself in another that didn’t quite feel like mine yet. My in-laws were kind, yes , but still unfamiliar. Their world was different, their rhythms not my own, and I didn’t know how much of me would ever fit in. So much of this journey felt like walking on ground that could give way any moment. And when they weren’t around, the choice was even harder-to return to the house I had once longed to escape, or to live alone with a silence that felt heavier than company.

The fears kept piling up: What if something happened to me? What if I couldn’t protect this tiny life inside me? What if I did something wrong? What if this baby, the symbol of our love, never came into this world at all?

And yet, beneath the fear, there was a quiet strength. A promise I made to the father of my child and to myself that no matter what, I would protect this baby. That I would walk through fire if I had to.

But then came the day that tested me for the very first time. The day he was supposed to fly out, I bled. We rushed to the hospital, my heart pounding louder than any storm. For a terrifying moment, I thought: This is it. Everything I love always leaves. Maybe this baby will leave me too.

But the baby didn’t. The little heartbeat inside me held on. Fragile, but present. Alive.

That’s when I knew this pregnancy wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing in my life ever had been. And just like every other battle I had fought, I would have to fight this one too. Alone if I must.

But for the first time, I wasn’t just fighting for myself. I was fighting for someone else, someone who hadn’t even arrived yet, but had already become my reason to survive.

“Nothing in my life had come easy, and motherhood wasn’t about to be any different. But this time, I wasn’t fighting for myself, was fighting for us.”

Chapter 15 : Between Fear and Faith

“Life was forming inside me, but fear was living there too.”

It felt like everything happened at once.

Because I’d bled early, caution became my constant companion. Travel was out of the question; staying with my in-laws was difficult because of the distance and the risk. Half my life became doctor appointments and rest, and the other half was phone calls and emails, the newly married woman’s life reduced to a schedule on a screen.

Then, in the fifth month, the fear got louder. The gynecologist found a deposit in one of the baby’s ventricles and spoke with that soft, clinical gravity that makes you hear only the worst. “If the heart doesn’t form properly, we may not be able to deliver,” she said. The words landed like stones. I remember the way the room seemed too bright afterward, how every small sound felt amplified and threatening.

My placenta remained low through most of the pregnancy. Bleeding came and went, sometimes a trickle, sometimes a sudden gush that made me stand frozen, not knowing what to do next. Days got harder. Nights got longer. I was at my parents’ house, being fussed over, fed, and stroked, but none of their care could fill the hollow place where His presence belonged. I missed him with a physical ache. I missed our quiet moments. I missed the idea of him being the one to hold my hand through it all.

He was away, earning a living so we could be okay, and I understood that yet the absence felt like an unfinished sentence. I was carrying our baby, and the baby’s father was a voice on the phone, a message, a love that existed mostly through pixels and late-night calls. I tried to be grateful for what I had, for the warmth from people who were around, for the phone calls and visits from friends, for the glimpses of the little heartbeat on the monitor but gratitude and fear often lived side by side in me.

In the seventh month, the news we’d been clinging to finally arrived: the baby was okay. Relief washed over me, but it didn’t erase the unease. Something inside me still felt off perhaps because so much of the journey had been spent waiting, worrying, and wondering. I didn’t want to deliver without Him; I wanted his hand on my forehead, his face in the delivery room, the two of us meeting our child together.

I counted days. I watched the life inside me grow, week by week, hiccup by hiccup. I prepared, packed, and paced the small hours. And then, just as the finish line seemed both near and impossible, he came back not at the very start of the ninth month, but close enough: eight and a half months. When I saw him at the airport, something in me calmed. Seeing him there, I felt ready in a way I hadn’t dared feel before. I believed then with that tired, stubborn certainty only love can give that if anything were to happen, he would stand with me. I could face the delivery because he was finally there.

And so I waited a little longer, counting breaths instead of fears, until the day would come.

“It felt like a chapter closing, but in truth, it was only the pause before the hardest page.”

Chapter 16: The Birth of US

“There are pains you fear, and then there are pains you welcome because you know they will bring life.”

The doctor had given me the medicine to induce labor on the 25th of July 2012 and told me, almost casually, “If the pain doesn’t start, come to me on the 1st of August.” She also said, “Make the most of your time with him now.”
So, we did.
We didn’t go sightseeing or plan anything elaborate. We stayed home. I soaked in his presence, his touch, his voice, the feeling of having him close. After months of phone calls and absence, we were finally together. I wasn’t thinking about whether it would be a boy or a girl; I just prayed for a healthy baby and a healthy me, so I could take care of the life inside me.

Those last few months had been lived between faith and fear. But now, at least, I wasn’t holding it alone.

It was 5 a.m. on the 28th of July when I noticed the first droplets of blood. I hadn’t even packed my hospital bag. I walked out of the washroom and told him quietly, “I think it’s time. I bled.”
I was composed, but the sight of blood scared me. I wasn’t feeling pain yet, but looking down at my own body, my thoughts weren’t kind. In that moment, all I wanted was to feel the baby move to know the little life inside me was still there.

We packed a few things in a hurry and rushed to the hospital. They took me straight to the delivery section and attached me to machines. Until I heard the heartbeat, I was shaking inside, but I couldn’t show it. I couldn’t afford to look scared.

My gynecologist walked in, checked me, and said, “You’re not dilated enough yet.”
And so, the waiting began.

The pain started coming in small waves not unbearable yet, just relentless. The urge to go to the washroom again and again, the pressure in my back, the drips attached to my hand. Through it all, HE was there, holding my hand.

By 12 p.m., my body gave up on me. I passed out from exhaustion. I heard him go to the doctor, his voice firm, “Let’s do a C-section.” But she replied, “I’ve taken care of her for nine months. Let me decide.” She gave me an injection in my spine that numbed me but didn’t completely knock me out.

At 4 p.m., they told me to start moving. I wasn’t dilated enough, but by 6 p.m., my doctor decided we would do a normal delivery anyway. I wasn’t ready to push. I was dilated only 8 cm. My body felt like it was breaking open. I kept looking at the door. I didn’t want to do this without him. I wanted his hand on mine.

And then HE walked in.

The moment I saw him, something shifted. I started to push. I was bleeding profusely, but they could already see the head. “Concentrate on the light,” my doctor told me. “All you have to do is push and bring your baby into the world.”

I felt his hand in mine, firm and steady, and then the doctor called him, “Come see the head.”

And then, after hours of pain and waiting, he came out.
Our baby.
Our Arjun.
My son, Arjun.

His father cut the umbilical cord as Arjun let out his first cry. And the first thought that came into my head was: I have my boys now. My family is complete.

Arjun was handed to his grandmothers first, then to his father. When he finally came to me, he smiled yes, he smiled and latched on. In that moment, I felt the first, overwhelming rush of being a mother.

I still look at our first picture: the two of us looking at the camera and Arjun’s tiny eyes adoring his father. He had already found his hero. And I had found my family, my reason to live.

“In that moment, with Arjun in my arms, I wasn’t just a wife or a daughter anymore. I was a mother. And for the first time, my world felt whole.“

Chapter 17: Learning to Be a Mother

“No one is ever truly ready for motherhood. You don’t step into it.. you stumble, you break, you learn, and then somehow, you love your way through.”

The first few days with Arjun felt like living in a blur. Time measured not in hours or days, but in feedings, diaper changes, and fleeting moments of sleep. My body was sore, stitched, and exhausted, but my heart beat differently now. There was a rhythm in me that matched his breaths, his cries, his quiet sighs.

I still remember how tiny he felt in my arms, fragile, almost too delicate for someone like me, who had always been told she was too much, too loud, too clumsy. Suddenly, I was holding life itself, and the weight of it was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

The nights were the hardest. The house would fall silent, everyone asleep, and it would just be me and him, his small cries piercing the darkness, my tired hands fumbling to comfort him. I learned how to rock him, how to whisper nonsense words that somehow calmed him, how to cry silently while holding him close because no one had warned me how lonely those hours could feel.

I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to do everything right. But the truth was, I didn’t know what “right” even meant. Sometimes I overfed him, sometimes I missed his cues. Sometimes I was so exhausted I’d just stare at him, wondering if I was enough.

And yet, in between all the self-doubt and fear, there were moments small, fleeting, but powerful. His fingers curling around mine. His eyes fluttering open and catching the light for the first time. The way his breathing would slow when I pressed him against my chest. Those moments stitched me back together, reminding me that love didn’t have to be perfect,it just had to be present.

The world outside had its own expectations. Family came and went, each with their own advice. Some told me I wasn’t holding him properly. Others thought I was spoiling him by picking him up too much. There were whispers about my body too, how I looked, how quickly (or not) I was “bouncing back.” I smiled through it all, but inside, I was fighting to protect my little bubble. The world had taken enough from me. This time, I wanted to do it my way.

And then there was him, Arjun’s father. I saw him transform too. He wasn’t as expressive as me, but I caught it in small ways the way he looked at Arjun when he thought no one was watching, the way his hand would linger on our son’s back as if memorising the shape of him. I realised then: we were both learning, stumbling through this new chapter, trying to find our place as parents.

Motherhood didn’t come to me in a rush of instinct. It came in fragments, in the smell of baby powder, in lullabies sung off-key, in the ache of sleepless nights, in the quiet pride of watching him grow even the tiniest bit each day.

I wasn’t just raising him. He was raising me too.

“Motherhood made me softer, but life was about to demand a kind of strength I didn’t yet know I had.“

Chapter 18 : Between Motherhood & the World

“No one tells you that after giving birth, you are reborn too but the world rarely celebrates your rebirth.”

The first few weeks after Arjun’s birth felt like a cocoon. My days revolved around him: feeding, changing, watching him breathe, memorizing every tiny expression. But slowly, the outside world began to seep back in. Visitors came with blessings and advice, neighbors stopped by with curiosity, relatives compared my journey to theirs. Everyone had something to say about how I should raise my son, how I should recover, how I should be.

The problem was in trying to be everything for everyone, I was disappearing.

I was a new mother, yes, but I was also still a newlywed, still a daughter, still a daughter-in-law. Expectations seemed to stack higher every day. Rest more. Don’t rest too much. Don’t hold the baby all the time. Hold him more. Be the perfect mother, but also the perfect wife, and somehow, remain the same girl they had always known.

Inside, I was torn. I wanted to give Arjun everything I never had unconditional love, warmth, presence. But I also knew my marriage needed attention, that my new home demanded adjustment, that my own identity was quietly slipping away while I poured myself into roles I wasn’t ready for.

The nights were no longer just about the baby’s cries. They were about my own silent tears wondering if I was failing at being a wife while trying to be the best mother I could. Wondering if I’d ever feel like myself again. Wondering if the smile I wore was still mine, or just another mask to keep the peace.

Arjun’s father tried, in his own quiet way. His presence was comforting when he was around, but I knew he wont be around for long given his nature of job. While I held no resentment for his duty, the loneliness was heavy. I wanted him there not just for Arjun, but for me. I wanted someone to ask if I was okay. But I didn’t say it. I swallowed my words, the way I always had.

Looking back now, I realize that was the beginning, the moment I started learning how invisible mothers can become. Everyone saw the baby. Few saw me.

And while I adored my son with every heartbeat in me, I was beginning to understand: love, no matter how deep, could not protect me from losing myself.

In those early days, I told myself the distance was temporary, the silence was normal, the loneliness was a phase. I believed love would steady us, that marriage would find its rhythm, that we would grow into each other the way new parents do.
But somewhere between diaper changes and unspoken expectations, the space between us quietly widened. I didn’t see it then or maybe I didn’t want to but the first cracks had already begun to form.

“I thought the loneliness I felt as a new mother would fade with time. I didn’t realize it was silently becoming the space where love would one day struggle to breathe.”

Chapter 19: Losing the One I Loved Most

“Sometimes the person you love the most is the one you lose the slowest..not in a moment, but in a thousand unnoticed silences.”

He was not just my husband. He was not just Arjun’s father. He was my everything.

The father I never truly had.
The brother I protected but never leaned on.
The friend I prayed for.
The partner I dreamed of.
The home I had longed for my entire life.

I loved him with a kind of devotion that felt bigger than me. Bigger than anything I had ever known. Bigger, even, than the love I felt for myself.

We had imagined our future with childlike innocence- A house in Goa. A dog whose name we hadn’t chosen yet. Lazy breakfasts on a balcony overlooking the sea. A life where I laughed in his arms, made mistakes freely & grew old with him one day, one moment, one breath at a time.

ODAAT – One Day At A Time. That was supposed to be us.

But life doesn’t break where you expect it to. Sometimes love doesn’t scream when it starts slipping away, sometimes it whispers. And that’s exactly how I began losing him.

Not in one fight. Not in one decision. Not in one dramatic moment.
But slowly, quietly, in the spaces between who we were and who we were becoming.

The man I promised to love more than anyone, even more than Arjun began to feel distant.
Not because he stopped loving me but because life pulled us in different directions while we each pretended not to notice.

He returned to a life of responsibility, of being the provider, the sailor, the man the world expected him to be.
And I, I was swallowed by motherhood, by sleepless nights, by a new identity I didn’t fully understand, by the weight of a home that wasn’t mine yet but demanded so much of me.

We were under the same roof but living different lives. I was breaking silently & he was drifting gently.

I kept reaching for him with words, with gestures, with hope but somehow my hands always closed around air.

I wanted him to see me, hear me, hold me the way he once did. But the truth is, I wasn’t the same girl he married. Motherhood had changed me. Loneliness had hardened me.
The version of me he fell in love with was fading and a newer, quieter, more tired version was taking her place.

I didn’t blame him.
How could I?
The world had taught me that a woman must adjust, must compromise, must hold everything together even when she herself is falling apart.

So I tried. God, I tried.

I tried to love him harder. Tried to become gentler. Tried to smile more, need less, demand nothing.
I tried to be perfect- the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter-in-law.But perfection cannot save a relationship where communication is dying.

And little by little, I felt him slipping through my fingers not because he wanted to leave, but because neither of us knew how to hold on.

I had promised him forever.I had promised him every part of me. But somewhere in the chaos of creating a life, I started losing the life we had.

And I didn’t know how to stop it.

“He was my everything, and yet somehow, I became nothing in the spaces where we stopped trying.”