Sitting in front of my open suitcase, I finally paused to check in with myself: How have I really been doing?
The quiet, honest answer surfaced immediately: Now that it’s time to leave, I am finally taking the time to ask.
Looking back over these days, I know I wasn't always fully present. Or rather, I was present in soft, scattered fragments—massaging the warm feet of my Dad and Bade Papa, smoothing out fresh bed linen with Badi Mom ahead of the festivities, holding Bella close, and taking my quiet morning steps barefoot on the earth in the garden.
Yet beneath those grounded moments, a familiar tension lingered. I felt the constant, invisible weight of trying to keep the peace, monitoring moods so my mother wouldn't get triggered—only to end up causing the very friction I tried so hard to avoid.
And beyond the family walls, a strange vacuum opened up. What am I looking forward to? How do I keep holding all these floating responsibilities—the work that provides my paycheck, and a heart that keeps looping in a search for belonging, only to find that wherever it feels at home, it cannot stay?
Sometimes it feels as though I’ve grown accustomed to carrying pain, treating existence as a struggle rather than a gift—even while knowing, with full clarity, how deeply blessed I am. And that awareness brings its own shadow: a cycle of guilt and shame for having let inertia lead to a harsh word, a rift, or another loop of overthinking.
Writing this out feels like clearing poison from a sacred place. Perhaps I’ve been ignoring the tender, unaccepted parts of myself. But it was an awakening moment nonetheless.
Now, the thought of heading back makes my heart sink. The chest tightness and the sudden emptiness feel sharp, knowing the familiar comfort of a friend won't be right next door, and a new dynamic awaits. It hurts, and the tears come without permission.
So here I sit in the quiet corner of a room, letting myself shed these tears in isolation. In the silence of my being, I am doing more than repacking a suitcase. I am unpacking my brokenness—rearranging the pieces gently so I can continue on this journey of life.
