Standing Up for Our Kids: A Mother’s Promise

There is one thing I will never understand about my family growing up—how my mum never stood up for me.

Now, as a mother of two girls, there is nothing and no one that will stop me from protecting them and keeping them happy. And it’s not just about the big things; I will fight for them over the small things, too—something my husband and an extended family member recently learned firsthand.

On World Book Day (6th March), my daughters’ school encouraged students to dress up as their favorite book characters or authors. Maanvi knew exactly who she wanted to be—the lead character in Letters from the Lighthouse. But Jiya found it harder to decide.

I gave her ideas: a modern-day Harry Potter, Matilda, the Karate Princess (a book I loved as a kid), or even dressing up like her sister, since Maanvi had been part of a book series when she was younger. But in the end, Jiya decided to be me—because I had written a book, and she was proud of that.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she chose me because she was genuinely proud or just wanted an excuse to wear jeans and a hoodie! Either way, the night before, I printed the front and back covers of my book onto white card and stuck them together, so she had something to take to school as part of her costume.

The next morning, I had to go into the office, so I wasn’t home to help the girls get ready. Luckily, my husband’s cousin, who was staying with us, was there to help. I assumed everything would go smoothly—until I received a photo at 7:20 AM.

In the picture, Jiya was wearing a fancy party dress, looking undeniably pretty—but not happy. She had a fake smile, but as her mother, I could see the sadness in her eyes.

My husband and his cousin tried to reassure me that Jiya was fine and liked the dress. But something didn’t sit right with me, so I called my husband’s cousin over video. The moment she answered, she started telling me how beautiful Jiya looked, how she was like a princess. But I didn’t care about that—I just wanted to talk to my daughter.

When Jiya appeared on screen, her fake smile was still there, but so were the tears in her eyes.

I simply asked her, “Do you want to wear jeans and a t-shirt?”

She nodded.

I told her to go upstairs and change—quickly—and to wear jeans, not leggings (even though she prefers them).

My husband’s cousin protested, saying I shouldn’t have told her to change, that she wouldn’t fit in if everyone else at school was dressed up. But I didn’t care. My priority wasn’t how Jiya looked to others—it was how she felt.

Jiya changed, took my book with her, and went to school happy.

The Realization That Changed Everything

That day, I had a moment of clarity: there is nothing I wouldn’t do for my kids. And no one—not family, not tradition, not expectations—will stop me from standing up for them when they need me.

Of course, I have limits. I know when to step back and let others guide my daughters, especially when it comes to discipline or important life lessons. There are a handful of people I trust with that responsibility—my in-laws, Dee, Nadia, and now my husband’s cousin—because I know they genuinely have my daughters’ best interests at heart.

But when I was a child, I didn’t have that kind of protection. My mum allowed others to dictate my life.

When it came to education, Mr. Gadvi had complete control over what I studied, even choosing my GCSE subjects—which meant I ended up taking subjects like art, which I was terrible at and which did nothing to help me grow.

When it came to raising me, that responsibility was scattered among everyone but my mother. As a child, my siblings played a huge role. As a teenager, I had to figure things out on my own. No emotional support, no guidance—just me, fighting my own battles, knowing that no one would back me up.

It’s no surprise that, at 14 years old, I fell into a deep depression. That I hit a point where I wanted it all to end—because I had no one to turn to.

And that is exactly why I fight for my daughters.

Breaking the Cycle

I tell my girls to always try their best, but I don’t let them fear failure. I encourage them to explore, take risks, and create memories they’ll cherish.

Their dad and I prioritize experiences—whether it’s residential school trips or small adventures—we make sure they have those opportunities, no matter what sacrifices we have to make.

Because I know what it feels like to be unheard, unsupported, and alone.

And I refuse to let my daughters ever feel that way.