Navigating Parenting a Pre-Teen: My Journey with Maanvi

Maanvi is officially 11 going on 16. Over the last few months, I’ve seen so many changes in her that I now look at her and see a more mature, grown-up version of my little girl. And honestly? I’m not ready for this.

She turned 11 this year, and the day before her birthday was the first time I truly felt the shift into pre-teen territory. I had booked her in for a simple hair wash, cut, and blow-dry, but she asked if she could also have her hair straightened—for the first time. The request was reasonable, so I agreed. What I didn’t expect was how much straighter hair would change her entire look.

For years, I’ve battled with her short baby hairs at the front of her head—the stubborn little wisps that never grew enough to join the main ponytail I always did for school. We’ve used clips, bands, and all sorts of tricks, but nothing truly worked. And then suddenly, with straightened hair, those wild little strands transformed into the perfect side fringes framing her face. She looked so grown up, I was honestly shocked.

And then came the moment that truly hit me—five minutes later, she’s striking poses and taking selfies on her phone at the salon. That was just the beginning.

The Big Changes I’ve Noticed

Over the past few months, Maanvi has grown so much—not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too. Here are some of the big changes I’ve noticed:

1. Watching More Mature Shows

Gone are the days of Disney cartoons on repeat. Now it’s Wednesday on Netflix and episodes of Doctor Who. Shows with more complex storylines, characters, and themes. Part of me loves watching with her and seeing her thoughts and opinions develop. But another part of me aches, because it’s a reminder that the innocent little girl who once loved Peppa Pig is growing up.

2. Getting into Looking Good and Makeup

She’s more conscious about her appearance now—choosing outfits carefully, experimenting with hairstyles, and even showing interest in skincare and makeup. We’re not at the full glam stage yet, but lip balms, hair accessories, and little hints of mascara have entered the conversation.

3. Emotional Highs and Lows

Ah, the moods. One moment we’re laughing, and the next she’s upset for reasons even she can’t explain. I’m learning that this is all part of the hormonal rollercoaster. It’s challenging, but I’m trying to give her space while reminding her that I’m always here to listen.

4. Wanting Independence

She wants to do things on her own—go out with friends, have private chats, and sometimes, just close the door and have time to herself. I get it. I was that girl once. But letting go of that constant “mum mode” is hard.

The Practical Stuff – Preparing Her for What’s Next

As much as I want to hold on to her being little, I know my role now is to guide her into this next stage of life. So here’s what I’m focusing on:

  • Mobile Phone Safety: Teaching her the importance of online safety, privacy, and being responsible with social media and messaging.
  • Basic Food Skills: Simple cooking basics like making toast, boiling pasta, or even a cup of tea. Life skills matter!
  • Secondary School Prep: Talking about what to expect, building her confidence, and making sure she feels ready for the big change ahead.

My Feelings About Her Becoming a Teenager

If I’m honest, it’s a mix of pride and panic. I’m proud of the confident, curious, and strong young girl she’s becoming. But part of me is scared—scared of the world she’s stepping into, scared of her getting hurt, and scared of how fast time is flying.

Parenting through this stage feels like balancing on a tightrope—giving enough freedom for her to grow while still being her safety net. I know I can’t stop her from growing up, but I can make sure that as she does, she knows she’s loved, supported, and understood.

So here we are—one foot in childhood, one in teenagehood. And me? Just trying to keep up

Breaking Mental Health Stigmas in South Asian Families

Growing up in a culture where mental health was rarely discussed, I carried a silent burden for years. Anxiety and depression were not words we used openly—they were whispers behind closed doors, often ignored or misunderstood. Today, as a mother of two incredible girls, Maanvi and Jiya, I’ve made it my mission to break that cycle.

The Weight of Silence

In many South Asian households, conversations about mental health are minimal—if they happen at all. The focus is often on resilience, achievement, and maintaining appearances. While these values have their place, the cost of suppressing emotions is high. For me, that cost was years of internal struggle, masked by a smile that didn’t always tell the full story.

I eventually reached a breaking point where silence was no longer an option. It was either continue down a path of quiet suffering or choose healing—not just for myself, but for the future of my daughters.

Healing for Me, Healing for Them

When I started my healing journey, it wasn’t just about me. It was about creating a home where my girls could feel safe to express themselves—emotionally and mentally. I didn’t want them growing up believing their feelings didn’t matter or that vulnerability was weakness.

Now, when Maanvi or Jiya feel anxious, sad, or overwhelmed, we talk about it. We practice breathing exercises, share our feelings openly, and remind ourselves that asking for help is a strength, not a flaw.

Watching My Girls Grow

This summer feels bittersweet. Maanvi has finished Year 6 and is preparing for the big leap into Year 7 in September. She’s becoming more independent, confident, and yes—a little moody (hello, pre-teen life!). She’s already had overnight trips to York and Alton Towers, proving she’s ready to take on new challenges.

Jiya is heading into Year 3, thriving both socially and academically. Every parents’ evening, her teachers have nothing but praise for her. She’s curious, independent, and full of life. Watching both my girls grow into strong, expressive individuals is one of my greatest achievements.

Changing the Narrative Around Mental Health

The stigma around mental health in South Asian communities is still very real, but it doesn’t have to define us. Conversations are happening more openly now, but there’s still work to do. If you’re struggling, please remember: you are not alone, and seeking help is a sign of courage—not failure.

If you’d like to learn more about mental health in South Asian communities, here’s a great resource:

South Asian Mental Health Initiative and Network (SAMHIN) – They provide education, support, and culturally sensitive resources.

Final Thoughts

Breaking cycles is hard. Healing while parenting is harder. But every honest conversation, every open dialogue, and every moment we choose to listen—to ourselves and to others—makes a difference. My journey isn’t perfect, but it’s real. And if sharing it helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

Signs of Abuse in Toxic Families: What to Look For

When most people hear the term domestic abuse, they think of violence between romantic partners—black eyes, broken bones, or screaming matches behind closed doors. But domestic abuse is not limited to romantic relationships, nor does it always leave visible bruises. One of the most overlooked, insidious forms of domestic abuse happens in childhood, within toxic families.

This kind of abuse often flies under the radar because it doesn’t look like what society traditionally labels as “abuse.” It’s quieter, more psychological, and often dismissed as “strict parenting” or “just how families are.” But growing up in a toxic family—one ruled by manipulation, fear, control, guilt, and emotional neglect—is domestic abuse. And it leaves deep, long-lasting scars.

If this resonates with you, you’re not alone. I explore this deeply in my biography Breaking Free, where I share my journey of surviving and healing from a toxic family environment.

Recognizing the Signs of Abuse—In the Home You Grew Up In

Domestic abuse typically includes a clear set of behaviors:

  • Constant criticism or belittling
  • Gaslighting—making someone question their memory or perception
  • Emotional blackmail and guilt-tripping
  • Isolation from support systems
  • Control over decisions, autonomy, or emotional expression
  • Fear of upsetting the abuser
  • Walking on eggshells to keep the peace
  • Being blamed for things that aren’t your fault

Now take those same signs and place them in the context of a childhood home.

A toxic family environment mirrors this abuse almost identically. Parents or caregivers may:

  • Dismiss your emotions as overreactions
  • Accuse you of being “ungrateful” or “too sensitive”
  • Withdraw love when you fail to meet impossible expectations
  • Shame or mock you in front of others
  • Compare you to siblings to foster competition or resentment
  • Use affection as a weapon—something earned, not freely given

The result? A child who learns to suppress themselves to survive. A child who internalizes the message that their feelings, needs, and even their perception of reality are wrong.

The Emotional Fallout: When Victims Blame Themselves

One of the cruelest effects of this form of abuse is that it convinces the victim that they are the problem. Just like survivors of partner abuse, children in toxic families often believe:

  • “If I just try harder, maybe they’ll love me.”
  • “It must be me—I’m the common denominator.”
  • “I shouldn’t complain. Other people have it worse.”
  • “Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.”

This conditioning leads to lifelong struggles with self-worth, boundaries, trust, and emotional safety. Many adult survivors of toxic families grow into people-pleasers, chronic self-doubters, or emotionally distant individuals. They question their instincts, invalidate their own pain, and often repeat the cycle by entering toxic friendships or relationships later in life.

Why Naming It Matters

Calling what happened abuse can feel heavy. It can feel disloyal. It can stir up guilt, shame, or fear of being dramatic. But giving it the correct name isn’t about assigning blame—it’s about validating the truth.

Many survivors hesitate to label their upbringing as abusive because “they never hit me,” or because “my parents had it worse.” But abuse doesn’t need to be physical to be real. Emotional, psychological, and verbal abuse are deeply harmful, especially when they come from the people who were supposed to make you feel safe, seen, and loved.

Naming it gives you permission to heal. It breaks the silence that keeps people trapped in shame. And it opens the door to reclaiming your story.

You Are Not Alone

Toxic families are more common than most people realize, and the silence around them is deafening. But if you grew up in a home where love felt conditional, where safety was unpredictable, or where you were made to feel responsible for someone else’s emotions—you didn’t imagine it. You survived it.

And survival is powerful.

Healing from this kind of abuse is possible. It starts with acknowledging the truth, giving yourself compassion, and slowly unlearning the lies you were told about yourself. You are not broken. You are not too sensitive. You are not at fault.

You are someone who endured the unimaginable with resilience. And now, you have every right to heal in peace, at your own pace.

Further Reading & Resources

If you’re looking for more support or want to hear a personal story that may mirror your own, check out my biography:

📘 Breaking Free – My true story of surviving and healing from a toxic family

Available now on Amazon: https://amzn.to/3ymr2M0

🎙️ Listen to My Podcast on Spotify – I discuss toxic family dynamics, emotional recovery, and healing journeys:

Search for me on Spotify or click here to listen (replace with direct link if you’d like)

Thank you for reading—and remember, healing is not only possible, it’s your right.When most people hear the term domestic abuse, they think of violence between romantic partners—black eyes, broken bones, or screaming matches behind closed doors. But domestic abuse is not limited to romantic relationships, nor does it always leave visible bruises. One of the most overlooked, insidious forms of domestic abuse happens in childhood, within toxic families.

This kind of abuse often flies under the radar because it doesn’t look like what society traditionally labels as “abuse.” It’s quieter, more psychological, and often dismissed as “strict parenting” or “just how families are.” But growing up in a toxic family—one ruled by manipulation, fear, control, guilt, and emotional neglect—is domestic abuse. And it leaves deep, long-lasting scars.

If this resonates with you, you’re not alone. I explore this deeply in my biography Breaking Free, where I share my journey of surviving and healing from a toxic family environment.

Recognizing the Signs of Abuse—In the Home You Grew Up In

Domestic abuse typically includes a clear set of behaviors:

  • Constant criticism or belittling
  • Gaslighting—making someone question their memory or perception
  • Emotional blackmail and guilt-tripping
  • Isolation from support systems
  • Control over decisions, autonomy, or emotional expression
  • Fear of upsetting the abuser
  • Walking on eggshells to keep the peace
  • Being blamed for things that aren’t your fault

Now take those same signs and place them in the context of a childhood home.

A toxic family environment mirrors this abuse almost identically. Parents or caregivers may:

  • Dismiss your emotions as overreactions
  • Accuse you of being “ungrateful” or “too sensitive”
  • Withdraw love when you fail to meet impossible expectations
  • Shame or mock you in front of others
  • Compare you to siblings to foster competition or resentment
  • Use affection as a weapon—something earned, not freely given

The result? A child who learns to suppress themselves to survive. A child who internalizes the message that their feelings, needs, and even their perception of reality are wrong.

The Emotional Fallout: When Victims Blame Themselves

One of the cruelest effects of this form of abuse is that it convinces the victim that they are the problem. Just like survivors of partner abuse, children in toxic families often believe:

  • “If I just try harder, maybe they’ll love me.”
  • “It must be me—I’m the common denominator.”
  • “I shouldn’t complain. Other people have it worse.”
  • “Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.”

This conditioning leads to lifelong struggles with self-worth, boundaries, trust, and emotional safety. Many adult survivors of toxic families grow into people-pleasers, chronic self-doubters, or emotionally distant individuals. They question their instincts, invalidate their own pain, and often repeat the cycle by entering toxic friendships or relationships later in life.

Why Naming It Matters

Calling what happened abuse can feel heavy. It can feel disloyal. It can stir up guilt, shame, or fear of being dramatic. But giving it the correct name isn’t about assigning blame—it’s about validating the truth.

Many survivors hesitate to label their upbringing as abusive because “they never hit me,” or because “my parents had it worse.” But abuse doesn’t need to be physical to be real. Emotional, psychological, and verbal abuse are deeply harmful, especially when they come from the people who were supposed to make you feel safe, seen, and loved.

Naming it gives you permission to heal. It breaks the silence that keeps people trapped in shame. And it opens the door to reclaiming your story.

You Are Not Alone

Toxic families are more common than most people realize, and the silence around them is deafening. But if you grew up in a home where love felt conditional, where safety was unpredictable, or where you were made to feel responsible for someone else’s emotions—you didn’t imagine it. You survived it.

And survival is powerful.

Healing from this kind of abuse is possible. It starts with acknowledging the truth, giving yourself compassion, and slowly unlearning the lies you were told about yourself. You are not broken. You are not too sensitive. You are not at fault.

You are someone who endured the unimaginable with resilience. And now, you have every right to heal in peace, at your own pace.

Further Reading & Resources

If you’re looking for more support or want to hear a personal story that may mirror your own, check out my biography:

📘 Breaking Free – My true story of surviving and healing from a toxic family

Available now on Amazon: https://amzn.to/3ymr2M0

🎙️ Listen to My Podcast on Spotify – I discuss toxic family dynamics, emotional recovery, and healing journeys:

Search for me on Spotify or click here to listen

Thank you for reading—and remember, healing is not only possible, it’s your right.

The Power of Support When You’re Unwell

Sometimes you don’t realise how blessed your life is until you fall sick. That’s when you truly see the kind of people you’re surrounded by — and how much their care and support can mean.

Week 1: A Bad Cold

I’m currently in week four of being unwell. It started with a bad cold — runny nose, sneezing, the usual. I still worked through it, commuting to the office and working from home as needed.

On one of my office days, I was heavily backlogged with cases. Two of my colleagues kindly stepped up and offered to help. I transferred 12–18 cases to them — mostly correspondence that needed reviewing and updating.

That small gesture reminded me of the quiet strength of teamwork.

Week 2: A Severe Chest Infection

The second week hit much harder — a severe chest infection left me bedridden and constantly coughing. I stayed home the entire week and called in sick.

My manager checked in every morning, and her replies were simple but supportive:

“Thanks for letting me know — hope you feel better soon.”

No questions. No guilt. Just trust.

Week 3: A Lingering Cough

By week three, I was well enough to work, but I still couldn’t speak without coughing. My manager and team took me off phone duty for the entire week.

Even better, they turned my mandatory office day into a work-from-home day — just to make things easier for me.

Support doesn’t always need grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just understanding what someone needs — and giving them that space.

Week 4: Still Coughing + A Flare-Up

The cough persisted into week four. I still couldn’t talk much, so I was again taken off calls while I sorted out updated medication from my GP.

Then, just when I thought I was ready to get back to normal, I woke up on Friday to a massive eczema flare-up. My face and ears were sore, weeping, and incredibly painful.

I attempted to book the day off as annual leave — not wanting to increase my sick days — but due to company policy, I had to take it as sick leave. My manager couldn’t override it, and that was okay.

Because for the first time in a long time — I didn’t feel guilty about it.

Growing Up Sick: Shame & Stigma

In the past, being unwell came with a hefty dose of guilt — not from work, but from family.

In my household, getting sick often meant you were seen as lazy, fragile, or unworthy.

“She’s a waste of space.”

“She’ll never achieve anything.”

When I developed eczema as a teenager, it wasn’t just a hidden illness anymore — it was visible. I was told:

“Who’s going to want to marry you?”

“No one will love someone with a skin condition like yours.”

And when the rejection started happening in real life, I started believing those words. A man I once went on a date with told me I was “too ugly to date” before walking away — three minutes in.

So, I accepted the possibility that maybe I’d never find anyone…

But deep down, I still hoped.

Then Came Nitin ❤️

Nitin entered my life unexpectedly.

At first, I didn’t like him — not because of how he looked, but because of his playboy attitude and a touch of arrogance. But he knew of me through a mutual connection, and something stuck with him. He asked me out several times. I kept dodging. Until I finally said yes — just once.

That one date changed everything.

Within the hour, I knew I was going to marry him.

And I did… 10 months later.

15 Years of Unwavering Support

Nitin has never made me feel ashamed of my skin, my body, or my health. He may groan when I’m unwell — but it’s out of frustration, not judgment.

He brings me cold water when I flare up.

He opens windows or turns on the fan.

He’s taught Maanvi and Jiya to do the same.

He may not know every remedy or fix — but he knows how to support me.

He gives me space.

He gives me peace.

He feeds me.

🥘 Food is his love language.

He may not gift flowers or chocolates, but he’ll cook my favourites and buy my treats without being asked.

The Real MVP Moments

Over the years, Nitin has supported me through:

  • 🌡️ Severe colds, coughs, eczema
  • 🛏️ A back spasm that left me bedbound for 2 weeks
  • 🤰 Two high-risk pregnancies
  • 🩺 Multiple post-C-section recoveries
  • 🦶 Torn ankle ligaments (over 6 times!)
  • 😞 Anxiety, depression, and postnatal depression

All without ever making me feel like a burden.

Feeling Safe in My Health

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel guilty about being sick.

I don’t feel like I have to apologise for not being 100%.

Because the people around me — at work and at home — don’t make me feel like there’s anything wrong with me when I’m not well.

Instead, they remind me that being unwell is part of being human —

and that support, trust, and love make all the difference.

🙌 Final Thoughts

If you’ve ever felt ashamed or guilty for being unwell, I hope you find your version of what I’ve found — a team that has your back, and a partner who holds your hand.

Setting Boundaries in an Indian Family: How I Navigated Cultural Guilt and Chose Self-Preservation

Growing up in an Indian household meant being taught that respect for elders was non-negotiable. We weren’t allowed to talk back, question authority, or voice a differing opinion. Obedience wasn’t just expected—it was revered. That’s the culture I was raised in, and I followed it faithfully, believing that voicing my thoughts was equal to being disrespectful.

But what I was too young to understand was this: in return for that unwavering respect, children deserve a loving, safe, and emotionally secure environment. Sadly, that was never my reality.

What Loyalty Meant to Me Growing Up

As a child, I was quiet and compliant—not out of nature, but out of necessity. I didn’t speak up, didn’t question anything, and didn’t share my opinions. I did what was expected of me because that’s what “good kids” did. But deep down, I was a creative, expressive child with a vivid imagination.

I loved to make things, to read, to dream. I used to design rooms using old catalogs, cut up magazines to create layouts, and paint on anything I could find—including Styrofoam ceiling tiles. But these weren’t seen as valid interests. My parents valued more “traditional” academic pursuits like science, math, and nonfiction reading. So I hid my passions. My scrapbooks were stashed in drawers; my magazines lived under the bed. I did everything in secret, in the solitude of my room, because my creativity was never acknowledged or encouraged.

I didn’t feel connected to my parents. My mother didn’t have conversations with me—she gave orders. My father only talked about money, warning me not to waste it on “useless” things. And as more adults moved into our home after my brother got married, the pressure to respect everyone—without receiving that same respect in return—only grew.

Both my sisters-in-law disliked me. I adored them initially, eager to play the part of the “good girl” everyone expected. But in time, I realized I would never receive the love or appreciation I craved. So I made peace with being invisible.

When Boundaries Become a Necessity

By the time I became a teenager, the value of respecting elders was deeply ingrained in me. In some ways, this shaped me into a person my in-laws adore today—they admire my values, and for the right people, that respect is a blessing. But for my own family, it was something they took advantage of.

I endured years of emotional manipulation and bullying in silence. I married a wonderful man—someone who would have fought the world for me—but even he stayed quiet out of respect for my wishes. Life might have continued like that indefinitely, until everything collapsed in 2013.

In just four months, I discovered I was pregnant—and on the same day, I found out my father had passed away. Shortly after, a close colleague of mine also died. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral due to the pregnancy, and then, devastatingly, I miscarried. The miscarriage required surgery because my body wouldn’t reject the pregnancy naturally. While I was still grieving, my sisters-in-law pressured me to sell the family home that I legally co-owned with my parents—and to share the proceeds with them.

Even then, I was still trying to be respectful. I agreed to sell the house but requested a private conversation with just my mother and brothers—no spouses, no in-laws, not even my husband. I wanted to talk to my family. That’s when one of my sisters-in-law took the phone and began berating me.

That was the moment I broke.

I told her to shut up and hung up the phone. I was done. I told my husband we needed a lawyer. Within a week, we had one. I informed everyone I was no longer interested in selling the house, and if they wanted to fight, they could take me to court.

Standing Up for Myself—and Winning

My family was shocked. After a lifetime of submission, they never expected me to stand up for myself. They tried everything—calls from my sister, my brother-in-law, even from the sister-in-law I hadn’t spoken to in years. I ignored them all and sent legal notices to stop the harassment.

What followed was a nine-year legal battle. It wasn’t easy. There were times when my husband Nitin and I struggled financially, especially as our daughters, Maanvi and Jiya, were born during that period. But I don’t regret a thing.

It remains one of the proudest moments of my life. I finally chose me.

Where Culture and Boundaries Can Coexist

Today, I’m a mother raising two confident, joyful little girls. Yes, I teach them to respect their elders—just as I was taught. But the difference is: they also have a voice.

They’re allowed to speak their minds, to question things, to express themselves freely. Our home is filled with laughter, with open conversations, with gifts on special occasions, and above all, with love. Respect in our home is mutual. I respect their personalities and opinions, and they respect me and their dad in return.

This is what I believe our culture should evolve into: a beautiful blend of tradition and emotional intelligence. A place where obedience doesn’t require silence, and where loyalty isn’t a burden, but a choice rooted in love.

Living with Extended Family: How We Made a Full House Feel Like Home

It’s been a while since my last blog post — life has become much busier than usual. Our modest three-bedroom home suddenly became overcrowded, and we’ve been living like this for nearly five months.

The reason? One evening, my husband’s cousin arrived at our doorstep with her two children. She was going through a difficult separation and had left her husband. Her children, a 14-year-old son and an 11-year-old daughter, moved in with her.

Since we’re the only family she has nearby, we were more than happy to help. I know all too well what it feels like to walk away from your home with no plan, just uncertainty.

Back in 2012, my husband and I walked out of my parents’ house. Technically, it was also my home — I was listed on the land registry, having been added as an adult for inheritance purposes. But after years of tension with my father, things became toxic. One evening, following a breakdown, my husband said we couldn’t stay any longer. We packed a bag, called my brother, and moved in with him and his family. It was a sudden transition — much like the one my husband’s cousin, let’s call her “J,” is experiencing now. The only difference was, we didn’t have children at the time.

My brother’s three sons had to give up their bedroom so we could have a space. Similarly, our daughters have given up their room for J and her children. But here’s the biggest difference: My sister-in-law deeply resented our presence, while I have done everything in my power to make J and her children feel welcome in our home.

My brother, his sons, and even my sister-in-law’s mother were kind to us. Both my husband and I were working full-time and only around during evenings and weekends. We made every effort to be helpful and stay out of the way — doing chores, engaging with the family, and being respectful of their time and space. Still, I never felt at home. My sister-in-law’s coldness made our short six-week stay feel much longer.

During that time, we were actively searching for a flat — not just a room, but a place of our own. We’d both previously shared homes with others and knew that, as a married couple, we needed our own private space. A few properties fell through, but we remained hopeful. That stressful, transitional period stuck with me — and it’s exactly what I didn’t want J to experience under our roof.

Before she moved in, I barely knew J — we’d met maybe five or six times over 14 years, usually when my in-laws visited from abroad (her dad and my mother-in-law are siblings). But from the moment she arrived, I made a conscious effort to support her emotionally, not just logistically.

I planned movie nights, rewatched old favorites with her, and made her feel included — like family. She’s told me more than once that if it weren’t for me, the past few months would have been unbearable. Knowing that I’ve helped ease her burden, even slightly, means the world to me.

Of course, there have been challenges. The sleeping arrangements aren’t ideal. J and her two children are in what used to be our daughters’ bedroom. Our younger daughter, Jiya, now shares the small box room with her dad (my husband), and our eldest daughter, Maanvi, sleeps in my room with me.

You might wonder why the kids aren’t all in the same room, or why J didn’t take the box room. The truth is, the box room is too tiny for three people — it only fits a double bed and a small side table. J’s kids also need space for clothes, school supplies, and some semblance of personal room. As for separating the girls, Jiya can be quite sensitive about her space while sleeping — she’s the type to wake up and complain if someone rolls too close. So as parents, we decided to split the girls and each take one.

This setup has created a few small issues — like our daughters’ clothes still being stored in their old room, now occupied by J and her children — but we’re figuring it out day by day.

One unexpected silver lining has been the bond forming between the kids. My daughters now have playmates, and their cousin has become a big sister figure — teaching them how to bake, apply makeup, and do crafts. The laughter and creativity echoing through the house has been uplifting. It’s the most fun they’ve had in a long time.

April was a month of celebrations: Maanvi turned 11, her godmother Nadia celebrated her 60th, and their cousin turned 12 — which meant a lot of cake and even more sweet memories.

Final Thoughts: Finding Grace in Chaos

So yes — life is hectic. The house is full, space is tight, and sleep is sometimes elusive. But despite the chaos, I wouldn’t change a thing. Hosting extended family after a separation isn’t easy, but it has taught me so much about empathy, patience, and the quiet strength that comes from showing up for others.

Years ago, I promised myself that if I were ever in a position to help someone the way my brother helped me — but with more warmth and compassion — I would do it wholeheartedly. And today, I can say with pride that I’ve kept that promise.

Because at the end of the day, home isn’t just four walls — it’s the love, support, and grace you extend to the people within it.

Cultural Expectations and Family Dynamics

I always knew my family was different. While most kids grew up with siblings close in age, I was the baby of the family—by a lot. My sister was nearly 16 years older, and my brothers were even older than her. Instead of growing up with playmates, I was raised by what felt like four extra parents.

The first eight years of my life were golden. I was the pride and joy of the household, adored and doted on by everyone. Being the youngest, I was spoiled rotten, and for a while, I genuinely believed I could do no wrong.

My family’s story, though, began far from London. My parents and siblings were all born and raised in India. My father, a member of the Indian police force, came to the UK on a diplomatic assignment in 1969. What was supposed to be a short stay turned into a permanent move. He remained in the UK for a decade, eventually securing citizenship before bringing my mother and siblings over in 1979. I was born two years later.

From the stories I’ve heard, life wasn’t easy for my mum during those years apart. They lived in a rural village in Haryana, with no phones, no post office, and definitely no cars. It was the kind of place where camel carts were common, women covered their faces in front of elders, and running water was a luxury. Being a woman with a husband overseas and no clear communication must have been isolating. But somehow, my mum made it through, and the family was finally reunited.

Like many immigrant families, my parents brought their culture with them to the UK. Indian values shaped our home life, but what I didn’t understand as a child was how controlling my father could be. He wasn’t abusive, but his word was law. My mum rarely left the house and never learned to read or speak English, even though other women in the community were integrating and working. Still, she seemed content—my father and brothers earned enough to support the household.

My siblings carved different paths. My sister, I later learned, attended school briefly, defying norms by wearing trousers instead of the skirt required by her uniform. I remember her running a shop in London, and she’s been in retail ever since. My brothers took more hands-on routes—one in a furniture factory, the other helping at my dad’s Indian restaurant.

As a kid, though, I didn’t care what anyone did for work. I just wanted to play. My younger brother and I were especially close. He let me ride between his legs on his skateboard, we had epic snowball fights, and he showed off his nunchuck skills like a mini Bruce Lee. He was the cool older brother and easily my favorite.

My older brother, on the other hand, was a mystery. Quiet and reserved, he faded into the background—especially around Dad. I don’t even remember him sitting at the dinner table when Dad was there. It wasn’t until I was nearly 20 that I began to understand the subtle hierarchy and tensions that existed in our home.

Despite our conservative upbringing, there were odd exceptions. No one forced me into the kitchen or told me I had to cook. My sister and I were both tomboys—something my dad may not have loved, but tolerated. We also broke with certain traditions, like eating meat, though beef was always off-limits due to Hindu beliefs.

I was a fussy eater, living mostly on plain bread and Hula Hoops crisps until I was eight. My mum didn’t cook much Indian food—maybe because she was used to open-fire cooking back home and never adapted to kitchen appliances here. Whatever the reason, I was content. I was adored, and that was enough.

But everything changed the summer I turned eight.

In 1989, both my brothers got married in India. I was still the center of attention—this British girl in fancy Western clothes speaking Hindi with a London twang. I remember being paraded around, people marveling at the “girl born in London.” It was overwhelming and, honestly, scary.

I have two vivid memories from those weddings: riding the ceremonial horse with my brother and refusing to leave the stage during the ceremony. I was still Dad’s little star, after all.

But when we returned home, things began to shift. I adored my new sisters-in-law at first—especially Chitra, my eldest brother’s wife. She was warm, gentle, and maternal. Abhilasha, my younger brother’s wife, was just 16—only nine years older than me. Her immaturity and desire to be loved like a daughter clashed hard with the reality of being a daughter-in-law in an Indian household.

She saw how Dad treated me—the baby of the family, his pride—and resented it. And that resentment turned into jealousy, which eventually turned into bullying. She couldn’t challenge my parents directly, so she took it out on me. That marked the beginning of what became a 25-year cycle of emotional manipulation and belittling.

Looking back, my childhood was equal parts joyful and complicated. I grew up loved, yes, but also in the shadow of cultural expectations, silent tensions, and roles we never asked for—but had to play anyway.

Reflecting on Motherhood: My Personal Journey

With Mother’s Day now over a week behind us, I’ve taken a moment to reflect on my own journey of motherhood—and to think about the kind of mum I believe I am.

But before diving into all that, let me tell you a little about how Mother’s Day went for me this year.

A Special Mother’s Day at Church

Sunday morning started with church. My husband goes every week, and the girls usually attend when it’s Sunday School. But this weekend was different—Maanvi was asked to take part in the service and do a reading. So the whole crew came along: me, my husband, Jiya, my husband’s cousin (who’s currently staying with us), her children, and of course, Maanvi.

She was brilliant. Even though she was nervous about speaking in front of everyone, I reminded her this wasn’t her first time. She’s taken part in plenty of events at both church and school and always done wonderfully. This time was no different—despite stumbling on a few words, she kept her composure and did an amazing job.

When we got home, Maanvi and Jiya surprised me with a big wicker box for Mother’s Day. Inside were two Easter eggs, shampoo, conditioner, and hand cream. Simple, but so thoughtful. I loved that they’d put in the effort to make me feel special.

The Early Days of Motherhood

Becoming a mum hasn’t been an easy road for me. As those who’ve read my book will know, I cut ties with my side of the family years ago. So when Maanvi was born, I had no one to support me except my husband. Two first-time parents with zero experience, completely thrown in at the deep end from day one—add postnatal depression into the mix, and those early months were incredibly tough.

I still remember our first night at home with Maanvi. She was just two days old. Breastfeeding had been going well in hospital—she was latching on, and I felt such a deep connection with her. Even though I was absolutely exhausted after nearly three days in labour and a sleepless night post-birth, I was just happy to be home, starting our life as a family.

But the universe had other plans.

Struggles with Feeding

What I didn’t realise at the time was that colostrum—the first milk—only lasts for a short while before regular milk comes in. For me, there was a delay between the two. That first night at home, Maanvi wasn’t getting any milk. She cried all night because she was hungry, and by the next morning, she had lost 11% of her birth weight. We found out when the midwife came to check on us.

She was immediately admitted back into hospital. Less than 24 hours after being discharged, we were back. Maanvi was put on the children’s ward, given her own room, and fitted with a nasal feeding tube. She spent two weeks there and even had her first Easter in hospital.

Once she came home, we faced a new challenge—what we thought was “reflux”.

As new parents, we were advised to start with 1oz of formula per feed, increasing by half an ounce when she finished the bottle. The issue was that Maanvi didn’t have the ability to recognise when she was full—so she would finish every bottle, no matter how much we gave her. By the time she was just four weeks old, she was drinking 5–6oz per feed. Her tiny stomach simply couldn’t handle that much, and she would throw up after nearly every feed.

She was misdiagnosed with reflux. It wasn’t until she was four months old and I trusted my instincts—taking her to A&E—that a doctor finally explained what was really happening. I was unintentionally overfeeding her.

We adjusted her feeds after that, but the damage was done. Vomiting became so routine that it no longer raised concern. Even now, she’ll sometimes throw up if she eats too much—we’ve learned to monitor her food intake closely, as she still doesn’t recognise when she’s full. Thankfully, her dad and I can usually tell when she’s had enough.

A Smoother Journey with Our Second

Raising Jiya, our second-born, was a different experience. My in-laws were around to help, and although she arrived early and spent her first two weeks in the neonatal unit, we didn’t have the same feeding issues.

By six months, we started her on solids, and by two years, she had caught up with all her developmental milestones. She was thriving.

Finding My Way as a Mum

Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to me. I didn’t grow up with a strong maternal figure and have had to figure it all out myself—learning to trust my instincts, navigate every challenge, and find my own rhythm as a mum.

Now, with Maanvi nearly 11 and Jiya 7, I know this journey is far from over. They’re still children, and there’s so much more ahead. But looking back, I’m proud of how far we’ve come.

I may not have had the most conventional or supported start to motherhood—but I’ve built something strong, filled with love, resilience, and learning.

Embracing a Young Mentality in Your 40s

I recently came across a meme that read something like:

“I’m at the stage in life where my brain thinks it’s still in its 20s, but my body says, ‘Are we dead yet?’”

That pretty much sums up how I feel in my 40s. Mentally, I’m convinced I can still rock 3-inch heeled boots all day, stay up until 1 AM, and bounce out of bed the next morning like I did in my 20s. But my body? It’s a different story — lower back pain, hip aches, and relentless fatigue have me slouching on the couch every weekend, with barely enough energy to get through my to-do list.

Living with a Forever 20s Mentality

Despite what my body tells me, I know I’ll never grow out of this youthful mindset. And honestly? I’m okay with that. After years of feeling like I missed out on my carefree teenage years, this “forever 20s” mentality is how I’m reclaiming the time I lost.

Most people spend their teenage years experimenting, partying, dressing up, and living in the moment. I didn’t get that chance. Sure, I did the whole late-night cramming-for-exams thing in university, but pulling an all-nighter? That happened only once — the night before submitting my final dissertation.

Growing up, I had to be responsible far too early. When my brother had kids, I was expected to step up and help. “Grow up and set an example,” they said. And I did. Being raised by narcissistic parents only reinforced the pressure to act older than I was. Baggy clothes, boyish outfits, and a distinct lack of self-expression became my norm. I was a tomboy — not by choice, but because I never had the space to explore my femininity.

Reclaiming My Youth, One Outfit at a Time

It wasn’t until I met my husband that my style evolved. Slowly, I swapped out the oversized hoodies and sneakers for dresses and more feminine looks. Don’t get me wrong — I still love my comfy jeans and trainers, but I’ve found balance. You’ll often see me in a hoodie with a high ponytail or pigtails, rocking some statement earrings. And when the occasion calls for it, I’ve built a wardrobe of beautiful dresses and elegant Indian outfits that make me feel amazing.

But mentally? That teenage spirit remains.

The Confidence (and Consequences) of Heeled Boots

One of my signature “youthful” moves was wearing heeled boots in my 20s. They gave me a boost of confidence — literally and figuratively. When I met Nitin, who’s about my height, I ditched the heels to avoid towering over him. For 15 years, those boots were left in the past.

Then came my 20-year university reunion. I wanted to dress up for the occasion, and my friend Dee helped me pick out a pair of 3-inch block heel boots — just like the ones I wore in my 20s. The moment I slipped them on, I felt invincible. I was glowing with confidence, chatting effortlessly with people I had barely spoken to during university.

But my feet? They were screaming. After just two hours, the pain was unbearable. I managed to fake my way through the rest of the evening, but as soon as I got home, those boots were sentenced to the back of the closet.

Round Two with the Heels

Fast forward to February. I was unexpectedly invited to a photoshoot at work — the kind that involves stock-style images for internal and external use. With only a day to prepare, I decided to bring the heels back for one more round.

The reality hit me quickly. From navigating stairs in those boots to awkwardly walking “slowly” for multiple retakes, my feet were miserable. By lunchtime, I gratefully swapped them for my comfy walking shoes. The day ended with me, back in my hoodie and pigtails, fully embracing the comfort I had denied myself earlier.

Why My Young Mentality Isn’t Going Anywhere

But my refusal to “act my age” goes beyond the occasional fashion choice. Every time Dee visits, it’s like we’re transported back to our 20s. We stay up late, laugh uncontrollably, watch movies, and share inside jokes. It’s a time capsule of joy — one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I may not have had the freedom to enjoy my youth the first time around, but I’m making up for it now. My husband often teases me when I complain about my aches and pains, joking that I’m the young one while he’s the “old man.” Maybe he’s right.

Because as long as I believe I have my whole life ahead of me, I know there’s still plenty of time for dreams, adventures, and even the occasional pair of heels.

What About You?

Do you ever feel like your mind is stuck in your 20s while your body begs for a break? I’d love to hear your stories! How do you balance feeling young at heart with the realities of midlife? Drop a comment below and let’s chat!

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.