From a tender age, I was the quintessential ‘good girl’—a role thrust upon me as much by circumstance as by the sheer force of a challenging family dynamic. In the echo of my mother’s trials and a father distant both emotionally and geographically, I found a sanctuary in my own resilience, piecing together a sense of self from the fragments left by others.
Living in a joint family setup, privacy was as scarce as silence in a storm. My passion for dance, my little retreat, often turned into a public spectacle. Imagine trying to perfect a pirouette or master a melody when every attempt is under the watchful eye of an 18-member audience. It wasn’t just dance; it was any space that was mine—my creativity needed to breathe without an audience.
The narrative spun around me as a trophy child never sat right with me. My mother, caught in the vortex of her own struggles, saw in me her beacon of hope. I became her unwitting ally in a world that seemed to constantly demand more than what she was willing to give. It was in the unspoken that I learned my hardest lessons—about emotional dependency and the delicate dance of needing and being needed.
Fast forward to today, I often liken my emotional journey to a trek—an apt metaphor considering my love for hiking. Just as every trek in the wild demands preparation, a certain respect for the elements, and the right tools, navigating my family’s emotional landscape necessitated a similar set of skills. You pack essentials, map your route, but most importantly, you learn to rely on your own strength. There’s a profound truth in recognizing that the only dependable sanctuary is the one you build within yourself.
Reading Nazwa’s “Welcome Home” was like tracing the contours of my own heart with someone else’s pen. Her words illuminated the tucked-away corners of my experiences, highlighting the often-overlooked truth about emotional dependencies and the spaces we choose to fill with others’ presence. She writes about building a home within ourselves—a theme that resonates deeply with me. Like setting up a tent on a solitary mountain, the task is daunting but necessary. It is in the solace of our own company that we truly learn to live with ourselves.
So why is this internal architecture so crucial? Because when we build our homes in others, we hand over the keys to our peace of mind. The moment they choose to leave, they take parts of us with them. I’ve seen it with my mother, and for years, mirrored it unknowingly. The quest for external validation and love can often leave us hollow, chasing after the wind in the forms of likes, shares, and ephemeral affirmations.
The remedy? Start loving yourself with the intensity and commitment you’d reserve for someone else. That love doesn’t scream for attention; it nourishes and sustains. It’s about meeting your own needs, not out of selfishness, but out of a profound sense of self-respect. Like watering a garden, self-love is an act of nurturing, a daily commitment. And sometimes, it’s about recognizing when the soil needs rest, when the plants need more sunlight, or when it’s time to prune away the old to make space for new growth.
Here’s my call to action for anyone reading this: Stop waiting. Life isn’t about finding shelter in others or weathering storms through temporary fixes. It’s about building a durable, self-sufficient home within your soul—one where the doors open wide to let in light, and where you can dance to the music of your own making, no audience necessary. This journey isn’t just about self-discovery; it’s about reclaiming your peace and setting up a permanent camp in your heart. And trust me, the view from here is spectacular.
Tree says
Personally, this piece is the epitome of brilliance. Love it!