Generational trauma isn’t something I read about in books.
It’s something I witnessed inside my own family.
Growing up with a narcissistic father meant my siblings and I were raised in an environment where emotional safety didn’t really exist. We were all affected by it in different ways.
The difference between me and my brothers is this:
I chose to break the cycle.
They unknowingly continued a version of it.
My brothers weren’t narcissists. But the families they built reflected unresolved trauma in different forms.
One brother married someone who prioritised a Western social lifestyle over motherhood. There’s nothing wrong with wanting independence — but when you have children, they need presence. Her sons often felt secondary to everything else going on in her life.
The other brother’s household went in the opposite direction — but the outcome was even more damaging.
His wife believed her sons could do no wrong. Their aggression was celebrated. Their behaviour was excused. Meanwhile, when my brother disciplined them, it escalated into corporal punishment. What started as slaps turned into whatever object was within reach. Over time, the boys became immune to it. They would laugh while being hit. And it was spoken about almost as a badge of strength — that they could “take a beating.”
That dysfunction had consequences.
All three boys eventually had serious run-ins with the law.
One became involved in drug dealing.
One fabricated a criminal accusation that collapsed in court.
The youngest caused a fatal car crash while under the influence of drugs, resulting in the deaths of two passengers and life-altering injuries to another driver. He was later sentenced to prison.
When I look at it, I don’t just see “bad choices.”
I see unresolved trauma.
I see emotional neglect.
I see extremes — either no boundaries or violent ones.
I see children who were never truly seen, heard, or guided.
And I made a decision long before I had my own children:
That would not be my story.
Choosing a Different Path
I am a mum. I also now have a public presence — podcasts, interviews, events, travel.
Life is busy.
But the difference is this: my children were my priority long before I built anything online.
I spent the first eight years of Maanvi’s life and the first five years of Jiya’s life as a stay-at-home mum. I didn’t work. I poured myself into raising them. I only started working once Jiya was in full-time school. And it’s only in the last few months that my public work has expanded.
Even now, I structure my job around my children.
I start work at 6am. I am not a morning person — at all. But by 2pm, I’m done. That gives me afternoons and evenings with them. I could easily work 9–5. It would be easier for me. But it would give me barely any time with them before bedtime.
And I know how fast this stage of life disappears.
Maanvi is already 11, almost 12. Secondary school. WhatsApp chats with friends are starting to take priority over chats with mum — and that’s normal. But I’ve built a relationship where she knows I am safe. I check in with her intentionally. I create space for her to talk.
Jiya is different. She’s loud, funny, argumentative with her sister — so I assumed she was expressive. It was my husband who gently pointed out that when it comes to her feelings, she stays quiet. She doesn’t want to “bother” anyone.
That hit me hard.
So we created something small but meaningful — weekend mummy-and-daughter mornings. While everyone else sleeps in, I wake up at 8am (again, not my natural choice!) so she gets two uninterrupted hours of just me.
No distractions.
No rushing.
Just connection.
Because I’ve seen what happens when children don’t feel seen.
Accountability and Balance
We’re not perfect parents.
Life gets hectic. I get tired. Sometimes I’m not at my best. But my husband and I hold each other accountable. If he feels the girls need more time with me, he’ll say it. If I see something that needs correcting, I address it.
Our daughters are kind, smart, respectful girls. We’re proud of them. But we don’t idolise them blindly. They are children. They will make mistakes. And when they do, we correct them.
Not with violence.
Not with neglect.
Not with ego.
But with boundaries, love, and consistency.
I am the disciplinarian in our home. I hold everyone accountable — including my husband — and he does the same for me.
Because I have seen both extremes:
Children who are never corrected.
And children who are only corrected through fear.
Neither creates emotionally healthy adults.
The Cycle Ends With Me
Generational trauma doesn’t disappear by accident.
It ends when someone becomes aware enough — and brave enough — to do the work.
I saw what unresolved pain did to my siblings’ families. I saw how quickly trauma can shape parenting decisions. And I decided my past would not dictate my children’s future.
Have I done everything perfectly? No.
But my daughters are raised with love, structure, safety, and accountability.
The way I’m raising my daughters is very different to the way I was raised.
I am consciously breaking the generational trauma I grew up with. I am choosing not to pass it down.
But there is still a part of me that feels guilty.
Guilty that they have to grow up with a mum who carries so much past trauma.
Guilty that I’m still healing while raising them.
Guilty that I don’t have the family support I once imagined I would.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t carry any of it.
Sometimes I wish I was the kind of mum who had a big, loving family on her side to help raise her children.
The “Ideal World” That Doesn’t Exist
In an ideal world, my siblings and I would still have a great relationship.
We would see each other on weekends and festivals.
My girls would grow up with five older, overprotective cousins who would dote on them — and threaten to beat up anyone who dared to bully them.
In an ideal world, my daughters would be surrounded by the colourful Indian Hindu heritage that I grew to love. They would feel adored by my side of the family.
But they don’t.
They don’t know my side of the family.
Because of the bullying I experienced, I made the painful decision to walk away.
That means:
No cousins at festivals.
No big family weekends.
No aunties stepping in with advice.
No emotional support system to guide me through motherhood.
It’s just me and my husband figuring it out as we go.
And it hasn’t been easy.
Parenting While Healing
I still carry my past into my parenting.
Sometimes I react badly — especially when I’m angry. I’m still learning new coping mechanisms instead of defaulting to the childhood habits I witnessed and absorbed growing up.
And I hate when I slip.
But I am breaking cycles.
And I am proud of that.
Breaking cycles, however, means doing uncomfortable work. It means putting my needs first sometimes so I can show up better for my children.
And that is not easy.
The Weight of Mum Guilt
Mum guilt is huge for me.
Guilt for:
Not being the “perfect” mum.
Not always being emotionally available.
Putting my own needs and dreams first.
Wanting more than just being a wife, a mum, and an employee.
Putting myself first is new territory for me.
And it’s uncomfortable.
The Unexpected Shift
For those who don’t follow me on social media — my life has changed dramatically over the past few months.
Last October, I posted a TikTok carousel sharing the things I was told as a child and young adult — and how I overcame them.
It went viral.
In November, podcaster Mani Kaur invited me onto her show. I agreed, not fully realising what I was stepping into.
That episode on Mani Kaur TV (currently at 147K views) went viral too.
Suddenly, I was being approached for:
A radio interview with BBC West Midlands
A makeover collaboration with Nosh MUA
Further podcast features
It all happened just before Christmas — a sacred time for my little family — so I postponed everything until January.
And I’m so glad I did.
We had the most beautiful Christmas. Just us. Movies, laughter, quiet family time.
I had no idea what the New Year would bring.
The Makeover That Became Friendship
The first thing I did in January was the makeover with Nosh MUA.
What an experience.
We had the most incredible girly day — laughter, conversations, confidence boosting. Moving from London to the West Midlands was the right decision for my family, but I left behind close female friendships.
That day reminded me of who I used to be.
And then her TikToks went viral.
In one week, the four videos she posted featuring me reached over a million views combined.
My Instagram exploded too.
BBC Radio and Beyond
Next came my live interview with Mya Khan on BBC West Midlands.
It was terrifying.
And I loved every second of it.
Two days later, BBC News published a follow-up article. My platform kept growing.
Then came the feature that truly changed everything — an interview with People of India, a platform that shares human interest stories across the South Asian community.
I went to bed with 836 followers on Instagram.
I woke up with 1,004.
By that night, I was at 1,200.
The DMs flooded in. Messages of support. Stories from people in toxic families. Invitations to collaborate.
And I realised…
This isn’t just attention.
This is purpose.
And Then Came the Tears
But here’s the part no one sees.
The mum guilt.
I’m currently writing this on a train to London for another podcast. I won’t be home until tomorrow evening.
Last night, Jiya cried.
She started off excited — helping me pack, ticking off my checklist — but as bedtime came closer, the tears started.
We cuddled.
She cried in my arms and fell asleep on me — something she hasn’t done since she was a toddler.
And yes… I took photos.
Because that’s what mums do.
She woke up, I tucked her into bed, and ten minutes later Maanvi came to tell me Jiya was crying again.
So I went back and lay beside her until she fell asleep.
This morning she was braver.
But sitting here on this train, my mind is still with her.
Her dad and Maanvi promised to look after her. I know she will be fine.
But being a mum means the worry never truly leaves.
Choosing More — Without Losing Myself
Nitin is incredibly supportive.
Maanvi is proud of me — sharing my interviews with her friends and teachers.
Jiya is proud too.
But she feels the shift more deeply.
And that’s what weighs on me.
Because these opportunities make me feel like the teenager I never got to be — hopeful, ambitious, passionate.
For the first time, I feel like I am becoming more than just the roles assigned to me.
I am a voice.
An advocate.
A woman building something of her own.
But pursuing that means stepping away from home sometimes.
And even though I know this will benefit my daughters in the long run, the guilt still whispers.
Yet I’m doing this for them.
To show them:
Dreams don’t have an expiry date.
Your past does not define your future.
You are allowed to want more.
And nothing should hold you back from becoming who you’re meant to be.
I am breaking generational trauma.
And I am breaking the idea that mums must shrink themselves to be good mothers.
I didn’t wear pretty dresses. I wasn’t encouraged to explore makeup or jewellery as a teenager. My wardrobe was baggy hoodies, oversized tops and loose jeans. Practical. Comfortable. Invisible.
But the truth is… I wanted to be girly.
I grew up watching Bollywood movies, completely mesmerised by the actresses in their beautiful, colourful outfits. The makeup. The jewellery. The elegance. I remember wishing so deeply that I could dress like that too.
But I was never allowed.
So when I had two daughters, I made a quiet promise to myself:
I would never restrict them in the way I felt restricted.
I wanted them to be free to discover who they were.
⸻
When they were babies, I quickly realised something funny — “girly” baby clothes are not always comfortable. Lace, frills, stiff fabrics… they look adorable, but they aren’t always practical for tiny humans trying to explore the world.
So my husband and I made a simple rule: comfort comes first.
Their wardrobes became a mix of everything.
Cute tops and jeans during the day.
Comfy boys’ pyjamas at night.
No rules. No labels. Just comfort.
And as they grew older, we followed their lead.
Maanvi was always more tomboy-ish. Comfort over style. Trainers over sparkles. But then there were moments — birthdays, parties — when she did want to wear dresses. So we bought the dresses.
Now, as a pre-teen, she’s discovering makeup. And we’re encouraging it gently — age-appropriate, sensitive skin products, and constant reminders that makeup enhances beauty, it doesn’t create it. She is beautiful with it, and without it.
Jiya, on the other hand, has always been our girly girl. Dolls, dress-up, sparkles — she loved it all from the very beginning. So we supported that too.
Same parenting. Same freedom. Different personalities.
And that’s the point.
⸻
The same thing applied to toys and hobbies.
Jiya loved dolls and dressing up.
Maanvi loved books, activity toys and building blocks.
So we bought dolls.
We bought books.
We bought dress-up outfits.
We bought Lego.
Because growing up, my interests were never encouraged.
My love of reading wasn’t nurtured.
My passion for crafts wasn’t supported.
My interest in writing wasn’t taken seriously.
And I never realised how much that affected me… until I became a parent.
I made it a mission to support my girls in their passions.
And in doing that, something unexpected happened.
I started healing parts of myself too.
⸻
Maanvi has always been my mini-me.
She loves writing, just like I did as a child. When she was five, I found an opportunity called the Child Author Project. One hundred children were invited to write pieces based on a theme, and their work would be published in a book.
I signed her up immediately.
The project ran for three years.
Four books were published.
Maanvi was part of all four.
And every single one became an Amazon bestseller.
Watching her see her words in print… watching her confidence grow… it felt like healing a tiny version of myself that never got that opportunity.
⸻
For years, I thought I was just trying to be a better parent than my parents were to me.
But what I didn’t realise was that I was reparenting myself at the same time.
My husband has always been incredibly supportive. He has never questioned my spending or made me feel guilty for investing in things I enjoy — something that was very different from my childhood.
After Maanvi was born, I slowly started trying things I’d always been interested in. By the time Jiya arrived, my confidence had grown enough that I started small craft businesses while being a stay-at-home mum.
Crafting reignited something in me.
It rebuilt my confidence.
It brought back my creativity.
It reminded me who I was before life told me who I should be.
And as my confidence grew, I saw the same confidence growing in my daughters.
⸻
That’s the thing about parenting while healing.
You think you’re teaching them.
But so often… they are teaching you.
They teach you what freedom looks like.
What encouragement looks like.
What unconditional support looks like.
They show you what you deserved all along.
Raising daughters while reparenting yourself is emotional. It’s messy. It’s beautiful. And sometimes, it’s painful.
Because every time you give your children something you didn’t receive, a small part of you realises what you missed out on.
But instead of resentment, something softer grows.
Growing up in a toxic family felt like a constant battle to protect my sanity and shield myself from the environment around me. The truth is, I didn’t even realise I had been living in survival mode until the first time I moved out of my parents’ home with my husband after a huge fight with my dad.
Yes, there was still some toxicity in my life — my sister-in-law was still present — but it wasn’t a daily reality anymore. For the first time, I was free to live my life with my husband in our quirky little flat.
That peace didn’t last long.
When my dad died, I was pulled straight back into family drama after deciding to move home to look after my mum. I had no idea life was about to become even harder.
The second real taste of freedom came when I cut ties with my side of the family and moved away to the West Midlands. For the first time, I didn’t live in fear of toxic family members turning up at my doorstep — something that had always been possible before because they still had access to the home we lived in.
That feeling of not fearing a knock at the door was a huge relief.
But I still wasn’t completely free.
A legal case involving my sibling and family was ongoing, and the emotional pressure of it followed me into this new chapter of life.
Building a Life While Carrying Constant Dread
I tried my best to live life on my terms, but every few weeks something related to the court case would resurface. Trips to London to meet solicitors. Paperwork. Stress. Emotional upheaval.
At the same time, life kept moving forward.
Maanvi started full-time school.
Jiya grew from baby to toddler.
I ran my small craft business from home.
From the outside, life looked normal. But internally, there was always a cloud of dread hanging over me — wondering what would appear in the next legal document or what my family would say next.
We still made memories. Trips to the zoo, the park, the farm — all the places I’d never been able to take the girls when we lived in London. We tried to create joy and normality for our children.
But the fear never fully left during the nine years the court case lasted.
During those nine years, I conceived and gave birth to Maanvi, raised her until she was three and a half, became pregnant with Jiya, moved house while 22 weeks pregnant, gave birth again, raised two young children, and ran a business — all while carrying the emotional weight of an ongoing legal battle.
When the Case Finally Ended
Life didn’t dramatically change while the case was ongoing.
The real shift came when it finally ended.
The change wasn’t immediate. The first year, if I’m honest, I just relaxed. The mental load I had carried for years suddenly disappeared. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted, and all I wanted to do was enjoy the quiet after closing such a painful chapter.
For the first time in years, life felt peaceful.
Stepping Outside My Comfort Zone
One of the first things I did was buy an auction property.
I’ve always loved interior design — maybe I’m not an expert, but I love transforming spaces. After the house in London sold following the case settlement, my husband and I decided to try property renovation.
We found a house, bid at auction… and won.
Then something unexpected happened.
We received an email from the auction house saying the TV show Homes Under the Hammer had been filming at the auction and were looking for participants.
I went back and forth for ages. I wanted to do it, but my insecurities resurfaced immediately. I worried about judgement, my skin condition, my weight — all the old fears came flooding back.
My husband encouraged me to go for it. So I did.
Applying for the show was the first time I truly stepped outside my comfort zone — and it definitely wasn’t the last.
Rebuilding My Confidence and Career
The next big step was applying for a job I never believed I was good enough to get.
I had worked in banking for nearly ten years before becoming a stay-at-home mum. After moving to a new city and raising two children under five, I assumed I would return to work in a basic role — maybe retail or reception.
I didn’t believe I could build a career again.
My husband believed in me more than I believed in myself. He encouraged me to apply for roles in the Civil Service.
So I took a leap of faith and applied.
I was shocked when I got an interview. Then the self-doubt hit — I hadn’t interviewed in nearly 15 years. When the application asked about reasonable adjustments, I disclosed my anxiety. I was allowed a fidget toy and given extra time to answer questions.
And I got the job.
No Longer in Survival Mode
That moment felt like a turning point.
For the first time, I realised I was no longer surviving — I was living.
I started showing up on social media, sharing my story and promoting my book. I didn’t expect much. But one post went viral last October and triggered a chain reaction of opportunities, conversations, and hundreds of new followers.
Sometimes, when I think I’m over my childhood trauma — when I truly believe I’m not letting my past define my present — I catch myself doing something that pulls me straight back. And it’s usually in those moments that I realise I’ve repeated something with my daughters that my family once did to me.
It’s never anything huge. It’s not bullying or putting them down. It’s quieter than that, and maybe that’s what makes it harder to notice.
It’s not listening properly when they’re talking.
It’s telling them to come back later because I’m busy blogging, working, or mentally elsewhere.
And yes, I do that.
I’m not proud of it. But when I notice it, I try to repair it. I acknowledge it. I name it. And I try to make things right with my girls — because that part matters.
Recently, it’s shown up in a way that made me uncomfortable to admit: I’d been unintentionally overlooking Jiya in favour of Maanvi.
Maanvi is going through a lot of change right now. She’s moved from primary school to secondary school. She’s stepping into her pre-teen years, navigating emotional highs and lows. And she’s recently started her period — something that’s been unsettling and confusing for her.
Naturally, my attention has leaned more towards her.
A couple of nights ago, Jiya came to me while I was in bed and asked for cuddles. There was something in the way she asked — quiet, careful — that told me she needed me.
So we cuddled under the duvet. I gently started talking to her, asking if she was okay, if there was anything she wanted to say.
Jiya is a funny one. She’s bubbly, loud, cheeky, fiery, and a total drama queen. But when it comes to her feelings, she’s incredibly introverted.
She’s had a minor speech issue since she first learned to talk — nothing major, but she speaks quite nasally and can sometimes be hard to understand. Because of that, she tends to keep things to herself.
And yet, that quietness isn’t really her.
Because I know her personality so well, I think I’ve unconsciously assumed she’s okay.
I’ve focused more on Maanvi, who has always been sensitive, emotional, and open. Maanvi talks — endlessly. From the moment she could speak, she narrated everything she felt, thought, or wanted. With her, emotional connection felt instinctive. I simply gave her what she asked for.
But Jiya doesn’t ask.
My husband noticed it before I did. He gently said that Jiya seemed a little sad lately — that she might need a bit more attention from both of us.
So we adjusted.
He started spending more one-on-one time with her in the evenings. I started creating more space — for conversations, for connection, for simply being present.
And that’s when I realised something uncomfortable.
I don’t actually know how to emotionally support a child who doesn’t hand me their feelings on a plate.
Because I never had that kind of emotional support myself.
I wasn’t taught how to sit with feelings, name them, or express them safely.
With Maanvi, it felt familiar. She’s like me — sensitive, expressive, emotionally open. But Jiya is a blend of me, my husband, and even a little of my dad.
And if I’m being completely honest, I sometimes find it hard to know how to comfort her in the way she needs.
But I’m trying.
I’ve started movie mornings with her. She wakes up early on weekends, so now I do too. We sit on the sofa, wrapped in blankets, watching a film together before Maanvi and her dad wake up.
No pressure to talk.
No deep questions.
Just closeness.
Just consistency.
And slowly, it’s working.
What this experience has taught me is that healing from childhood trauma doesn’t mean we’ll never repeat old patterns. It means we notice them sooner. It means we pause, reflect, and choose repair instead of denial.
I won’t always get it right as a parent. Sometimes my past will still show up in my parenting.
But the difference is this: my daughters are allowed to feel it. They are allowed to name it. And they are met with accountability, honesty, and love.
I’m learning that breaking generational cycles isn’t about being a perfect, emotionally healed parent. It’s about being a present one.
One who listens.
One who apologises.
One who adjusts.
One who keeps showing up — even when it brings up parts of herself she’d rather not face.
And if my daughters grow up knowing that their feelings matter, that they are seen even when they are quiet, and that repair is always possible — then maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s what healing, motherhood, and breaking the cycle really looks like.
Being Indian, many of us grow up with deeply ingrained social norms and expectations — especially around how society perceives us and the pressure to keep up appearances.
These social expectations played a huge role in my family. Not so much in the UK, as my dad hardly knew anyone here, but he was intensely concerned about what people in India thought of him and how they perceived his family.
He had carefully crafted a persona — the image of a successful Non-Resident Indian (NRI) who had it all: money, status, UK citizenship, and most importantly, the perfect family.
The Pressure to Be Perfect
My dad had very clear expectations of us as a family. As the head of the household, he demanded control and obedience. We were expected to listen without question, ask permission for everything, and above all else, appear perfect in front of others.
I, however, was always the slightly ‘odd’ one. I was born and raised in the UK, so I didn’t grow up immersed in Indian society or its rigid social norms. I understood British culture and UK societal expectations — which are very different. Yet I was still expected to follow Indian norms unquestioningly. I did try to fit in, but there was always a part of me that simply didn’t.
Mental Health and Cultural Silence
Growing up, I struggled with anxiety and mild depression. Whether that stemmed from a toxic family environment or was something I was predisposed to, I’ll never fully know. What I do know is that mental illness was a complete taboo.
In Indian society, mental health simply wasn’t discussed — and certainly not accepted. This meant I suffered in silence, managing everything alone. When a child is forced to deal with overwhelming emotional pain without support, something eventually gives.
For me, that breaking point came when I was 14.
My Cry for Help
At 14, I began taking extra painkillers. Not an entire packet — but instead of following the guidance of two pills every four hours (no more than eight in a day), I took all eight at once.
I don’t think I truly wanted to end my life. I was desperate for someone to notice that I needed help. It was a cry for help — one that went unseen.
The only people who knew were my high school friends. They tried to support me, but the pain and mental anguish I was carrying were far too heavy for teenagers to manage alone. Eventually, they told an adult — a teacher — and that’s when everything unravelled.
When the Truth Came Out
My mental health struggles finally came to light at home. You might assume that my parents would have reacted with concern, comfort, or care. That they would have hugged me, reassured me, or tried to understand what had led me there.
But that didn’t happen.
Instead, they turned on me. I was made to feel guilty — for having a problem, for letting them down, for how they would be seen by others. My pain became an embarrassment. At no point was I made to feel safe, supported, or loved in the way parents should offer their child.
Finding Support Outside My Family
The people who truly helped me were my school teachers. I was given counselling — something my parents strongly opposed, as they believed therapy was only for those with ‘severe’ mental illness.
Through therapy, I slowly came to a painful realisation: my family was never going to support my emotional needs. So alongside healing, I began planning my escape.
Escaping to Survive
University became my way out. Moving to a different city was the only escape I could see. I studied hard, aimed for good grades, and played the role of the ‘perfect Indian daughter’ — all while quietly biding my time.
At university, I finally experienced freedom and self-confidence. I did things I never imagined I could — or would — do. And instead of feeling shame, I felt hope. For the first time, I could see a future worth fighting for.
Building My Own Support System
I knew healing wouldn’t be easy, and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I found my people — my tribe.
Initially, that support came from my colleagues at the bank where I worked. I formed strong friendships, particularly with managers who supported me through difficult times, forgave my mistakes, and accepted me exactly as I was — flaws and all.
One of those relationships became so meaningful that she is now a permanent part of my life, becoming the godmother to my daughters.
Still the Outsider
My family, however, never accepted me in this way. To them, I was always the odd one out — the one with ‘mental health issues’, the one who wasn’t a ‘good Indian girl’, the one destined to rebel.
And eventually, that rebellion came.
Rebellion as Healing
When I was pushed to my absolute limits and hit rock bottom, I rebelled against everything I had been taught to accept as ‘normal’. That rebellion marked the beginning of my healing.
For the first time, I allowed myself to live life on my own terms — to heal from the life I had survived. The social guilt still lingers, and perhaps always will. That guilt is one of the reasons I wrote my book, Breaking Free, and why I continue to blog.
Why I Write
Through my writing, I’m trying to shine a light on the experiences of women like me — the stories we don’t talk about, the pain we hide, and the healing we desperately need.
Life at home growing up wasn’t easy. It was a tough road, but it also became one filled with lessons that shaped my adult life — even though I never planned far enough ahead to imagine I would one day become an adult with a family of my own.
To be brutally honest, for a long time I had only planned my life up to the point of finishing university. Getting my bachelor’s degree was the final goal I had set for myself — the last thing I wanted to achieve so I could leave on a high, having done something that made my parents proud. After university, I had planned to end my life.
But then I met someone online. I fell in love, and for the first time, I felt hope — hope for a future, for love, for something better. The relationship didn’t last through my final year at university, but it lit a small flame inside me. If I could find love once, I could find it again. That belief became my reason to keep going.
Returning Home After University
Looking back now, I know how fragile that hope was. I also know that building my entire future around finding a man sounds ridiculous — but desperation doesn’t think logically. I needed something to look forward to in order to survive the toxic environment I returned to after graduation.
People often ask why I moved back home after four years of freedom, studying in a city miles away. Why I didn’t settle in Birmingham, where I went to university. The truth is, despite the independence I tasted during term time, I wasn’t strong enough to defy my parents or the expectations placed on me.
My family never gave me the option to build a life in Birmingham beyond university. During every holiday, I was expected to return to London — even at Christmas, when my parents were away in India for their annual winter break. My eldest brother lived across the road from the family home and was tasked with keeping an eye on me. One Christmas, I slept in his front room for the entire holiday because my parents had rented out a bedroom in the house, and my brothers didn’t want me staying alone with a tenant.
The day after my final exam, my father sent my eldest brother to collect me and all my belongings and bring me back to London.
On top of that, my parents were living alone in the house, as all my siblings had moved out. They had promised me the family home as my inheritance, leaving me with very little choice but to return.
Searching for a Way Out
Dreaming of finding my soulmate became the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I endured bullying from my sisters-in-law. I endured having no real life beyond work and being at home with my parents. I tolerated it all with the hope that love would be my escape.
In my twenties, marriage felt like the socially acceptable way out. When I signed up to matrimonial websites, my parents were happy — they believed I was following the path they had chosen for me.
I dated many men, but most couldn’t look past my skin condition, and those connections rarely made it beyond the first date. A few short-term relationships followed, but thankfully they didn’t last. Looking back, they were just as toxic as my family environment, and marriage with them would have been its own kind of prison.
I knew what I wanted because I had experienced it once before — kindness, respect, safety. I was willing to meet countless frogs in the hope of finding my prince.
Finding Strength in Small Freedoms
University had given me a small taste of freedom, and although my parents loosened their grip slightly, it was still limited. I wasn’t allowed to spend entire weekends out or use my own money freely, so I chose my battles carefully.
I joined a gym under the excuse that my best friend was getting married and I wanted to look good. I joined a weekly salsa class simply because I was curious — and because it was only one evening a week. Considering I was paying for almost everything in the house, including most of the bills, I felt I was entitled to that much.
Bit by bit, I built inner strength — quietly, carefully — until I met my husband.
Marriage and the Beginning of Real Change
Marriage didn’t bring peace straight away. In fact, that’s when the real rebellion began.
My husband was my biggest supporter. He saw how much I gave and how little I received in return. He witnessed the bullying, the control, the outdated Indian norms I lived under — and he hated it for me. Still, he stayed quiet for my sake.
What my family didn’t know was that my husband wasn’t a passive man. He wasn’t a ‘goody two-shoes’. He had been a troublemaker back in India, a player before he met me, and he was more than capable of standing up to my entire family if needed. But he loved me, and my happiness at the time meant keeping the peace.
At 29, I was still that little girl craving acceptance and unconditional love from her family. I wanted everyone to get along — and so my husband stayed silent.
Walking Away
Everything changed after weeks of relentless emotional abuse from my father. I broke down completely. That was the moment my husband snapped.
We packed a suitcase and left.
As we were leaving, my father threatened to report my husband for elderly abuse. My husband turned around and calmly told him that doing so would expose far more — including how my father had married his daughter to an Indian immigrant so he could be financially exploited and treated like a servant.
That silenced my father. My husband was the only full-time earner in the household, while I had reduced my hours due to health issues caused by prolonged stress.
Later, my husband apologised to me for what he had said. He knew I hadn’t married him for money or security — we married for love. But he explained that it was the only language my father understood.
Healing, Motherhood, and Breaking Cycles
It wasn’t until I left that house — and later became a mother — that healing truly began.
My family never taught me how I wanted to be. They taught me how I didn’t want to be, and how I didn’t want to raise my children.
When Maanvi was born, I was still at the beginning of a court case. I was a new mother with no guidebook, no family support, and no idea what I was doing. So I followed my instincts. I made mistakes. I learned as I went. But everything I did, I did with my daughter’s best interests at heart.
When Jiya came along, things felt a little easier — experience had taught me more than any advice ever could. But it wasn’t until the court case ended for good that I could finally breathe.
For the first time, I was able to live life on my own terms — and raise my daughters in a way that felt safe, loving, and free.Life at Home Growing Up
Life at home growing up wasn’t easy. It was a tough road, but it also became one filled with lessons that shaped my adult life — even though I never planned far enough ahead to imagine I would one day become an adult with a family of my own.
To be brutally honest, for a long time I had only planned my life up to the point of finishing university. Getting my bachelor’s degree was the final goal I had set for myself — the last thing I wanted to achieve so I could leave on a high, having done something that made my parents proud. After university, I had planned to end my life.
But then I met someone online. I fell in love, and for the first time, I felt hope — hope for a future, for love, for something better. The relationship didn’t last through my final year at university, but it lit a small flame inside me. If I could find love once, I could find it again. That belief became my reason to keep going.
Returning Home After University
Looking back now, I know how fragile that hope was. I also know that building my entire future around finding a man sounds ridiculous — but desperation doesn’t think logically. I needed something to look forward to in order to survive the toxic environment I returned to after graduation.
People often ask why I moved back home after four years of freedom, studying in a city miles away. Why I didn’t settle in Birmingham, where I went to university. The truth is, despite the independence I tasted during term time, I wasn’t strong enough to defy my parents or the expectations placed on me.
My family never gave me the option to build a life in Birmingham beyond university. During every holiday, I was expected to return to London — even at Christmas, when my parents were away in India for their annual winter break. My eldest brother lived across the road from the family home and was tasked with keeping an eye on me. One Christmas, I slept in his front room for the entire holiday because my parents had rented out a bedroom in the house, and my brothers didn’t want me staying alone with a tenant.
The day after my final exam, my father sent my eldest brother to collect me and all my belongings and bring me back to London.
On top of that, my parents were living alone in the house, as all my siblings had moved out. They had promised me the family home as my inheritance, leaving me with very little choice but to return.
Searching for a Way Out
Dreaming of finding my soulmate became the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I endured bullying from my sisters-in-law. I endured having no real life beyond work and being at home with my parents. I tolerated it all with the hope that love would be my escape.
In my twenties, marriage felt like the socially acceptable way out. When I signed up to matrimonial websites, my parents were happy — they believed I was following the path they had chosen for me.
I dated many men, but most couldn’t look past my skin condition, and those connections rarely made it beyond the first date. A few short-term relationships followed, but thankfully they didn’t last. Looking back, they were just as toxic as my family environment, and marriage with them would have been its own kind of prison.
I knew what I wanted because I had experienced it once before — kindness, respect, safety. I was willing to meet countless frogs in the hope of finding my prince.
Finding Strength in Small Freedoms
University had given me a small taste of freedom, and although my parents loosened their grip slightly, it was still limited. I wasn’t allowed to spend entire weekends out or use my own money freely, so I chose my battles carefully.
I joined a gym under the excuse that my best friend was getting married and I wanted to look good. I joined a weekly salsa class simply because I was curious — and because it was only one evening a week. Considering I was paying for almost everything in the house, including most of the bills, I felt I was entitled to that much.
Bit by bit, I built inner strength — quietly, carefully — until I met my husband.
Marriage and the Beginning of Real Change
Marriage didn’t bring peace straight away. In fact, that’s when the real rebellion began.
My husband was my biggest supporter. He saw how much I gave and how little I received in return. He witnessed the bullying, the control, the outdated Indian norms I lived under — and he hated it for me. Still, he stayed quiet for my sake.
What my family didn’t know was that my husband wasn’t a passive man. He wasn’t a ‘goody two-shoes’. He had been a troublemaker back in India, a player before he met me, and he was more than capable of standing up to my entire family if needed. But he loved me, and my happiness at the time meant keeping the peace.
At 29, I was still that little girl craving acceptance and unconditional love from her family. I wanted everyone to get along — and so my husband stayed silent.
Walking Away
Everything changed after weeks of relentless emotional abuse from my father. I broke down completely. That was the moment my husband snapped.
We packed a suitcase and left.
As we were leaving, my father threatened to report my husband for elderly abuse. My husband turned around and calmly told him that doing so would expose far more — including how my father had married his daughter to an Indian immigrant so he could be financially exploited and treated like a servant.
That silenced my father. My husband was the only full-time earner in the household, while I had reduced my hours due to health issues caused by prolonged stress.
Later, my husband apologised to me for what he had said. He knew I hadn’t married him for money or security — we married for love. But he explained that it was the only language my father understood.
Healing, Motherhood, and Breaking Cycles
It wasn’t until I left that house — and later became a mother — that healing truly began.
My family never taught me how I wanted to be. They taught me how I didn’t want to be, and how I didn’t want to raise my children.
When Maanvi was born, I was still at the beginning of a court case. I was a new mother with no guidebook, no family support, and no idea what I was doing. So I followed my instincts. I made mistakes. I learned as I went. But everything I did, I did with my daughter’s best interests at heart.
When Jiya came along, things felt a little easier — experience had taught me more than any advice ever could. But it wasn’t until the court case ended for good that I could finally breathe.
For the first time, I was able to live life on my own terms — and raise my daughters in a way that felt safe, loving, and free.
When I wrote my book Breaking Free, I was at the end of a chapter of my life. I was finally able to write about my past and everything I had been through, because that part of my life had reached a sense of closure. I could look back, reflect, and put it all into words.
But that didn’t mean I no longer needed healing, or that I was suddenly free from my past. The book was never the end of my journey. It was just the beginning.
Breaking Free closed the chapter of my life that had been toxic, but it opened the door to my healing journey — a long road that I knew I still had to walk.
How Writing My Book Changed Me
Things have changed dramatically since the book was published, and I have almost completely changed as a person. Gone is the girl who was shy, reserved, and always stayed within her comfort zone. Today, I am someone who rarely says no to opportunities. I fight my anxiety head-on and do things I never imagined I would be capable of.
Healing didn’t suddenly make life easy, but it made me braver.
Stepping Outside My Comfort Zone: Homes Under the Hammer
In the last chapter of Breaking Free, I wrote about appearing on Homes Under the Hammer. The show followed people who bought auction properties and refurbished them, and I took part. The episode was eventually broadcast on the BBC.
I could have opted out when I was approached, but I’ve always been drawn to quirky, new experiences — even when they terrify me. I agreed before my brain had the chance to talk me out of it.
On the day of filming, I was genuinely freaking out. The thought of being on television, and of people judging me because of my skin condition or my weight, made me feel physically sick. But the filming crew were incredible. When I mentioned that I had studied TV production at university, they instantly relaxed around me, showed me their equipment, and made me feel like part of the team.
When the episode aired, I was flooded with messages from old school friends who were watching at home. I was tagged on Facebook by women who knew me through the business group I was part of when I ran my creative businesses. I was recognised everywhere — from shopkeepers to parents on the school run. Even now, two years later, people still approach me after seeing reruns, including staff in Jiya’s school office.
Returning to Work After Trauma and Motherhood
At the time, I thought appearing on TV would be the biggest step outside my comfort zone. I was wrong.
The next challenge came when I decided to apply for a full-time job. Jiya had started school full-time, and I knew that sooner or later I would need to rejoin the workforce. Living on one income in the UK is tough.
By then, I had been a stay-at-home mum for almost six years. I had been signed off sick from just 12 weeks into my pregnancy because it was high-risk. I had very little confidence in my career prospects. I assumed I would probably find a part-time admin role, or maybe even work somewhere like Asda just to get started.
Never in a million years did I imagine I would end up working in the Civil Service — with a flexible schedule and a team I genuinely love.
Believing in Myself (Because Someone Else Did First)
A huge amount of credit for this goes to my husband. He was the one who encouraged me to aim high and not give in to the fear that I wasn’t good enough. Based on his faith in me, I applied for the job.
I went through the interview process, completed all the tests, and did the hard work myself — but he was the one who truly believed I could handle it. Two years later, I’m still in the same role, appreciated by my manager and valued by my team.
Healing Isn’t Linear: People-Pleasing and Self-Doubt
That said, it hasn’t all been smooth or easy.
I’ve had moments of self-doubt and times when my past has resurfaced — especially my fear of letting people down. I’m still very much a people-pleaser, always willing to go the extra mile. At work, this has been both a blessing and a curse.
It’s a blessing because it has made me the go-to person when my manager needs something a bit out of the box. That effort has been recognised through financial incentives as part of our reward and recognition scheme, and that extra income has helped make the last two Christmases incredibly special for my family.
But the downside is that my eagerness to help has sometimes meant my name being put forward for things I wasn’t fully confident about. Over time, I’ve learned that it’s okay not to say yes to everything. My manager still asks if I’d like to volunteer or take something on, but I no longer feel guilty saying no — or choosing not to put my name forward when volunteers are needed.
Parenting After Trauma: Am I Doing Enough?
One thing I constantly worry about, rooted deeply in my past trauma, is my parenting.
At the back of my mind, there’s always the question of whether I’m doing the right things for my girls. Growing up, I didn’t have any positive parenting role models — not in my parents, my siblings, or even family friends. I never had an example of the kind of parent I wanted to be.
Instead, I learned exactly what I didn’t want to give my children.
For the last 11 years, raising Maanvi and Jiya, I’ve worked intentionally to give them what I never had — safety, love, emotional presence, and freedom to be themselves. Even so, the doubt never fully disappears. I constantly wonder if I could be doing things better or differently for their sake.
And maybe that fear never completely goes away when you’re trying to break generational patterns.
Healing, Growth, and Becoming the Parent I Needed
What I do know is this: my girls are incredible. They are polite, kind, emotionally aware, and thriving academically — something that still surprises me, especially considering I haven’t had to push them relentlessly.
They are confident in ways I never was at their age. They feel safe to speak, to question, to be themselves.
And maybe healing doesn’t mean being perfect.
Maybe it means doing better than what you were given.
Maybe it means choosing differently, even when you’re unsure.
Maybe it means continuing the work — long after the book is finished.
Breaking Free may have been the start of my healing journey, but the real work happens every single day — in my choices, my courage, my parenting, and my willingness to keep growing.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and like many people, I’m reflecting on 2025 — what I’ve achieved, what I’ve survived, and how I’ve truly felt along the way.
For me, 2025 was the year I became more confident showing up on social media.
The year I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and did things I never thought I could.
How the Year Began
The year started as it usually does — with family time and friend time. My best friend came to stay with her daughter, and we had a few fab days together. One of those days was spent exploring the local area, taking photos for her daughter’s school photography project on natural frames.
She had to photograph places, people, or objects framed naturally — like capturing our local church through its entrance arch, or a photo of Jiya taken through the decorative brickwork in our front garden. That photo of Jiya ended up being used in her school project, which felt really special.
We also attended a 4th birthday party for a family friend’s daughter at soft play. Jiya used to be close friends with her older brother when they were in nursery, and although the kids aren’t as close now, the parents stayed friends — so we still get invited to all the birthdays. Maanvi was one of the oldest kids there, surrounded by much younger children, but she handled it all brilliantly.
A Big Family Upheaval
Then came the biggest upheaval of the year.
My husband’s cousin left her husband and moved in with us with her children — for five months. The girls gave up their bedrooms. Maanvi moved in with me, and Jiya shared a room with her dad. Suddenly, we had three adults and four children living in a three-bedroom house.
It was tough. Really tough.
But family means everything to us, and when family needs help, we help — no questions asked. Somehow, we made it work.
During that time, we celebrated Maanvi’s 11th birthday with a bowling party, I went to see Indian comedian Amit Tandon live in Birmingham, and Maanvi went on her Year 6 end-of-primary trip to Alton Towers for four days — a huge milestone.
By the end of June, the cousin and her children were able to move back home after receiving permission from the courts, and we slowly found our rhythm again as a family.
Endings, Beginnings, and Summer Reflections
July was emotional. Maanvi finished primary school and had her farewell party. There were tears — from both of us.
At work, I unintentionally started a bit of a birthday trend. I’ve always been the birthday organiser in my team — collecting money, organising gifts, and making sure cards are signed. This year, I discovered an AI website called LookaLikey, where you can upload a photo and generate a realistic AI image. I started creating personalised AI portraits for colleagues as part of their birthday gifts, and it became a thing.
The summer holidays flew by — juggling work, spending time with the girls, and mentally preparing for Maanvi starting secondary school. I also signed up for a course to create an AI twin of myself. I’ve always hated having my photo taken and posting online, so this felt like the perfect solution — professional-looking images without the pressure of photo shoots.
Big Steps and Bigger Wins
September was huge.
Maanvi started secondary school, and if I’m honest, I was terrified. She’s always struggled with change, and her anxiety made me worry about how she’d cope. But she surprised us all. She absolutely loves it. Even now, she begs her dad to drop her off early for breakfast club and has signed up for three after-school clubs.
September was also my birthday — I turned 44. I celebrated with a girls’ day out, watching Surinderella, an Indian adaptation of Cinderella, at the theatre. It was hilarious, and we all loved it. We followed it with lunch and a chilled bus ride home.
That same month, I posted a TikTok that went viral — hitting over 200,000 views in 24 hours. Because of that, I was approached to be a guest on a YouTube podcast… and I said yes.
Facing Fears and Finding Confidence
In October, I tried clay pigeon shooting as part of a work team day (something I never imagined myself doing) and recorded the podcast episode in a studio. I was terrified, but Mani, the host, was incredible. He helped me relax, and we ended up recording a two-hour session with breaks.
October was also our 15th wedding anniversary. My husband and I spent the day together — breakfast out and a cosy movie day.
For Halloween, Maanvi transformed herself into a zombie by ripping up some of my old clothes — and honestly, she looked amazing. I also won a pumpkin decoration competition at work with two colleagues.
The Unexpected Viral Moment
In November, the girls and I went to the cinema to watch K-Pop Demon Hunters on the big screen. They loved it all summer, and I loved the soundtrack, so it was a win-win.
Then… things went crazy.
The podcast episode I recorded in October went live — and to say it went viral would be an understatement. In four days, my TikTok following tripled from under 200 to over 600. My Instagram gained 300 new followers in a week. My book sales increased too — I sold 12 copies in December, which is huge for me.
I was approached by a radio station to appear as a guest (coming up in January) and also invited to be a model for a TikTok makeup artist — again, happening in January.
Among all that, we celebrated Jiya’s 8th birthday, Christmas, and one of my proudest mum moments: Maanvi learning to make beans on toast and cheese on toast — and actually making them for me when I asked. She also went completely over the top making Rice Krispies treats… enough to last two weeks. We finished the last of them today.
Looking Ahead
So yes — 2025 was a fab year.
And 2026?
It’s going to be even better.
If you’d like to keep up with what I’m doing, you can follow me on social media or subscribe to the blog to never miss a post
Celebrating 15 Years of Marriage and a Lifetime of Lessons
Last month, I turned 44.
Today, I’m celebrating my 15th wedding anniversary.
Fifteen years married—wow.
It still feels surreal that we’ve been together this long and yet, somehow, it still feels new.
Our love story isn’t your typical fairytale. It’s full of twists, heartbreak, and serendipity—and it started in a way no one would have predicted.
Growing Up in a Sheltered Home
I grew up in a very traditional, sheltered household where talking to boys was a complete no-no.
An all-girls school, strict parents, and zero exposure to dating meant I had no idea what relationships even looked like.
So when I got my first desktop computer (yes, I’m older than the internet!) and discovered Yahoo Messenger… let’s just say I went a little wild.
Suddenly, I had attention—from people who loved the way I talked, not the way I looked. For a girl who grew up feeling invisible, that attention was addictive.
But in my house, dating was forbidden. Meeting anyone in person was out of the question. I waited until university to truly explore the dating world.
The Wild Dating Years
Once I started dating, I really started dating.
Let’s just say I stopped counting after 50 first dates… in one year.
Over the next decade, I met every kind of man imaginable—corporate guys, creatives, rich property developers, and even a few heartbreakers. Each one taught me something about love, boundaries, and self-worth.
Some dates were hilarious, some were disastrous, and a few were genuinely heartbreaking.
But through it all, I held on to one belief: that my Mr. Right was out there.
The Ones That Shaped Me
There were six men I’d actually call “relationships.”
Each one played a role in shaping the woman I became.
The Online Connection: He was my first “real” love, even if we never met in person. Losing him remains one of my biggest regrets.
The Long-Distance Love: A Yahoo Messenger romance turned real when I flew to the U.S. to meet him. He vanished suddenly, leaving a hole that took years to heal.
The Charmer: Handsome, generous—and deeply toxic. He manipulated me until I lost myself. Walking away was my rock-bottom and my rebirth.
The Freebie Guy: Lovely but stingy. Every date was a “buy one, get one free.” I realized I deserved someone who valued me more than a coupon deal.
The Silent One: A sweet computer tech guy who barely spoke. Our last date was two hours of silence. I ended it right there.
Each heartbreak brought me closer to clarity. I knew what I would compromise on—and what I never would again.
The Flight That Changed Everything
My love story truly began on a flight to India.
I was heading to a family wedding with my parents, and by accident, the airline seated me two rows away from them.
Next to me sat a charming young Indian guy. We chatted the whole flight, exchanged numbers, and promised to meet up back in the UK.
But life had other plans. When we returned, the “plane guy” ghosted both me and his flatmate. Gone. No explanation.
His flatmate reached out to check if I’d heard anything—and that’s how I met Nitin.
At first, I wasn’t interested. He was outgoing, loved to party, and didn’t seem like “my type.” But as Valentine’s Day approached, I gave in and agreed to one date.
An hour into that date, I knew.
This was my person.
And eight months later, I married him.
15 Years Later: Still Us
Fifteen years, countless memories, and one incredible journey later—Nitin is still my soulmate.
He’s the reason I’m the confident woman I am today—the girl who bought a property at auction, went on TV, wrote a book, launched a blog, and recently appeared on a podcast streaming on over 20 platforms.
We’ve faced every high and low together.
And through it all, we’ve held strong.
Here’s to love that lasts.
To the man who still makes me laugh.
And to a story that started online—but was always written in the stars.
Breaking Free 