🩷 When Fathers Stay Relevant for Their Daughters…

Fathers have always been deeply involved in their daughters’ growth — from supporting their education to cheering for their sports, to planning their vacations.

They have been the problem-solvers of so many needs.

They take pride in being providers and protectors, but shy away from being educators of empathy when it comes to their daughters’ bodies, emotions, and womanhood.

When it comes to conversations about the reproductive system or menstruation, most fathers go silent. They think — “this is a mother’s job.”

Yet, any solution a loving and caring father creates for his daughter will always carry more understanding, more safety, and more strength than any solution given by someone else.

Men have always tried to solve women’s problems — even those related to menstruation or reproduction — and that’s commendable. But imagine the power of a father who truly understands his daughter’s pain, discomfort, and needs during these phases. What better solution could exist on earth than one born from such compassion?

Sadly, by the time a daughter reaches adulthood and faces challenges like childbirth or parenting, her father is often retired — his “role” seen as over. He quietly withdraws, thinking these matters belong to his daughter’s husband now.

But that shouldn’t be the case. A father’s relevance should not fade with time.
Like Amitabh Bachchan, who remains a voice for daughters even today, fathers must remain relevant, involved, and vocal for their daughters’ rights — not just when they are young, but throughout their lives.

Because a father’s love and wisdom are never obsolete. 💖

Normalising Respect Begins at Home

I am a mother — I do everything for my child.
I cook, clean, guide, love, protect.
But sometimes, I pause and wonder —
Who will teach her to care for me?

Not out of sympathy.
Not because she feels I am weak or tired.
But because care and respect should be normal — not optional.

I don’t want to be that poor mother in a sad story,
so that my child learns to be kind out of pity.
No. I want her to see strength in me, and still feel responsible for me.

So I teach her small things —
to ask, “Did you have your breakfast, Mama?”
to remind me of my medicines,
to touch my feet — not out of ritual, but out of respect.

Because carelessness begins at home — when children see their mothers never cared for.
And responsibility begins at home — when children learn that love is not one-way.

I want my daughter to grow up knowing that respect, concern, and responsibility
are not acts of kindness — they are part of being human.

“Don’t teach your daughter to pity you.
Teach her to respect you,
to care for you — not out of sympathy,
but out of responsibility."

That’s how we raise women who value love,
not service. 💫

🌿 Putting a Stop to What Shouldn’t Be Carried Forward

I had never truly understood how to stop something inappropriate — something I didn’t want passed on to my child or to the generations that come after her.

It’s so easy for people to point fingers at the lady of the house — the one who shoulders everything with quiet determination. The woman who builds her career, keeps her family together, raises her child with care and intellect, and still shows up fully devoted to her work.

Such women become easy targets. They neither have the time nor the inclination to play politics. They are soft targets — often criticized, compared, and misunderstood. Compassion for them is rare because very few can truly stand in their shoes.

But my concern today wasn’t about being misunderstood. I’ve learned to identify that pain. My real worry was seeing my own child learning to mirror that same attitude — the same unfair judgment — towards me.

She told me that I don’t respect my family, that I don’t care for them. It pierced me deeply.

I have always followed one rule: never to speak ill of anyone, especially family, in front of her. I wanted her to grow in an environment free of bitterness and blame.

But today, when I saw her reflecting the very words and tones I’ve silently endured, I knew it was time to act.
So, I showed her the truth — how her Mama works tirelessly, studies, cooks, handles every household chore, takes care of her, and keeps learning every day. I told her, “If even you start blaming me like others do, then there will be no one left who truly understands your Mama.”

And in that moment, I decided — this ends here.
The cycle of blame, of judgment, of inherited misunderstanding — stops with me.

I began with my child. 🌱

A Small Victory as a Mother

My little one, soon to be six, couldn’t control nature’s call and pooped in the movie hall.
As I knew what had happened, I calmly took her to the washroom and cleaned her up. Unfortunately, I had to remove her underpant, and she felt uneasy without it.

But today, as a mother, I won.

I comforted her. I made her feel it was okay. I held her close so she would feel safe.
In her innocence and honesty, she shouted, “Mom, I’m not wearing my underpants! Do you know how awkward it feels?”

“Oh, I know, baby,” I whispered, and hugged her tighter.
Gradually, she began to feel comfortable again — safe in the hall, safe with me.

I comforted her.
I retained her dignity.
I let her be — a girl full of shyness, tantrums, and innocence.
I respected her awkwardness. I respected her discomfort.

No one ever comments when she poops or pees in her pants. Her mama always handles it — with patience, with care, with love. She is never shamed for being a child.

Yes, sometimes I scold her privately, asking why she doesn’t tell me sooner. She learns, she grows, she still misses sometimes — and that’s okay.

Someday, when she reads this, she’ll know that she was respected then, and she will always be respected.
Her private moments are hers — not for anyone else to comment on. Mama never gives that liberty to others.

Our girls need assurance, comfort, patience, and respect while growing up.
Shaming them or mocking their natural discomforts affects their confidence and sense of self.

So yes — today, I won as a mother.
And even if I don’t win every day, I will never lose as one.

Breaking the Generational Curse of Anger

Anger is not in anyone’s nature. Nobody is born angry. Nobody wants to be angry. Anger doesn’t make us superhuman.

It is a self-defence mechanism — a coping reflex the body throws up in the form of aggression and negative emotions. Anger is rarely about the present situation. The situation is just a trigger. It awakens fear, insecurity, and old wounds we’ve carried for years. Bad experiences pile up, building a fragile, oversensitive, unprotected shell inside us — a place we never want to revisit.

So when anything touches that shell, the brain sounds the alarm: Danger. The same unwanted conditions might return. We defend ourselves with the animal instinct of violence, loudness, or withdrawal.

This anger is tricky.

It travels across generations.

A person who’s endured unevenness or hardship often grows anger as a shield. But its deepest victims are not outsiders — they’re the family, especially the child.

The tender mind and soft body of a child tremble at violent noise or aggression. Fear shapes their little organs. Their emotions twist into awkward shapes. And the cycle begins again, passing anger to the next generation.

But one generation must stop it.

One person must see the harm.

One parent must decide: It ends with me.

I have decided.

I will STOP 🛑 the disease that generations have passed on.

I have promised my child: I will not be angry anymore. She believes me. I always keep my promises. I will not break her trust. I will not let my child die under the weight of a burden she never chose.

This promise is etched into every cell of my body. My body is mutating. My instincts are changing for her. Because I have seen the fear in her eyes. I have seen her organs shut down, her hands tremble. I cannot let it continue.

It is good that I am the girl of my family. I believe any generational curse can only truly be broken by the girl of the family — because she becomes the mother. She carries the curse, she carries the power, and at some point her maternal instinct alarms her so deeply that she chooses to change.

I have chosen.

I have promised.

And with me, the curse of anger breaks.

All Is Well – My Life’s Greatest Armor

My husband stays away.
Family support is weak.
Alone, with my child, in a metro city like Delhi, balancing work, life, and parenting.
And on top of that, life doesn’t let me stay in one place.
Work and responsibilities pull me across different cities within NCR.

This is not easy.
Not at all.

Today, even my child’s doctor asked,
"How does your family run like this?"
I simply smiled and said,
"Sir, it runs."

Yes, it runs.
Because situations are just situations.
If we have purpose, even the most unusual arrangements keep moving forward.

Our family runs.
Yes, it’s hard.
But it runs.
Because situations are never perfect.

The difficulties I’ve faced for ages now may seem unjust, overwhelming, and imperfect.
But the truth is – no one's life is perfect.

Yet, this relentless dose of difficulty has shaped a different human in me.
Stronger.
Wiser.
More resilient.

Today, I can honestly say –
All is well.
I feel it deep in my soul.
Everything is okay.
Everything is alright.

The most beautiful part?
I’ve learned to find happiness in nothing.
In simplicity.
In small moments.
In just being.

As a girl, while many of my friends adored Shahrukh Khan,
I always admired Aamir Khan.
Not for the flawless movies – many had critiques and pointed flaws –
But for his relentless pursuit of perfection.

Even amidst criticism, his movies held moments that felt just perfect.

Just like the iconic phrase from Three Idiots –
“All is well.”

I heard it years ago when the movie released,
But now, I truly understand –
"All is well" is the greatest armor for life.
Not a lie.
Not blind hope.
But a choice.
A mindset.
A shield.

So yes, my life runs.
Despite the chaos, the uncertainty, and the heaviness,
It runs…
With grace.
With purpose.
With an unshakeable belief that all is well.

I Count My Failures Too

Counting blessings is gratitude.

It’s what we often forget to do, but should do, to realize how fortunate we truly are.

Yet, I count my failures.
Not as a punishment.
Not as guilt.
Not as misfortune.

One thing I’ve always been certain of –
I never consider failure a misfortune.
Deliberately, I don’t.
It has become my way of thinking, my behavior.

Failures are not misfortunes.
They are not bad luck or destiny’s cruelty.
They are simply outcomes of miscalculation, misjudgment, or incomplete understanding.
Never misfortune.

Fortune is always good.
Or at least, we must train ourselves to believe this truth –
That fortune, in any form, is always good.
There is no misfortune.

So, where was I…
I count my failures.
Sincerely. Honestly.

I count them to understand how and why I failed.
How many times I failed.
How far I was from success.
And most importantly –
What lessons each failure taught me.

I count my failures to recognize how fortunate I am.
Fortunate to know what doesn’t work.
Fortunate to understand what can go wrong.
Fortunate to gain wisdom in hindsight.

Because every failure is a step forward.
A sign of effort.
A lesson earned.

So yes, I count my failures too.
With gratitude.
With clarity.
With purpose.