When road to your heart goes through empathy & equality

Sometimes, you need to lose your dreams to find your calling. 

Almost a year ago, a random death turned my world upside down. I was so happy to start a new life that even my colleagues could sense my joy. I wanted nothing more. As I looked at others, I always found it easier to see their stars and my flaws. Even if I didn't have many gifts, I was definitely a generous giver. I could have given it all for love and never looked back.

I had always perceived my life from a place of scarcity — where I could have earned all the riches but still only noticed Dad’s absence. Don’t misunderstand; I had found my peace. Yet, there was still a daughter and sister in me who carried unresolved emotions. A young girl who didn’t like the way society treated single women. I always knew I was too much of a rebel to quietly dissolve into another man’s home. 

Even though it wasn't her intention, Mamma unknowingly raised me to respectfully take my space. To settle for a secondary status in my own house wasn't the way I was raised. No offence, but chores were simply a basic life skill that she sincerely taught but were often the last thing on my mind. 

But amid all this, I found him. It was supposed to be a random meeting for arranged marriage; and he didn’t seem like the man of my dreams. In my head, writers and artists were my type; marketing professionals equalled compulsive liars. I told him how my best friends were non-negotiable. But I never thought he would become my best friend. By the time our wedding date was fixed, I was deeply in love. I truly believed I was stepping into a partnership where I could remain fully myself.

(Honestly, a year later, it is still my favourite thing about our marriage). 

Image courtesy - ChatGPT 

Then, life shifted.

On February 10–11, we received a call that the wedding was getting postponed. The reasons were practical and unavoidable. But something inside me quietly cracked. Milestones hold emotional weight — and I realised that even when circumstances are beyond control, grief still needs acknowledgement.

In that phase, I learned how often women are expected to absorb disappointment gracefully. Managing reschedules, informing guests, smiling through explanations — I did what needed to be done. The wedding eventually happened. The pictures were beautiful. The rituals were completed. To the world, it was successful.

But I learned that sometimes an event can go well, and a heart can still feel unsettled.

Sometimes people love us in the ways they know best, yet we need care in ways only we can replicate.

In an era when I saw my friends and cousins having their dream weddings, all I remember is the silent expectation of managing negative RSVPs, and a whole lot of them, with grace. 

Not everything was sad. There were beautiful moments. But when things felt heavy, I wished someone had simply sat beside me and said, “It’s okay to feel this.”

After a few days, I got my period and realised I was in a town where the local deities forbade bleeding women. I will never forget how women themselves talked about menstruation with almost a sense of disgust. I knew women were supposed to adjust, but this wasn't something I was prepared for. 

Although it is a simple town, I had always loved its vibe. I had entered marriage wanting to embrace traditions, understand them, and participate sincerely. But this experience unsettled something deeper. I wasn’t angry — I was disoriented. I was a journalist who suddenly felt unsure about how to articulate her discomfort without disrupting harmony.

And that’s when something shifted. I began to notice how easily women were conditioned to adjust — lovingly, politely, invisibly; how harmony sometimes demands silence; how “it’s not a big deal” can slowly make your heart feel heavy, take a toll on your esteem and make you feel unheard.

In the past year, I have realised that love, for me, is about existing fully in the spaces I enter. But, how do you question customs without hurting people? How do you love and still hold your ground?

Honestly, I don’t know. 

There is a part of me that aches when I read about women facing violence and abuse. My struggles feel small in comparison. Yet I am beginning to understand that owning our space — however quietly — also matters.

Amid all this, I am grateful to return to writing. I didn’t pick up my pen expecting the biggest paychecks. I was almost prepared for the humblest earnings. But I joined a newsroom and restarted my blog because I genuinely felt I would suffocate if I didn’t.

Even if my work feels repetitive, I think I will keep writing—until it either carries my weight for me or gives me enough courage to tell a story that truly makes a difference.

A picket fence house may always remain a dream, but a good story will probably be my last wish.