From holding her hand to letting her go

Motherhood begins the day you are given a title you didn’t know you were waiting for. For me, that title came from my first child—the one who made me a mother, the one who taught me what fierce love, endless worry, and immeasurable pride truly mean. From that moment on, my world shifted, quietly and forever.

I have watched her grow in layers—learning to sing before she learned to doubt herself, dancing through rooms and stages with equal joy, topping her academics with quiet determination, and developing a deep love for movies, stories, and the magic of watching worlds unfold on screen. In every phase, she carried a spark that said she knew who she was, even when the world was still figuring her out. As a mother, I stood close enough to guide, and far enough to let her become.

And then one day, she announced her man to the world.

It lands differently when your elder daughter chooses her life partner. It’s not just an announcement—it’s a message. A message that the little hand you once held to cross the road now knows which path it wants to walk. That the child you protected has grown into a woman who can choose, decide, and love on her own terms. There is pride, of course. There is joy. But there is also a gentle ache—the unmistakable realization that the “little one” no longer needs to be little.

This is not a loss. It is a beautiful arrival.

An arrival into a new chapter where she stands tall, rooted in who she is, and brave enough to share her heart with the world. And as her mother, I learn again—to let go just enough, to cheer a little louder from the sidelines, and to be grateful for the privilege of witnessing her becoming. 

Trips, Trials, Tears, Triumphs — Thank You, 2025

It’s that time of the year again — when we look back, sigh dramatically, laugh at the chaos, and still say a big thank you.

The year kicked off with a lovely family trip to Colombo, the kind where everyone smiles for photos but also argues about where to eat next. Then came work, waiting at the door like, “Welcome back!” My first-ever conference execution was equal parts adrenaline, panic, and pretending to know exactly what I was doing. Spoiler: I survived.

 And then I hit the big 5-0 ! with a surprise family trip to Bali, proving once again that my family can keep secrets much better than I can.

Work kept me busy with upskilling, trainings, workshops… basically everything except the one thing I still can’t master: remembering where I kept my glasses.

Meanwhile, at home, the emotional roller coaster peaked — watching the little one turn 20, start an internship at a de-addiction wellness centre, and move into a brand-new PG with new neighbours and no curfew. A proud, heart-bursting moment… followed immediately by me googling “How to stay calm when your child has no curfew” and wondering who approved this life update. Also, we still have enough chargers to power a small country.

The year stayed lively with festivals, events, and catching up with friends ,which mostly means discussing life, health, and next day’s to-do list over coffee.

A quiet trip with the husband gave me some quality “us-time,” and an unplanned trip to Georgia in September reminded me that spontaneous travel is still my love language.

Of course, life wasn’t all vacations and Instagram moments. There were tough days — critical hospitalisations of close family members that tested both strength and sanity. But balance arrived in its strange way: watching the little dame dance like pure sunshine on stage, and experiencing that emotional plot twist when your elder child becomes your mother, flies down, and insists you rest while she takes charge.

Our petite niece got engaged — yes, the same one who was in pig tails “just yesterday.” Time really has no manners.

And now, as 2025 wraps up, we’re ending it with a family trip that feels like hitting the home button after a long, messy, beautiful year — complete with one more milestone quietly checked off: meeting my elder daughter’s partner's family. Polite smiles, meaningful conversations, and that unmistakable moment of realizing how quickly life moves forward.

A year of drama, laughter, detours, deadlines, tears, and miracles.
A year that reminded me: life may not come with instructions, but it definitely comes with stories.

Overthinking: The Most Misunderstood Emotion

An honest reflection on how feeling deeply is mistaken for thinking too much.

Somewhere along the way, “overthinking” became a label for people who care too much.
If you worry about someone, you’re overthinking.
If you plan ahead or imagine outcomes, you’re overthinking.
If you address someone else’s concern or speak your mind — politely, even — you’re overthinking.

I’ve been branded with that word too often, and frankly, I’m tired of it.

Because what they call overthinking often comes from empathy — not anxiety. It’s not that I want to complicate things; it’s that I feel responsible, aware, and connected. I see patterns, consequences, and emotions that others might miss. That doesn’t make me weak or dramatic — it makes me human.

Yes, I am emotional. I’m not always practical. I can’t “take things lightly” or separate myself from what matters to me. I process, I reflect, and sometimes I replay moments in my mind until I understand them. And that’s okay.

If caring deeply makes me an overthinker, then I’ll wear that title proudly.
Because overthinking is often overfeeling, and feeling deeply is not a flaw — it’s a strength. It means I notice, I listen, I remember.

So before you call someone an overthinker, try walking in their shoes for a day. Feel the intensity of their empathy, the honesty of their words, the sincerity behind their worry. You might realize they’re not overthinking at all — they’re simply thinking enough.

Reflection

Maybe “overthinking” is just another word for thinking with your heart.
We live in a world that glorifies logic and speed, where emotions are seen as inefficiencies. But imagine how different things would be if more people paused, pondered, and cared a little extra.

The truth is, we need overthinkers — the ones who question, care, and connect deeply. They are the emotional anchors in a world that often drifts too fast.

So the next time someone calls you an overthinker, smile. You’re not the problem.
You’re the reminder that thoughtfulness still exists.

Written from the heart of someone who has finally made peace with feeling deeply — and learnt that empathy, even when misunderstood, is still a gift.

To My Daughter, As You Turn 20: A Letter From My Heart

Twenty years ago, I held you for the first time — tiny, warm, and already the fiercest beat in my heart. Though you were my second child, there was nothing second about the pride and joy I felt. You came into my world like a song I hadn’t known I needed — soft, powerful, and unforgettable.

When some whispered, “Oh, it’s a girl,” as if that were somehow less, I stood taller, steadier — “Yes,” I said. “It is my girl.” Because I knew. I knew the fire you carried. I knew the strength you’d grow into. And I knew the privilege it was to raise a girl like you.

I named you Yashas, which means the conqueror of fame — and you have lived up to every letter of that name. In your quiet strength and in your bold leaps, in the way you carry yourself and in the way others are drawn to your light — you’ve already left your mark. And this is only the beginning.

Every time you were hurt, it was as if my soul cracked quietly. Your wounds were mine; your fears became my battles. I wiped away more than just tears — I wiped away doubts, shadows, and the noise that tried to tell you, you weren’t enough. You always were. You always are.

When you moved away to a new city, I pretended to be brave. But letting go was harder than I let on. I found comfort in the little things — your calls, your voice notes, the way you still check on my day. Each small connection became my anchor.

Today, as you turn 20, I want you to know this:

Fear nothing. The world is wide, and you are ready. Live your life with your arms open and your eyes clear. Love deeply, but never lose yourself in anyone or anything. Your emotions are valid, but don’t let them hold you back from greatness.

You are more than I ever dreamed — independent, kind, bold. And you’re just getting started.

Just for You!

You came with stars tucked in your smile,
With dreams that danced across each mile.
A heart so fierce, a spirit free,
You are, and always will be — me.

The world may twist, the winds may turn,
But in your eyes, the fires burn.
So soar, my girl, and claim your skies,
You were always meant to rise.

Go ahead — leap, laugh, explore. And if the world ever feels too much, remember you’ll always have a place where you are loved without question — in my heart, forever.

Happy 20th, my girl.

With all my love,
Amma

A Journey of 2600 Kms

From Stranded to Strong

Today marks another special day in our lives. I remember a time when we were stranded in the middle of everything, with nothing in our hands—credit card bills to pay, loans to clear, a toddler in tow, and a family full of hopes. Nothing seemed to favour us. And it was at that moment that we made a bold decision. We leaped, traveling 2,600 kilometres away, to build a home and start anew.

The heat, the desert, the culture, the food, the speed of life, and the people—all were so different, yet so welcoming. I can still hear my husband saying, “This is temporary, just 2-3 years, until we have a few things sorted"

But here we are, 24 years later, counting the days until we decide to travel back, to return to our motherland and call it a home. It's a journey that has brought us to where we are today, but there’s still a part of us that calls our homeland home.

I owe my life to this land; it’s true.

Oman, You Shaped Me

Through thick and thin, this country has shaped me, made me strong through and through. 

Through rough weather and skies that often turn grey, 

I’ve found that genuine hearts light the way.

Bottled water in vast deserts,

Yet an oasis of kindness in every contrast.

Speeding cars; the roads are alive,
But paced-out choices have helped me thrive.

A home away from home, it’s clear, 
Oman, you’re where my heart draws near.

A Heartfelt Thank You

To the people I have met on this journey, your kindness, support, and encouragement have made it all worth living. Each one of you have played a part in shaping our experience and making a foreign land feel like home. Whether it was a shared meal, a conversation that lasted for hours, or a simple gesture of goodwill, I am forever grateful for your presence in our lives.

And to my children, thank you for standing by us through every decision, every challenge, and every change. Your resilience, understanding, and love have been a constant source of strength. I hope that one day you’ll look back at this journey with pride, knowing how much we all grew together and how much you helped shape this chapter of our story.

  

Why Me?

I have always wondered—why me? 

Why does my path seem filled with more hurdles to jump, rivers to cross, and battles to win? Why does it feel like a challenge arises every time I get comfortable, forcing me to fight once more? I used to believe it was because the universe had somehow overlooked me, that the supreme power I trusted had chosen to love me less. 

I watched others seemingly glide through life with ease while I struggled, facing storm after storm. It felt unfair. It felt exhausting. And the question echoed in my mind repeatedly—why me? 

But then, as time passed and I continued to fight, I started to see things differently. Every battle I faced taught me something new. Some struggles were necessary; they pushed me, shaped me, and refined me. Others, I realized, were not worth my energy. Not every fight needed my sword, not every argument needed my voice, and not every storm required my attention. 

That’s when it finally hit me—I wasn’t being loved less. I was being loved more. 

I was being strengthened, not punished. The hurdles weren’t there to stop me but to teach me how to jump higher. The rivers weren’t meant to drown me but to show me how to swim. The battles weren’t signs of my weakness but proof of my strength. 

I was being prepared for something greater. 

Now, when life throws another challenge my way, I don’t ask, Why me? Instead, I whisper, Try me. Every challenge was a lesson, every setback a redirection, every battle a refining fire. The struggles weren’t to break me but to build me. They were signs that I was chosen to grow, to lead, to inspire. 

So, I face my battles with a new perspective. I no longer see them as burdens but as blessings in disguise. Because I know that through every challenge, I am being moulded into the person I was meant to be. 

And now, I know—I am loved more.

  

Daughter, Mother, and Wife—Did I Lose Myself?

 As women, we grow up hearing all about the roles we will someday take on: the dutiful daughter, the supportive wife, the loving mother. And while we are often proud to step into each of these roles, something unexpected can happen along the way. We might look in the mirror and realize we are not sure where we went. In the layers of responsibilities and roles, Was the woman we knew so well gone in some way?

It is a question I’ve asked myself more than once, and I know I am not alone. For many of us, the journey of becoming the mom and the wife feels fulfilling and purposeful, but it also feels a little like a quiet disappearing act. Who were we before we became the keeper of everyone else’s needs, the architect of everyone else’s happiness?

 So, who was I? I think back to when I felt most like me. I was a girl with dreams, with hobbies, with a spark that didn’t depend on anyone else. I had ambitions, small and big, and the freedom to explore them. But as life moved forward, I layered on the roles: daughter, wife, mother... each adding love, complexity, and even beauty, but also sometimes making it harder to recognize myself.

Somewhere in between packing lunches, being a partner, and handling family obligations, we can reclaim the little pieces of who we were. Sometimes it is the small moments, like revisiting an old passion or hobby, even if it is just for a few minutes. Other times, it is bigger choices, like setting aside time or space that’s ours alone, to explore, to rest, to be.

If you are reading this and wondering where you went, know that you are not alone, and that the woman you were is still there; she might just need a little time and space to emerge. Remember, the roles you carry are just parts of the whole. You are still in there, underneath the layers, waiting to be seen. So, let us give ourselves permission to peel back those layers every now and then, and to rediscover the parts of us that make us.